marion lay in her bed, staring through the drawn curtains into the dark night. her window was ajar, and sweet cool airs played fitfully in the room. it was past three o'clock; soon the summer dawn would break; cocks crowed faintly in the farmyards that dotted the fields beyond kensington village.

to and fro marion turned, chafing at the hotness of her bed, trying to find a cool space for her body and a spot on the pillow that might tempt her throbbing head to lie still. the only ease she could gain was by turning a certain way, her eyes on the quiet vagueness of the sky. she kept telling herself there was no cause for this turmoil of mind; time after time she turned her thoughts back to the ball, thinking of the dances, of a certain melody that had pleased her so that she had sent to the fiddlers to play it again—of the men and women whose language and manners, still unfamiliar, fascinated her and gave her the pleasant feeling of being at home in a strange land. but behind their faces she saw that of charity; running with the strains of the minuet was a phrase she could not forget—'i be afeered, mistress marion, mightilie afeered, and moste of al for master roger.'

'who is this charity?' lady fairfax had asked after she herself, at marion's request, had read the sprawled sheet. on learning the story of the girl, and hearing of the hostile feeling of garth for the admiral's ward, the first instinct of lady fairfax had been to take the part of her own class against another that was uneducated, prejudiced, and superstitious to a degree.

'you can't get away from what is in your blood,' argued the lady. 'those cornish fisherfolk are the children of countless generations that have spent themselves in enmity with the french: a continual cross-channel warfare. they first hate the devon men, because they are not cornish, and then they hate the french because they are not english. to their way of thinking the only people who have any excuse to be alive, or have any hope to enter heaven, are english folk who have been born and bred in cornwall.'

marion smiled faintly. 'true enough, aunt constance. but you don't know elise.'

'i don't know elise, my dear. there you are right. but i do know that elise, the daughter of monsieur de delauret and the granddaughter of the old vicomte d'artois, is bred and born a gentlewoman. you cannot turn your back on your own class and take the peasant view against them. and has not elise been your companion and playfellow all these years? leave for a moment this present problem—a difficult one, i grant you—and consider elise in the light of a ten years' friendship. what have you against her?

'nothing,' said marion falteringly. 'that is, until aunt keziah came and made me somehow see elise in a different way. and—besides——'

'the "besides,"' smiled lady fairfax, 'is generally the root of the whole matter.'

marion's cream and gold lace dress had been taken off, and a light dressing-gown thrown about her, and lady fairfax, similarly disrobed, was tending the long russet hair.

with her brush swish swish through the shining tresses, lady fairfax waited. 'and besides?'

in as few words as possible marion told the story of jack poole's arrest, and elise's vindictive remarks at supper.

'what did your father say?'

'he was angry. i never saw him angry with her before. it was not only unkind of elise, but 'twas a most dangerous thing to say, as father explained. you don't know one hundredth part of the horror of that rising in the west, aunt constance. if one of the servants had heard her, and there had chanced to be a countryman, a tinker or a packman, in the kitchens—and of course you know passing folk are always welcomed by the servants—roger might have been hanged on the strength of that.'

the lady was silent a moment. 'well, well,' she resumed, 'roger was not hanged. but, my dear love, for a girl coming to womanhood you are strangely blind. have you not told me before that this youth roger could not abide elise?'

'no more he could. well?'

'is not that a reason for elise's hating roger? a woman can forgive a man almost everything except disliking her, and showing it.'

'elise is only a girl.'

'a rose-bud is all the same a rose.'

marion twined a stray wisp of hair round and round her fingers. 'granted all that, aunt constance, why should elise be continually going down to haunted cove, and to see such a horrible man?'

'who says she is going continually?'

'well—charity says everybody says so.'

'which means,' said lady fairfax tartly, 'that some one may have seen her twice. you don't know the cornish as well as i do.'

'i will not hear another word against my people, aunt constance. you have naught but unkindness for them.' marion tossed her hair free, and sprang to her feet.

