“Perhaps some day--” he began hopefully. But she shook her head. His wife was just as likely to live as long as either of themselves. “I wonder if you will ever really forgive me?” he added sadly. “I shall never forgive myself.” “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, true to the innate sweetness of her nature. “There was no adequate reason why you should have kept your marriage a secret from me all these years; it was quite unnecessary. But we all make mistakes sometimes. It was not your fault that I was so foolish as to give my love unasked.” She paused, for Bobbie reappeared upon the scene. Herbert wished to escort his visitors to the carriage; but Lady Marjorie reminded him that he was still an invalid: it was cold and draughty downstairs. Bobbie endorsed her statement; and advised him to remain where he was. “I’ll ’scort mother,” he said cheerfully. “I know how to take care of her quite as well as any growed-up person. Come along, mother. You’ll be all right with me.” “I am glad that you have such a worthy protector,” Herbert said in a low voice, aside. “I trust he may ever be as attentive as he is now.” “I trust so,” she rejoined, the tears springing to her eyes. “Good-bye--Mr. Karne.” She held out her small ungloved hand. He pressed it gently, then almost reverently raised it to his lips. “Good-bye, Lady Marjorie--good-bye.” One last look--and then she was gone. All the freshness and brightness of the room seemed to go with her. Herbert shivered, and rang the bell for a lamp; for some inexplicable reason he could not endure the glare of the electric light just then. All the evening he remained in his chair, deep in thought; and having left his dinner untested, went despondently to bed. On the following afternoon, the weather being congenial, he went for a stroll. Almost involuntarily his steps turned towards Durlston House, although he had not the slightest intention of calling there. To his surprise he found all the blinds down, the house having an unwonted appearance of desertion. Without pausing to think twice, he rang the bell, and inquired for Lady Marjorie Stonor. The lodge-keeper informed him that her mistress had left suddenly for London, where she intended leaving her son at school. From thence she would proceed to Paris _en route_ for the South. More she did not know. Karne thanked the woman and turned away. Suddenly he paused, and looking up at the silent windows, raised his hat, as though greeting a friend. “Poor Marjorie!” he exclaimed softly to himself, heaving a deep sigh. “Poor little Marjorie!” Then, squaring his shoulders, he resumed his walk. CHAPTER XIII THE ACME FURNISHING CO.