“You weren’t,” she panted; “you got him away from me, and--and then you were happy. You--you were jealous of me all the time.” “Yes, for another woman’s sake. At least, I thought so. He is quite safe with me. You were not strong enough. What would you have done with him?” “Why do you always torture me? Is it a pleasure to you to see me all--all unstrung? Go away, or--or I must.” She turned and walked unsteadily, if quickly, to the open windows. Yet he had made no attempt to follow her, for her voice was nothing but hard pride and shame, at being thus found too weak to fight against her own emotions. Inside the room she sank into a chair, trembling and shivering. And then at last a sudden change came in her face, bringing the old beauty. “I’ll run after him, and say I’ve--I’ve changed my mind--that I’ve forgiven him, if he’s forgiven me.” And quickly she ran out across the smooth lawn, through the gates, and into the broad park. But he was nowhere, neither near nor far, and Marigold’s face was white with disappointment, and grey with the long strain. So she went back to the rose-garden, and flung herself down upon the grass amongst the bowers of roses, and cried just as when a child, in the big grand gardens far away in Fairy Sky, when night descended and the stars came out, and she remembered she was quite alone, with no companion, nothing but the beauty of the world--an orphan, with a child’s heart aching for love. And now the same, only the child’s heart was changed into a woman’s. Yet there was so little dross in it that it was far too soft for daily use, though the crust of tiny diamonds might at times make it look hard. “He’ll never come back now,” she said, “because I was so horrid to him. I couldn’t help it. I thought it so contemptible to come with that excuse. But oh! I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t tell whether he is contemptible or not. I only know I love him.” And when she went upstairs to change the simple morning-robe for one a little more elaborate, she sat before the glass alone, and removed the velvet at her neck. “I am glad these marks are on my neck. I hope they never disappear,” she said. “It is our little secret away from the world. They used to burn with anger--at least, I thought it anger, but I don’t know, I don’t understand a thing. I wish the marks had been on my hands or arms, or somewhere that I might have kissed them.” And she kissed the velvet that encircled them instead. And suddenly her eyes filled with tears. “And Timothy--he said that Timothy was safe. Patches! dear little Patches! It was you who taught me how to be good--how to try. And now you’ve gone, everything is black again. Who cares really whether I’m good or not?”