I must linger a moment on the happiness of my daughter. It was too spiritual to be of this earth. As soon as the miserable, unimportant money matters were settled, and her mother gave her full leave to love, she threw herself into it with all the ardor of the heroine of a novel. She had two diamond hearts made--at the most fashionable jewelers in Paris, you may be sure. Upon the inside of the one she kept she had engraved, under his picture, “From Hugh to Margot.” In the one she gave him there surrounded her picture in diamond inlay, “To Hugh from his dear love Margot.” Each was to wear the heart round the neck until death. Again and again I caught her dreaming over hers, sometimes with tears in her limpid eyes. Again and again I caught her scribbling, “Margot, Marchioness of Crossley, Viscountess Brear, Countess of Felday and Noth, Baroness de Selve,” and so on through a list of titles which gentle reader will find in “Burke’s” and the “Almanach de Gotha.” And she had a reverent way of looking at him and a tender way of touching him. Her mother, you will believe, spared neither expense nor pains in getting together the trousseau. But Margot was not satisfied. “Not nearly fine enough for _his_ bride,” she would say. “I’m _so_ afraid he’ll be disappointed.” Then the tears would spring. “Oh, mamma! If he should be disappointed in me!” “Not so bad as if you were to be disappointed in him,” I put in with no other motive than to cheer her up. But it only shocked her. “In Hugh!” she exclaimed, meaning in Cecil Robert Grunleigh Percival Hugh Massingford, Marquis of Crossley, etc. “_I_ disappointed in _him_! Oh, papa! You don’t _realize_!” “No, I suppose not,” said I, getting myself away as speedily as my legs would carry me.