And then life went on evenly again, though Marigold passed over the rough stones bare-foot. And every day her loveliness became more ethereal and spiritual, and no one but Alice noticed the gradual wasting away; yet she dare not presume across the silent barrier that had sprung up between her mistress and herself--nay, between her mistress and every one around her. For Marigold now went out far more than she had ever done--sickness and charities and social duties each claiming her attention. And now she laughed just as in the olden times, but with the world of difference to the faithful servant’s ears; for sometimes in the night she would hear the stifled cry of pain, the restless motion, the weary sigh. And one night in the darkness she crept up to her mistress’s bed. “Princess,” she cried, “say you’re ill, and let us have a doctor.” “Alice! what nonsense! go back to bed at once, or we’ll be having the doctor to you.” “You’re growing thinner every day, Princess.” “Then it suits me,” and she laughed. “For to-night I had more compliments paid me than even is usual with a Princess.” And Alice went away, the hard, brilliant tone covering the childish sweetness in her voice, that rang out so pathetically, because you were not meant to hear it. And each day the High Priest’s infatuation grew, and who could blame him? Yet, since the interview with Mr Barringcourt, Marigold had held slightly back, now smiling, now laughing and merry, now very silent, wistful, and retiring, and he knew not in which mood he loved her best. Yet they met little as yet except in public, and it was well. And in public also she had met Mr Barringcourt, and almost like a child might, tired at last of straining and pretending coldness or indifference, she met him simply with a sweet gravity, and sometimes a little heightened colour; and he in his turn (but that is best left to Marigold, because she loved him, though it was rarely if they ever spoke, and that only in the stress of circumstances). Yet Marigold would pray every night: “Holy Serpent! dearest guide and counsellor, preserve the man I love, and bring him to Heaven. And I--I am nothing but a child, I should like to come to Heaven too.” And the Serpent was very kind to Marigold, because she prayed the right way and not too long, and perhaps because she was a convert, and perhaps because she didn’t enquire too minutely into his three tails, but took him quite for granted. And perhaps again because she prayed for the right man, and prayed for him nicely, for the Serpent owed a great deal to Mr Barringcourt, the Master, and his Father’s house; for he, the Serpent, had been built up by them, endued with power and fascination quite outside his own sphere to compel.