'la, la!' said lady fairfax. 'am i not "your own people?" and therefore theirs? oh, my precious baby, what an infant you are!' the speaker suddenly caught the girl in her arms and drew her to a low seat. marion's head fell on her shoulder, and her tears dropped.

'i am so unhappy, aunt constance.'

'but, my darling, i assure you there is nothing to be unhappy about.'

there was a silence for a few minutes. then marion slipped from her aunt's arms to the hearthrug, and laid her head against her knee. 'i am too big a baby to be nursed, dear aunt constance. i shall tire you.'

'i was not complaining,' said the childless woman, letting her arms fall.

'but why should she have gone even once down to haunted cove to meet that man?' marion resumed after a while.

'there, my dear, is a question i cannot answer. but until you know more about it, is it not only fair to give elise the benefit of the doubt? and as for the words she said: "he shall pay for this," why—the girl was furious, and let out the words in her spleen that she would otherwise have withheld. people spit out queer things when they are angry. anger and madness are closely akin.'

'and another thing,' resumed lady fairfax, stroking the bright head. 'your father is a shrewd man. he will not have forgotten that speech of elise's. if he thinks in sober judgment there is anything against the maid, he will be watching her. sooner or later these tales will reach him. if that little charity had been worth her salt, she would have gone to him, and not writ that hysterical letter to you.'

'she would not dare, i am afraid, to seek my father.'

'because he would pull her ears for a gossiping busy-body. and don't you see, my dear, how foolish it is to think that roger and your father can come to some mishap through the malice of your father's ward? leave the men to take care of themselves. i declare i shall hate that roger if the thought of some passing danger for him spoils your visit here.'

'i have known roger ever since i could walk,' said marion softly. 'he was brother and sister and playfellow.'

'you can't wrap him in silk shawls and set him in a drawing-room. he will have to play his part; and you can't either prevent it or take one jot or tittle from it. how long has this letter been in coming?'

marion took up the sheet. 'close on two weeks. it must have been sadly delayed.'

'then everything must still be well. your father would have written and sent a special messenger, otherwise. and now, my darling, i insist on your going to bed. come, i will play your nurse and undress you. 'tis the last time—for some days.'

when her aunt had given her a good-night kiss and had left her, marion had felt somewhat eased, but her brain, being thoroughly aroused, was not so lightly to be lulled to drowsiness. instead of becoming sleepy, marion became more wakeful. all the knowledge she had of the terrors of the monmouth rising and the fearful aftermath of jeffreys' revenge came to her mind. to and fro, between that subject—to which elise's reported threat concerning roger had led her—and the subject of elise's own doings, marion's thoughts went like a sentry on a beat. the watchman passing the square called one o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock; and still marion's weary head tossed about in the seeming endlessness of a wakeful night. at length, as the dawn crept up over the trees of the gardens, and the first bird twittered, marion lay still, conscious of the blessed relief of approaching sleep.

at ten o'clock, when her aunt came quietly in, after simone's report of marion's continued slumber, the bright head still lay motionless in the nest of the pillow. marion was sleeping the sleep of mental and physical exhaustion. her aunt crept quietly out. 'i will not wake her,' she said. 'but the coach is ready. i must be gone.'

simone crept back into the room and sat by the window, alternately watching the slumberer and the needlework in her lap. she had divined that something was amiss with her young lady, and was divided between the joy of having marion to herself, to comfort if need be, and sorrow for her troubled state.

the sun was high in the heavens when marion at last awoke. she lay awhile watching simone, busy with her clothes and her ewer of water. the dread of the previous night did not recur. she was conscious of a distant uneasiness, but more inclined to rest on her aunt's judgment. but presently she discovered that much thought would be impossible that day. perhaps she had slept too long; perhaps nature was taking her revenge for the strain of mingled excitement and pleasure and anxious thought of the previous evening. the only severe headache she had ever known laid its grip upon her. as the day wore on, she was content to lie on a low couch by the window with simone in silent readiness at her side.

at three o'clock colonel sampson came to the house, and learning that the young mistress was ailing: 'is mistress marion too unwell to see me?' he asked. 'pray tell her i am below.'

the servant ushered him into lady fairfax's little sitting-room, the identical spot where he had first seen the pale, travel-worn face of the young girl in whose company he had found such refreshment. presently a light step sounded on the stair, and the curtain fell aside.

