“I am sorry,” said Mr. Laudersdale, after a moment.  “I am sorry, instead of a fortune, to give them a bar-sinister.”

“Your daughter is ignorant?—­your wife?”

“Entirely.  Will you allow me to invite them in here?  They should see this paper.”

“You do not anticipate any unpleasant effect?”

“Not the slightest Marguerite has no notion of want or of pride.  Her first and only thought will be—­sa cousine Helene.”  And Mr. Laudersdale went out.

Some light feet were to be heard pattering down the stairs, a mingling of voices, then Mr. Laudersdale passed on, and Marguerite tapped, entered, and closed the door.

“My father has told me something I but half understand,” said she, with her hand on the door.  “Unless I marry Mr. Heath, I lose my wealth?  What does that signify?  Would all the mines of Peru tempt me?”

Mr. Raleigh remained leaning against the corner of the bookcase.  She advanced and stood at the foot of the table, nearly opposite him.  Her lips were glowing as if the fire of her excitement were fanned by every breath; her eyes, half hidden by the veiling lids, seemed to throw a light out beneath them and down her cheek.  She wore a mantle of swan’s down closely wrapped round her, for she had complained ceaselessly of the chilly summer.

“Mr. Raleigh,” she said, “I am poorer than you are, now.  I am no longer an heiress.”

At this moment, the door opened again and Mrs. Laudersdale entered.  At a step she stood in the one sunbeam; at another, the shutters blew together, and the room was left in semi-darkness, with her figure gleaming through it, outlined and starred in tremulous evanescent light.  For an instant both Marguerite and Mr. Raleigh seemed to be half awe-struck by the radiant creature shining out of the dark; but directly, Marguerite sprang back and stripped away the torrid nasturtium-vine which her mother had perhaps been winding in her hair when her husband spoke with her, and whose other end, long and laden with fragrant flame, still hung in her hand and along her dress.  Laughing, Marguerite in turn wound it about herself, and the flowers, so lately plucked from the bath of hot air, where they had lain steeping in sun, flashed through the air a second, and then played all their faint spirit-like luminosity about their new wearer.  She seemed sphered in beauty, like the Soul of Morning in some painter’s fantasy, with all great stars blossoming out in floral life about her, colorless, yet brilliant in shape and light.  It was too much; Mr. Raleigh opened the window and let in the daylight again, and a fresh air that lent the place a gayer life.  As he did so, Mr. Laudersdale entered, and with him Mr. Heath and his mother.  Mr. Laudersdale briefly recapitulated the facts, and added,—­

“Communicating my doubts to Mr. Raleigh, he has kindly furnished me with the marriage-certificate of his uncle and Mademoiselle Le Blanc.  And as Mr. Reuben Raleigh was living within thirteen years, you perceive that your claims are invalidated.”