There was only one being on earth she had previously cared for, and that was Judith O'Connor. Judith was about her own age, but she always treated her mistress as a child. She had been in her employment for many years. The maid rebelled once a week, if not oftener, against her mistress. She was insolent almost beyond endurance at such times. Yet the mistress did not tell the maid to go; for down under this rage and insolence was a devotion, a loyalty no assault of circumstances could shake; and that devotion and loyalty Marie Gordon prized above all her other possessions. She could trust O'Connor as she could trust herself. O'Connor was more jealous of the welfare of her mistress than the mistress herself. When the maid's temper broke loose, and she petulantly demanded to be released from service, the mistress never heeded the rash words, but looked through them and below them, and saw the faithfulness and loyalty, and was conscious of no emotion in her own mind but that O'Connor was stupid and boring her, and that the maid must leave the room. She had spent all her life among frivolous people. All her life she had secretly worshipped intellect and solid acquirements. She had lead a life of ceaseless motion because she wished to keep her mind occupied by change, not from any natural love of new scenes. The one great hope of her life had been that some day she might settle down quietly where country lanes abounded, and you were awoke of summer mornings by the crack of the early carrier's whip or the crow of the barn-door cock. He had come upon her the embodiment of her dreams. She had fought against the fascination hour after hour, but hour after hour he had gained upon her heart. Here was the placid English gentleman, full of high honour, lofty chivalry, and poetic enthusiasm. Here, too, was this sincere man, the loyal citizen, the firm Christian. Here was a man up to whom a woman might look with pride, upon whom she might lean with confidence. Some of his words spoken in the Abbey had taken root in her soul and were bearing delicious fruit. A few of the lines of Spenser had remained with her intact:--'For we be come into a quiet road.' Yes, to be with him was to enjoy contact with the great ocean of life, and yet to be free from all the dangers of traffic on the waters. When she touched his hand or his arm ever so slightly, peace and serenity descended upon her like a soothing dew. She never had been in love. Was she in love now? Was this love, or was there a deeper, a sweeter depth of feeling? She did not know. This was very sweet. She had done her best to tantalise him. That was only assaying the gold. Now she had found it unalloyed, she need question it no more. 'Sweet is the love that comes alone with willingness.' What could be sweeter? Nothing. Did other girls feel as she did when they were loved? If so, what happiness there must be in the world!