'monsieur le colonel,' said simone, and dropped a low curtsey.

sampson stared at the slim, graceful figure rising slowly from the perfect salutation, at the smooth little head and dainty face. then recollecting himself, though blinking a little as at an apparition, he made his inquiries concerning the young mistress.

'mademoiselle finds herself far from well,' came simone's low even tones, 'and would take it as a favour if monsieur le colonel would release her from the promise of the drive. mademoiselle has a severe migraine. to-morrow, perhaps, if monsieur le colonel is good enough, mademoiselle will be pleased to take the air.'

'i shall be delighted, mademoiselle,' said the colonel, with a slight bow.

simone crossed the room, and called the servant from the hall.

'show monsieur le colonel out,' said simone, dropping a curtsey as the visitor passed her.

when the boy opened the hall door, sampson turned. simone was mounting the stairs. again he blinked, and passed his hand across his eyes as if seeking to evoke some elusive thought that hid in a chamber of his mind.

by evening marion's indisposition had passed. she supped with her uncle, finding a singular pleasure in the society of the quiet, studious man who laid all his concerns aside to talk to the 'little niece' on subjects which he knew interested her: of his own travels, and places over seas, and the chances of war abroad. the ball and the events of the previous evening, which had been faithfully detailed by his wife, he left out of the conversation. at the close of the meal, when marion went to the sitting-room where simone was awaiting her, sir john explained that on the morrow he would be obliged to leave her for a few days. there was to be an inspection of the fleet, and he could not absent himself. marion assured him that there was no cause for regret. simone and colonel sampson would companion her; there would be callers, and if there were not, she would be glad of a little quiet.

the next day sir john departed. scarcely had he gone before colonel sampson's coach was at the door. marion and simone descending, found him talking to old zacchary, who had come from the stables, and was admiring the horses. to marion's great delight, colonel sampson dismissed his footman to the society of the kitchen for a spell, and bade zacchary mount in his place. marion knew that zacchary was piling up a store of reminiscences which would make him famous in his generation when he returned to garth.

ranelagh was the destination that afternoon, and sampson saw to it that the drive was a pleasant one. sir john fairfax had told him something of the subject of charity's letter, and the two men talked of the impression they had had of elise that first night when marion told the story of her father's ward. in private they were not disposed to take as easy a view of the matter as my lady had entertained. sampson, amazed at such behaviour on the part of a de delauret, had thought a good deal about it; both men could appreciate better than lady fairfax the danger in which the roger, whom they had never seen, stood; they knew better than she how the flame of the rising still flickered. but uppermost in sampson's mind, as marion talked or was silent, in the coach, was the thought of the young elise d'artois, whom he had followed as a moth follows a lantern, for the space of a delightful, foolish year. he could not reconcile his memory of her with the reported doings of her daughter.

simone also came in for a good share of his regard. the colonel was too trained a courtier to betray again his surprise and mystification on seeing the little waiting woman of whom he had heard so much. during the drive simone was quiet, watching from the coach the passers by; but towards the end something in the conversation struck her fancy. she suddenly turned and smiled at sampson. a passing group caught marion's eye at the moment, and she called simone's attention thereto. thus neither of the girls saw the man's start, and stare and nod, as if something in the chamber of his memory had peeped out and greeted him.

when the party arrived at kensington, colonel sampson refused to accompany the ladies indoors. he escorted them to the hall door, then walked quickly back to his coach. a minute later his horses, at a canter, drew the vehicle out of the square.

in the hall a servant approached marion.

'there is a man in the kitchen, mistress, a sailor man from garth, wishful to see you. he is but anchored at the swan in chelsey this afternoon, and has walked across. 'tis urgent business.'

marion's eyes widened, as of old, as she looked at the servant. a sudden fear tore at her heart. 'bring him into the sitting-room at once,' she said.