They went in, and he showed her all the glories of the palace. While he was pointing out the beauty of the pictures and furniture, the convenience and luxury of the rooms, she was all the time thinking of the little white cottage among the trees. They would be going there soon. He had showed it to her the evening before, saying: “Here is the fireside where we shall warm ourselves when winter comes. It is small and mean, but love is enough for us, is it not?” Yes, love was enough. She would love him so tenderly that he would never think again of this fine castle, to which he had no right to bring her. He saw that she was not noticing what he showed her. “What are you thinking of?” he asked. “Of you,” she said, simply. They had reached the great drawing room, where there were windows upon all sides through which one could see the trees and fountains of the park. The sun was setting, and the mirrors reflected its last rays. “It is getting late,” she whispered. “Shall we go home?” He bowed low before her, smiling. “This castle is yours, Madame.” The vast room echoed with the young wife’s merry laugh. “Mine!” He replied gravely: “Yes, yours. I am the Lord of Burleigh. All that I have is yours, with my heart.” She turned pale and was obliged to lean against the wall, near the window. The view from it, at that sunset hour, was full of peaceful beauty. Far away, the little white cottage reflected the sunlight. “Alas!” she murmured softly, as if her happiness was gone. “I chose you before all others,” he went on, “because you are beautiful and good. And I wanted to win your love apart from my rank and fortune.” Until then he had always said “thou” to her, as the country people did, but now he was saying “you.” “Why did he so suddenly stop saying ‘thou,’” she whispered to herself. But not wishing to disappoint him, she smiled upon him sweetly, though with sadness. She soon became mistress of herself, and acted as I was fitting in her new estate. But every evening when she was alone, she would stand weeping, at the window from which she could see the little white cottage among the trees. “Ah,” she would think, “if only he were still the poor, proud artist who could put all the country-side upon a square of canvas, and bounded our horizon with his love of me!” Soon she began to pine away. Not doctors, nor journeys to new places, nor amusements, nor all the attention and comforts that money could buy were to make her strong again. One summer evening, like that on which she had first come to the castle, she leaned her head against the window casing and closed her lovely eyes for ever. “We cannot tell of what disease she died,” said the doctors. “But I know,” said the Lord of Burleigh, bowed down with grief. Then he called to her attendants: “Put her in her wedding gown. The simple woollen dress which she wore when she came Here, that she may rest in peace.” * * *