cushions, had been wheeled near the
fire-place; and close beside it there was a small table with an open desk
upon it, and some papers scattered loosely about. There were a few autumn
flowers in a homely vase upon the centre table, and a work-basket with
some slippers, in Berlin wool work, unfinished.

Gilbert Fenton contemplated all these things with supreme tenderness. It
was here that Marian had lived for so many months--alone most likely for
the greater part of the time. He had a fixed idea that the man who had
stolen his treasure was some dissipated worldling, altogether unworthy so
sacred a trust. The room had a look of loneliness to him. He could fancy
the long solitary hours in this remote seclusion.

He had to wait for some little time, walking slowly up and down; very
eager for the interview that was to come, yet with a consciousness that
his fate would seem only so much the darker to him afterwards, when he
had to turn his back upon this place, with perhaps no hope of ever seeing
Marian again. At last there came a light footfall; the door was opened,
and his lost love came into the room.

Gilbert Fenton was standing near the fire-place, with his back to the
light. For the first few moments it was evident that Marian did not
recognize him. She came towards him slowly, with a wondering look in her
face, and then stopped suddenly with a faint cry of surprise.

"You here!" she exclaimed. "O, how did you find this place? Why did you
come?"

She clasped her hands, looking at him in a half-piteous way that went
straight to his heart. What he had told Mrs. Branston was quite true. It
was not in him to be angry with this girl. Whatever bitterness there
might have been in his mind until this moment fled away at sight of her.
His heart had no room for any feeling but tenderness and pity.

"Did you imagine that I should rest until I had seen you once more,
Marian? Did you suppose I should submit to lose you without hearing from
your own lips why I have been so unfortunate?"

"I did not think you would waste time or thought upon any one so wicked
as I have been towards you," she answered slowly, standing before him
with a pale sad face and downcast eyes. "I fancied that whatever love you
had ever felt for me--and I know how well you did love me--would perish
in a moment when you found how basely I had acted. I hoped that it would
be so."

"No, Marian; love like mine does not perish so easily as that. O, my
love,