and intelligent--worthy of a far better lot than
had fallen to her share. She ought to have married a well-to-do
tradesman, for whom she would have made a most suitable wife; but she
had given her love to a handsome ne'er do well, with whom she had never
had one moment of peace or happiness. Henry Dornham had never borne a
good character; he had a dark, handsome face--a certain kind of rich,
gypsy-like beauty--but no other qualifications. He was neither
industrious, nor honest, nor sober. His handsome face, his dark eyes,
and rich curling hair had won the heart of the pretty, graceful, gentle
lady's-maid, and she had married him--only to rue the day and hour in
which she had first seen him.

They lived in a picturesque little cottage called Ashwood, and there
Margaret Dornham passed through the greatest joy and greatest sorrow of
her life. Her little child, the one gleam of sunshine that her darkened
life had ever known, was born in the little cottage, and there it had
died.

Dr. Letsom, who was too abrupt for the ladies of Castledene, had watched
with the greatest and most untiring care over the fragile life of that
little child. He had exerted his utmost skill in order to save it. But
all was in vain; and on the very day that Lord Charlewood arrived at
Castledene the child died.

When a tender nurse and foster-mother was needed for little Madaline,
the doctor thought of Margaret Dornham. He felt that all difficulty was
at an end. He sent for her. Even Lord Charlewood looked with interest at
the graceful, timid woman, whose fair young face was so deeply marked
with lines of care.

"Will I take charge of a little child?" she replied to the doctor's
question. "Indeed I will, and thank Heaven for sending me something to
keep my heart from breaking."

"You feel the loss of your own little one very keenly?" said Lord
Charlewood.

"Feel it, sir? All the heart I have lies in my baby's grave."

"You must give a little of it to mine, since Heaven has taken its own
mother," he said, gently. "I am not going to try flu bribe you with
money--money does not buy the love and care of good women like you--but
I ask you, for the love you bore to your own child, to be kind to mine.
Try to think, if you can, that it is your own child brought back to
you."

"I will," she promised, and she kept her word.

"You will spare neither expense nor trouble," he continued, "and when I
return you shall be most richly recompensed. If all g