“Yes; to-morrow, or next day sure. I have left you too long already.” “And are you going to stay—always—just the same?” was Mrs. La Rue’s next question, to which Margery replied: “Yes; stay with you just the same, and try to make you happy.” They were alone in Margery’s room when this conversation took place, and when Margery said what she did, Mrs. La Rue sank down on the floor at her feet, and clasping her knees, cried, piteously: “Oh, Margie! my child, my child! God will bless you for what you are doing. Oh, if I could undo it all, I would suffer torture for years and years. My noble Margie, there are few in the world like you.” And she spoke truly; for there have been few like Margery La Rue, who, knowing what she knew, could, for the love of one little dark-eyed girl, keep silence, and, resolutely turning her back upon all the luxury and ease of Hetherton Place, return to her far less pretentious home and take up the burden of life again—take up the piles of work awaiting her, for her patrons knew her worth, and would go nowhere else as long as there was a prospect of her ultimate recovery. Even Anna Ferguson had kept her work for Margery, and had postponed her wedding that her bridal dress might be made by the skillful fingers of the French girl, who at last fixed the day for her return to her own home. Reinette would fain have kept her longer, but Margery was firm in her determination. She had been at Hetherton Place nearly three weeks, and had grown so accustomed to the ease, and luxury, and elegance about her that the life seemed to belong to her, and was far more to her taste than the hard work at the cottage—the _stitch_, _stitch_, _stitch_, from morning till night for people, who looked down upon her even while they acknowledged her great superiority to the persons of her class. It was hard to leave it all, hard to leave Queenie and——this she confessed to herself secretly—hard to lose the opportunity of seeing Mr. Beresford, who had been at the house so often, and in whom she knew she was beginning to feel a deep interest. He spent his last evening with them, and, at Queenie’s earnest solicitation, Margery played and sang for him, while he listened amazed as the clear tones of her rich, musical voice floated through the rooms, and her white hands fingered the keys as deftly and skillfully as Queenie’s could have done. That Margery could sing and play was a revelation to Mr. Beresford, who stood by her side, and turned the leaves for her. “You have given me a great pleasure,” he said, when she at last left the piano and resumed her seat by the fire. “This is a surprise to me. I did not suppose——” He did not finish the sentence, but stopped awkwardly, while Margery, who understood his meaning perfectly, finished it for him.