“Your daring is very delightful, Madaline; let me hear more of it.”

She laughed the low, happy, contented laugh that sounded like sweetest music in his ears.

“I will dare to say something else, Norman, if you will promise not to think it uncalled for.  I am very happy, my darling husband—­I love you very much, and I thank you for your love.”

“Still better,” he said, kissing the beautiful, blushing face.  “Now go, Madaline.  I understand the feminine liking for a cup of tea.”

“Shall I send one to you?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, laughingly.  “You may teach me to care about tea in time.  I do not yet.”

He was still holding the letter in his hand, and the faint perfume was like a message from Philippa, reminding him that the missive was still unread.

“I shall not be long,” said Madaline.  She saw that for some reason or other he wanted to be alone.

“You will find me here,” he returned.  “This is a favorite Book of mine.  I shall not leave it until you return.”

The nook was a deep bay window from which there was a magnificent view of the famous beeches.  Soft Turkish cushions and velvet lounges filled it, and near it hung one of Titian’s most gorgeous pictures—­a dark-eyed woman with a ruby necklace.  The sun’s declining rays falling on the rubies, made them appear like drops of blood.  It was a grand picture, one that had been bought by the lords of Beechgrove, and the present Lord Arleigh took great delight in it.

He watched the long folds of Madaline’s white dress, as she passed along the gallery, and then the hangings fell behind her.  Once more he held up the packet.

“A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, to Lord Arleigh.”

Whatever mystery it contained should be solved at once.  He broke the seal; the envelope contained a closely-written epistle.  He looked at it in wonder.  What could Philippa have to write to him about?  The letter began as follows: 

“A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood, to Norman, Lord Arleigh.  You will ask what it is?  My answer is, my revenge—­well planned, patiently awaited.

“You have read the lines: 

    “’Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
    Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.’

They are true.  Fire, fury, and hatred rage now in my heart as I write this to you.  You have scorned me—­this is my revenge.  I am a proud woman—­I have lowered my pride to you.  My lips have never willfully uttered a false word; still they have lied to you.  I loved you once, Norman, and on the day my love died I knew that nothing could arise from its ashes.  I loved you with a love passing that of most women; and it was not all my fault.  I was taught to love you—­the earliest memory of my life is having been taught to love you.

“You remember, too.  It may have been injudicious, imprudent, foolish, yet while I was taught to think, to read, to sing, I was also taught to consider myself your ‘little wife.’  Hundreds of times have you given me that name, while we walked together as children—­you with your arm about my neck, I proud of being called your ‘little wife.’