roundings which he had chosen and amid which he had worked,
that she felt nearer to him while she sat in his favourite chair,
breathing the scent of the wood-fire he loved.

She thought of the "dear children," of how pleased she was that they
were all well and happy, of how "sweet" Harry and Jenny were about
writing to her; and so unaccustomed was she to thinking in the first
person, that not until she took up her embroidery again and applied her
needle to the centre of a flower, did she find herself saying aloud: "I
must send for Miss Willy to-morrow and engage her for next week. That
will be something to do."

And looking ahead she saw days of endless stitching and basting, of
endless gossip accompanied by the cheerful whirring of the little
dressmaker's machine. "I used to pity Miss Willy because she was obliged
to work," she thought with surprise, "but now I almost envy her. I
wonder if it is work that keeps her so young and brisk? She's never had
anything in her life, and yet she is so much happier than some people
who have had everything."

The maid came to announce supper, and, gathering up her fancy-work,
Virginia laid it beside the lamp on the end of Oliver's writing table.
As she did so, she saw that her photograph, taken the year of her
marriage, which he usually carried on his journeys, had been laid aside
and overlooked when he was packing his papers. It was the first time he
had forgotten it, and a little chill struck her heart as she put it back
in its place beside the bronze letter rack. Then the chill sharpened
suddenly until it became an icy blade in her breast, for she saw that
the picture of Margaret Oldcastle was gone from its frame.

CHAPTER IV

LIFE'S CRUELTIES

There was a hard snowstorm on the day Oliver returned to Dinwiddie, and
Virginia, who had watched from the window all the afternoon, saw him
crossing the street through a whirl of feathery flakes. The wind drove
violently against him, but he appeared almost unconscious of it, so
buoyant, so full of physical energy was his walk. Never had he looked
more desirable to her, never more lovable, than he did at that instant.
Something, either a trick of imagination or an illusion produced by the
flying whiteness of the storm, gave him back for a moment the glowing
eyes and the eager lips of his youth. Then, as she turned towards the
door, awaiting his step on the stairs, the mirror over the mantel showed
her her own face, with its