. "Not that that makes it much better for her, poor little
thing!"

"I assure you, Philip, it went to my heart to see that fragile girl
struggling with that big woman. I would have helped her, but she
entreated me to go, and so I came away. What else could I do?"

"Nothing, I suppose. There may be murder committed in that house any
day, if this state of things goes on."

Lady Ashley sighed. Sir Philip walked about the room, with his hands in
his pockets and his head bent on his breast.

"Margaret Adair had been there to-day," said his mother, watching him.

Sir Philip looked up.

"Why?" he said, keenly.

"To take a singing lesson. She had brought flowers. Miss Colwyn spoke of
her very warmly, and when I touched on the subject of Miss Polehampton's
treatment, would not allow that Margaret had anything to do with it. She
is a very faithful little person, I should think."

"Far more generous than Margaret," muttered her son. Then, sombrely, "I
never told you what happened at Helmsley Court the other day. Margaret
refused me."

"Refused you--entirely?"

"No appeal possible."

"On what grounds?"

"Chiefly, I think, because I wanted her to make reparation to Miss
Colwyn."

"Then, Philip, she is not worthy of you."

"She has had a bad training," he said, slowly. "A fine nature ruined by
indulgence and luxury. She has never been crossed in her life."

"She will find out what it is to be crossed some day. My poor Phil! I am
very sorry."

"We need not talk about it, mother, dear. You will be all in all to me
now."

He sat down beside her, and took her hand in his, then kissed it with a
mingling of tenderness and respect which brought the tears to Lady
Ashley's eyes.

"But I do not want to be all in all to you, you foolish boy," she
assured him. "I want to see you with a wife, with children of your own,
with family ties and interests and delights."

"Not yet, mother," he answered in a low tone. "Some day, perhaps."

And from the pained look in his dark eyes she saw that he suffered more
than he would have liked to own for the loss of Margaret. She said no
more, but her heart ached for her boy, and she was hardly able to
comfort herself with the recollection that Time heals all wounds--even
those that have been made by Love.

Sir Philip had accepted Margaret's refusal as final. He had no reason to
hope that she would ever change her mind towards him. Perhaps if he had
known how large a part of her thoug