There was a brief silence while the paper was inspected.

“I am still of opinion that my grandmother’s second marriage was legal,” replied Mr. Heath; “yet I should be loath to drag up her name and subject ourselves to a possibility of disgrace.  So, though the estate is ours, we can do without it!”

Meanwhile, Marguerite had approached her father, and was patching together the important scraps.

“What has this to do with it?” said she.  “You admitted before this discovery—­did you not?—­that the property was no longer mine.  These people are Aunt Susanne’s heirs still, if not legally, yet justly.  I will not retain a sous of it!  My father shall instruct my lawyer, Mrs. Heath, to make all necessary transfers to yourself.  Let us wish you good-morning!” And she opened the door for them to pass.

“Marguerite! are you mad?” asked her father, as the door closed.

“No, father,—­but honest,—­which is the same thing,” she responded, still standing near it.

“True,” he said, in a low tone like a groan.  “But we are ruined.”

“Ruined?  Oh, no!  You are well and strong.  So am I. I can work.  I shall get much embroidery to do, for I can do it perfectly; the nuns taught me.  I have a thousand resources.  And there is something my mother can do; it is her great secret; she has played at it summer after summer.  She has moulded leaves and flowers and twined them round beautiful faces in clay, long enough; now she shall carve them in stone, and you will be rich again!”

Mrs. Laudersdale sat in a low chair while Marguerite spoke, the nasturtium-vine dinging round her feet like a gorgeous snake, her hands lying listlessly in her lap, and her attitude that of some queen who has lost her crown, and is totally bewildered by this strange conduct on the part of circumstances.  All the strength and energy that had been the deceits of manner were utterly fallen away, and it was plain, that, whatever the endowment was which Marguerite had mentioned, she could only play at it.  She was but a woman, sheer woman, with the woman’s one capability, and the exercise of that denied her.

Mr. Laudersdale remained with his eyes fixed on her, and lost, it seemed, to the presence of others.

“The disgrace is bitter,” he murmured.  “I have kept my name so proudly and so long!  But that is little.  It is for you I fear.  I have stood in your sunshine and shadowed your life, dear!—­At least,” he continued, after a pause, “I can place you beyond the reach of suffering.  I must finish my lonely way.”

Mrs. Laudersdale looked up slowly and met his earnest glance.

“Must I leave you?” she exclaimed, with a wild terror in her tone.  “Do you mean that I shall go away?  Oh, you need not care for me,—­you need never love me,—­you may always be cold,—­but I must serve you, live with you, die with you!” And she sprang forward with outstretched arms.