She linked her arm through Marion’s. Marion drummed her fingers lightly on the beautiful arm, and then fell to wondering what she should say next. They passed into the room where the child lay sleeping; they went to his little bed, and Lali stretched out her hand gently, touching the curls of the child. Running a finger through one delicately, she said, with a still softer tone than before: “Why should not one be happy?” Marion looked up slowly into her eyes, let a hand fall on her shoulder gently, and replied: “Lali, do you never wish Frank to come?” Lali’s fingers came from the child, the colour mounted slowly to her forehead, and she drew the girl away again into the other room. Then she turned and faced Marion, a deep fire in her eyes, and said, in a whisper almost hoarse in its intensity: “Yes; I wish he would come to-night.” She looked harder yet at Marion; then, with a flash of pride and her hands clasping before her, she drew herself up, and added: “Am I not worthy to be his wife now? Am I not beautiful--for a savage?” There was no common vanity in the action. It had a noble kind of wistfulness, and a serenity that entirely redeemed it. Marion dated her own happiness from the time when Lali met her accident, for in the evening of that disastrous day she issued to Captain Hume Vidall a commission which he could never--wished never--to resign. Since then she had been at her best,--we are all more or less selfish creatures,--and had grown gentler, curbing the delicate imperiousness of her nature, and frankly, and without the least pique, taken a secondary position of interest in the household, occasioned by Lali’s popularity. She looked Lali up and down with a glance in which many feelings met, and then, catching her hands warmly, she lifted them, put them on her own shoulders, and said: “My dear beautiful savage, you are fit and worthy to be Queen of England; and Frank, when he comes--” “Hush!” said the other dreamily, and put a finger on Marion’s lips. “I know what you are going to say, but I do not wish to hear it. He did not love me then. He used me--” She shuddered, put her hands to her eyes with a pained, trembling motion, then threw her head back with a quick sigh. “But I will not speak of it. Come, we are for the dance, Marion. It is the last, to-night. To-morrow--” She paused, looking straight before her, lost in thought. “Yes, to-morrow, Lali?” “I do not know about to-morrow,” was the reply. “Strange things come to me.” Marion longed to tell her then and there the great news, but she was afraid to do so, and was, moreover, withheld by the remembrance that it had been agreed she should not be told. She said nothing.