er white neck and shoulders, her beautiful face was flushed,
the scarlet lips trembled as though she were a grieving child; and the
young duke stood watching her, thinking how fair she was and what a
treasure he had won. Then he heard her murmur some words in her
sleep--what were they? He could not quite distinguish them; it was
something about a Puritan maiden _Priscilla_ and _John_--he could not
catch the name--something that did not concern him, and in which he had
no part. Suddenly she held out her arms, and, in a voice he never
forgot, cried, "Oh, my love, my love!" That of course meant himself.
Down on his knees by her side went the young duke--he covered her hands
with kisses.

"My darling," he said, "you are better now, I have been alarmed about
you, Philippa; I feared that you were ill. My darling, give me a word
and a smile."

She had quite recovered herself then; she remembered that she was
Duchess of Hazlewood--wife of the generous nobleman who was at her side.
She was mistress of herself in a moment.

"Have I alarmed you?" she said. "I did feel ill; but I am better
now--quite well, in fact."

She said to herself that she had her new life to begin, and the sooner
she began it the better; so she made herself very charming to the young
duke, and he was in ecstasies over the prize he had won.

Thenceforward[3] they lived happily enough. If the young duke found his
wife less loving, less tender of heart, than he had believed her to be,
he had no complaint.

"She is so beautiful and gifted," he would say to himself. "I cannot
expect everything. I know that she loves me, although she does not say
much about it. I know that I can trust her in all things, even though
she makes no protestations."

They fell into the general routine of life. One loved--the other allowed
herself to be loved. The duke adored his wife, and she accepted his
adoration.

They were never spoken of as a model couple, although every one agreed
that it was an excellent match--that they were very happy. The duke
looked up with wondering admiration to the beautiful stately lady who
bore his name. She could not do wrong in his eyes, everything she said
was right, all she did was perfect. He never dreamed of opposing her
wishes. There was no lady in England so completely her own mistress, so
completely mistress of every one and everything around her, as her Grace
of Hazlewood.

When the season came around again, and the brilliant life w