Marjorie had become, even in these few days, a ghost of her former self. The light had faded out of her eyes, they had ceased to appear transparent and had become opaque. Her beautifully chiselled lips now drooped in pathetic and habitual pain, her pallor was constant and unvarying. She drank in the keen sea breezes, and they brought no colour to her cheeks. She walked upon the white chalk cliffs and saw nothing of the shifting gold and shadow as the sun fell upon the sea, heard nothing of the harmonies of the Channel winds. Her whole heart was full of a passionate yearning and a terrible despair; she was like a stately flower that had been put out of its warm and sheltered home into an icy blast, and was withered and blackened in an hour. Kind as her mother was, Marjorie felt that there was nobody now left to lean upon, to confide in. A girl of her temperament needs some stronger arm than any woman can provide, to help and comfort, to keep awake the fires of hope within her, and nothing of the sort was hers. In all the world she seemed to have no one to confide in, no one to lean upon, no one who would give her courage and hope for the black and impenetrable future. At the end of the first fortnight, Marjorie knew, though her mother only just referred to the matter, that letters were daily arriving from Sir William Gouldesbrough. One evening Lady Poole, unable to keep the news from her daughter any longer, told her of these communications. "I dare say, darling," the old lady said, "I may give you pain, but I think you really ought to know how wonderfully poor dear William is behaving in this sad affair. Though it must be terribly hard for him, though it must fill him with a pain that I can only guess at, he is moving heaven and earth to discover what has become of your poor boy. He is daily writing to me to tell me what he is doing, to inform me of his hopes, and I tell you, Marjorie, that if human power can discover what has happened to Guy, William Gouldesbrough will discover it. Do realize, dear, what a noble thing this is in the man you have rejected. Whenever I receive his letters I can't help crying a little, it seems so noble, so touching, and so beautiful of him." Marjorie was sitting at the table. The ladies dined in their private rooms, and it was after the meal. Her head was in her hands and her eyes were full of tears. She looked up as her mother said this, with a white, wan face. "Ah, yes, dear," she replied, "there is no doubt of that, William was always noble. He is as great in heart as he is in intellect. He is indeed one of the chosen and best. Don't think I don't realize it, mother, now you've told me, indeed I _do_ realize it. My whole heart is filled with gratitude towards him. No one else would have done as much in his position." "You do feel that, do you, dear?" Lady Poole said.