“That is how girls write of the men they love,” she said—­“my Madaline loves him.”

Madaline had written to her when the ceremony was over.  She had no one to make happy with her news but her distant mother.  Then some days passed before she heard again—­that did not seem strange.  There was, of course, the going home, the change of scene, the constant occupation.  Madaline would write when she had time.  At the end of a week she heard again; and then it struck her that the letter was dull, unlike one written by a happy bride—­but of course she must be mistaken—­why should not Madaline be happy?

After that the letters came regularly, and Madaline said that the greatest pleasure she had lay in helping her mother.  She said that she intended to make her a certain allowance, which she felt quite sure would be continued to her after her death, should that event precede her mother’s; so that at last, for the weary-hearted woman, came an interval of something like contentment.  Through Madaline’s bounty she was able to move from her close lodgings in town to a pretty cottage in the country Then she had a glimpse of content.

After a time her heart yearned to see the daughter of her adoption, the one sunbeam of her life, and she wrote to that effect.

“I will come to you,” wrote Madaline, in reply, “if you will promise me faithfully to make no difference between me and the child Madaline who used to come home from school years ago.”

Margaret promised, and Madaline, plainly dressed, went to see her mother.  It was sweet, after those long, weary months of humiliation and despair, to lay her head on that faithful breast and hear whispered words of love and affection.  When the warmth of their first greeting was over, Margaret was amazed at the change in her child.  Madaline had grown taller, the girlish graceful figure had developed into a model of perfect womanhood.  The dress that she wore became her so well that the change in the marvelous face amazed her the most, it was so wonderfully wonderful, so fair, so pure, so spirituelle, yet it had so strange a story written upon it—­a story she could neither read nor understand.  It was not a happy face.  The eyes were shadowed, the lips firm, the radiance and brightness that had distinguished her were gone; there were patience and resignation Instead.

“How changed you are, my darling!” said Margaret, as she looked at her.  “Who would have thought that my little girl would grow into a tall, stately, beautiful lady, dainty and exquisite?  What did Lord Arleigh say to your coming, my darling?”

“He did not say anything,” she replied, slowly.

“But was he not grieved to lose you?”

“Lord Arleigh is abroad,” said Madaline, gently.  “I do not expect that he will return to England just yet.”

“Abroad!” repeated Margaret.  “Then, my darling, how is it that you are not with him?”

“I could not go,” she replied, evasively.