--that you will try to
love me--that you will consent to become my wife. Do, I beg of you."

For a few seconds she remained silent in his embrace, then slowly her
lips moved.

But so stirred by emotion was she that no sound escaped them.

"You will be mine, darling, will you not?" he urged. "Jean, I love
you--I'll love you for ever--always! Do, I beseech of you, give me hope.
Say that you love me just a little--only just a little."

Tears welled in her great, dark eyes, and again her chest heaved and
fell.

Then, of a sudden, her head fell upon his shoulder and she buried her
face, sobbing in mute consent, while he, on his part, pressed her
closely to him and smothered her cheek with burning kisses.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE GARDEN OF LOVE.

Six years later.

The years had gone by--happy, blissful years, during which the Countess
of Bracondale had become a popular society and political hostess.

At Bracondale, and in Scotland, the Earl and his wife had on three
occasions entertained the Sovereign at shooting-parties, and no social
function was complete without the handsome, half-French Lady Bracondale.

After her marriage, though she had no ambition to enter that wild world
of unrest which we call modern society, she realised that, in order to
assist her husband in his political and diplomatic work, she was
compelled to take her place in London life. So she had entered upon it
cheerfully; the town house had been redecorated, and many brilliant
functions--dinners, balls, diplomatic receptions, and the like--had been
given, while at the Foreign Office receptions her ladyship always acted
as hostess to the _corps diplomatique_.

The society newspapers gave her portrait constantly, and declared her to
be among the most beautiful women in England.

Wealth, position, popularity, all were hers, and, in addition, she had
the great love of her devoted husband, and the comfort of her sweet
little daughter, Lady Enid Heathcote--a child with pretty, golden
hair--whom she adored. The happiest of wives and mothers, she also bore
her part as one of the great ladies of the land, and her husband was
ever proud of her, ever filled with admiration.

It was eight o'clock on a warm, August morning at Bracondale, where Jean
and her little daughter, with Miss Oliver, the governess, were spending
the summer.

Jean came down to breakfast in a pretty gown of Japanese silk
embroidered with large, crimson roses, and passed thro