n delayed,
m'lady."

"Yes, I suppose so," she said listlessly. "That will do, Edwards. No,
don't close the shutters. I'll ring presently."

The man went out of the room as automatically as he had come. He closed
the door behind him, and Marguerite was once more alone.

She picked up the book which she had fingered idly before the light gave
out. She tried once more to fix her attention on this tale of love and
adventure written by Mr. Fielding; but she had lost the thread of the
story, and there was a mist between her eyes and the printed pages.

With an impatient gesture she threw down the book and passed her hand
across her eyes, then seemed astonished to find that her hand was wet.

She rose and went to the window. The air outside had been singularly
mild all day; the thaw was persisting, and a south wind came across the
Channel--from France.

Marguerite threw open the casement and sat down on the wide sill,
leaning her head against the window-frame, and gazing out into the fast
gathering gloom. From far away, at the foot of the gently sloping lawns,
the river murmured softly in the night; in the borders to the right and
left a few snowdrops still showed like tiny white specks through the
surrounding darkness. Winter had begun the process of slowly shedding
its mantle, coquetting with Spring, who still lingered in the land of
Infinity. Gradually the shadows drew closer and closer; the reeds and
rushes on the river bank were the first to sink into their embrace, then
the big cedars on the lawn, majestic and defiant, but yielding still
unconquered to the power of night.

The tiny stars of snowdrop blossoms vanished one by one, and at last the
cool, grey ribbon of the river surface was wrapped under the mantle of
evening.

Only the south wind lingered on, soughing gently in the drowsy reeds,
whispering among the branches of the cedars, and gently stirring the
tender corollas of the sleeping snowdrops.

Marguerite seemed to open out her lungs to its breath. It had come all
the way from France, and on its wings had brought something of Percy--a
murmur as if he had spoken--a memory that was as intangible as a dream.

She shivered again, though of a truth it was not cold. The courier's
delay had completely unsettled her nerves. Twice a week he came
especially from Dover, and always he brought some message, some token
which Percy had contrived to send from Paris. They were like tiny scraps
of dry bread thrown to