his head.

One day, however, the Countess summoned the groom to her presence, and,
to his amazement and embarrassment, told him that she had long grown to
love him, and that she asked nothing better of life than to become his
wife. Overcome with surprise and confusion, Forbes protested--"But my
lady, think of the difference between us. You are one of the greatest
ladies in the land, and I am no better than the earth you tread on."
"You must not say that," the Countess replied. "You are more to me than
rank or riches. These I count as nothing, compared with the happiness
you have it in your power to bestow."

In the face of such pleading, from one so beautiful and so reverenced,
what could the poor groom do but consent, fearful though he was of the
consequences of such an ill-assorted union? And thus strangely and
romantically it was that, one April day in 1745, the Countess of
Strathmore, the descendant of dukes and kings, gave her hand at the
altar to the ex-stable-lad and peasant's son.

What followed this singular union was precisely what was to be expected.
The Countess was disowned by her noble relatives; her friends with one
consent gave her the cold shoulder; and, unable to bear any longer the
constant slights and her complete isolation, she was thankful to escape
with her low-born husband to the Continent.

Here familiarity with the groom quickly, and naturally, perhaps, bred
contempt and disillusion. His coarseness offended every susceptibility;
he was frankly impossible in such an intimate relation; and after she
had given birth to a daughter in Holland, she arranged a separation, for
which the groom was, at least, as grateful as herself. The child--the
very sight of whom, reminding her as she did of the father, she could
not bear--was placed in a convent at Rouen, where she was tenderly cared
for by the abbess and nuns. As for the mother, weary and disillusioned,
she rambled aimlessly and miserably about the Continent until, after
nine years of unhappiness, death came to her at Paris as a merciful
friend. Such was the sordid close of a life that had opened as fairly as
any that has fallen to the lot of woman.

And what of the child who drew from her mother royal and ducal strains,
and from her father the blood of stablemen and peasants? At the Rouen
convent she grew up to girlhood, perfectly happy, among the nuns she
learned to love. The sad and beautiful lady who had come once or twice
to see her, and