I have at length brought myself to feel some interest in the hero of my tale, when approaching voices warn me that foes to my solitude draw near. Not wishing to be disturbed I move still further into my window, and pull the curtains across me, so that no one in the adjoining room could by any chance see me. I can distinguish George Ashurst's jerky tones, and then Marmaduke's, distinct, though low. There seems to me something argumentative in their discourse, and the footsteps come slowly, as though every now and then they stood to dispute a point. Suddenly now my own name is mentioned, and putting down my book, I wait to hear what will follow. Of course I know perfectly well in my own mind that I ought to rise at once and honorably declare myself, but decide equally well in my own mind that I will do no such thing. What can 'Duke be saying about me? As they enter the turret, his words ring out plain and stern. "I tell you Ashurst, I can stand the life I am leading no longer. You cannot understand what it is to see the woman you love--to see your wife--treat you as the very commonest stranger. Good feeling alone, I honestly believe, prevents her from showing me absolute hatred." "Pooh! my dear fellow," says George, "I don't believe A word of it. She is too kind a little soul to hate any one; and you least of all. Of course the whole thing, you know, was unfortunate, you know, and that, but it will all come right in the end." "I dare say. When I am in my grave," says Marmaduke, bitterly. "You are a good fellow, George, but you can't know everything, and I am not to be persuaded in this matter. She is right; I should never have insisted on the second marriage: it has only made her life more miserable, and placed a fretting chain around her neck. But indeed I meant it for the best." "What else could you have done, you know?" interposes kindly George. I have gained my feet, and am standing, trembling with hope and fear, in my hiding-place, my hand grasping the sheltering curtain for protection and support. At this moment I no longer deceive myself; by my passionate eagerness to hear what more 'Duke may say I know that all my heart is his. And he loves me! Oh, the relief--the almost painful rapture--this certainly causes me! Hush! he speaks again. "I shall torment her no longer with my presence. I have delayed here too long already, but I hoped recovered health, and the old associations, might give her a kindlier feeling towards me. Now I feel convinced she never loved me. Let her live her life in peace. She will grow gay and bright, and like the child Phyllis I first knew when she feels sure she has seen the last of me."