He started. He had been intent upon his purpose, to the exclusion of all other ideas.

Mistress Marjorie?" he echoed, feeling confusedly for her thought.

She clasped her hands and gave a little cry before she spoke, her eyes still fixed intently upon his face. When her words came, they were at times almost incoherent, but as he listened their significance grew clear to him, appallingly clear. He saw her meaning as by a flash of lightning.

"If 'tis the Lady Philida you ask to be your wife, then my answer is No! Never would I marry you. Think you I'd stoop to wed a man who, had my place in life been different, would have kissed me, and passed me by in wantonness, who would have made me a mere jest, a means to trifle a few hours away with, and then have left me without a second thought? Tell me, is it the Lady Philida you ask to marry you?"

Involuntarily, Lord Yerington's hand went to his throat. This revelation choked him. For an instant the scene about him swam.

"Ah!" she cried, "I see, I see. 'Twas only Philida. Then hear my answer, my lord. Again and again 'tis No! A poor creature would you make of me. A countess, forsooth! I'd rather be mere Marjorie, wedded to an honest, loving woodcutter."

She would have gone past him, but in an agony of self-abasement he fell upon his knees and buried his face in the skirt of her dress. This stayed her.

He could not speak. He could but let the tide of darkness and self-accusation engulf him.

At length he felt her hand upon his hair, and Philida's voice reached him, crossed by a peal of tenderness. "Oh!" she said, with a check of laughter near to tears, "'twas Marjorie, 'twas Marjorie after all."

He found her hand and bowed his head upon it, mute, condemned of himself.

"I am so grateful," he heard her whisper, "and I doubted him."

The girl was lost in joy, and the man in a daze of misery.

A sharp, imperious voice struck across their abstraction.

"Hey, hey, my Lord Yerington, and is this your sense of honour! No London poses, if you please, for my country simpleton. I wonder at you, I do, upon my soul."

The duchess stood before him, her staff of authority in her hand.

Yerington rose to his feet. He opened his lips to speak, but for the moment no words came. The sharp, contradictory emotions of the last few hours had been too great and, finished man of the world as he was, he was not master of himself.

"Well, sir, well!" exclaimed the duchess impatiently. Must you stand there gaping like a yokel? Explain this position in which I find you. And you, miss, what have you to say?"

Philida went to her, her face dancing over with smiles and blushes.

"La, ma'am," she said, "do you think so ill of your niece as to suppose that a gentleman may pose to her and flout her?"

Reassurance began to glimmer in the duchess' mind, but nothing but plain statements and facts would do for this practical dame.

"Come, Yerington," she said sternly, "have you been making love to my niece? Answer up."

No way of explanation lay open to Yerington. The duchess had discovered him in his attitude of adoration,

and to deny anything but left Philida to bear the brunt of the situation alone. He cast a glance to where she stood. She was looking at him with pride, love and trust, if, albeit, a certain pervading shyness.

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'May I crave a few words with your grace in private?" he said at length.

"You may," answered the duchess, still choosing to appear unmollified. As for you, miss, go to your room

and stay there till I summon you."

Philida left her meekly, but in one of the alleys of the garden as she went she encountered Mistress Sybil, who had heard and seen all, and who was all curiosity. Philida's heart was running over with joy, and here was a girl like herself athrob with the romance of life, and her confidence went out to her, as wave dances to wave.

“Oh, Philida, Philida!" Sybil cried, winding her arms about her, "have you captured the Earl of Yerington, you little country mouse?"

"I've not said so," answered Philida, in confusion.

"I saw it all," whispered Sybil, " as I came in with the duchess, and if it does not mean a declaration then I protest you're a bold creature.'

"You know better," expostulated Philida.

"How can I know better," said the sly Sybil, "when I saw it with my own eyes?"

Philida's inexperience walked into the trap.

"You know," she protested with crimson cheeks, "that his lordship would not presume to-to

"But he would, if you encouraged him," said Sybil, with a sage shake of her head. "La, all the world knows what a sad rake Yerington is. I warn you, child, you'll never get a declaration, if you hold yourself so lightly."

"But I will not have you think so ill of Lord Yerington!" exclaimed Philida. And you should think too

well of me to suppose he would take an unwarranted liberty."

"Then you have had a declaration," exclaimed Sybil. Deny it, if you can! Deny it, or confess yourself a bold, brazen hussy! Do you deny it?"

Completely at a disadvantage, Philida stood biting her lips.

Sybil burst into a shout of laughter.

"Oh, lud!" she cried, clapping her hands, "the baby has told me herself! If you don't deny it, then you confirm it."

She sped off intent on spreading her rare morsel of news, unheeding the agonised appeals Philida flung after her.

CHAPTER XXIV

MISTRESS SYBIL PLAYS FATE

My life its secrets and its mystery has
A love eternal in a moment born;
There is no hope to help my evil case,

And she knows naught who makes me thus forlorn.

-FELIX ANVERS.

THE duchess led the way to the white-panelled morningroom. Once there, she faced Lord Yerington. He stood silent before her. His thoughts were still astray, his humiliation strong upon him. For a moment she watched him sharply.

His eyes were fixed before him, his apathetic attitude was ill-suited to the rôle of impetuous lover. He was steeped in a misery so profound that it blotted his power to hear, though not to feel. The duchess' next words came to him dimly, as from a distance.

"Now, sir," she said, "you have stolen a march upon me in a scurvy fashion. Prithee, explain yourself."

His mien raised a fear in her, and gave her voice a sharper edge.

He looked back at her, unheeding her manner. When he spoke, he put one hand upon the table before him to steady himself.

"Your grace," he said hoarsely, "I have much to accuse myself of." He hesitated, fought for a phrase. Words!" he burst forth suddenly, flinging wide one hand in a gesture of profound contempt. Again, words!"

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The duchess' suspicions were further aroused. Her