hat--a man does not care to
make a fool of himself before his servants; he would have stood by her
if he could, but his feelings were too much for him, and you see he
knew that he was to blame."

But Fay would allow nothing of the kind, when she followed him into
the library, and saw him sitting with his face hidden on his folded
arms, and the evening sunshine streaming on his bowed figure.

Fay stood looking at him for a moment, and then she quietly drew his
head to her shoulder--much as though he were baby Hugh, and wanted her
motherly consolation.

"My darling husband," she whispered, "I know it is all my fault, but
you have forgiven me--you must not let me make you unhappy."

"Oh," he said, bitterly, "to think I have brought my wife to this that
she should need to apologize to her own servants. But then they all
know you are an angel."

But she would not let him talk like this. What were his faults to
her--was he not her husband? If he had ill-used her, would she not
still have clung to him? "Dear, it is only because of your goodness
and generosity that I am here now," she said, kissing his hand; "you
need not have looked for me, you know;" and then she made him smile by
telling him of Ellerton's quaint speeches; and after that he let
himself be consoled.

Years afterward he told her, that the days that followed their return
home were their real honey-moon, and she believed him; for they were
never apart.

Bonnie Bess hailed her mistress with delight, and Fay resumed her old
rides and drives; only her husband was always with her. Hugh found
out, too, that her clear intelligence enabled her to enter into all
his work, and after that he never carried out a plan without
consulting her; so that Fay called herself the busiest and happiest
little woman in the world.

* * * * *

And what of Margaret?

In one of the most crowded courts of the East End of London there is a
sister who is known by the name of "Our Sister," though many patient,
high-souled women belonging to the same fraternity work there too.

But "Our Sister" is, _par excellence_, the favorite, from the crippled
little road-sweeper who was run over in Whitechapel Road to the old
Irishwoman who sold oranges by day, and indulged in free fights with
others of her sex at night. "And the heavens be her bed, for she is a
darlint and an angel," old Biddy would say; and it would be "tread on
the tail of my coat"--for it w