As she spoke Mrs. Chatterton threw open the door, and Lady Arleigh saw the most magnificent rooms she had ever beheld in her life—­a boudoir all blue silk and white lace, a spacious sleeping-chamber daintily hung with pink satin, a dressing-room that was a marvel of elegance, and a small library, all fitted with the greatest luxury.

“This is the finest suite of rooms in the house,” said the housekeeper; “they are always kept for the use of the mistress of Beechgrove.  Has your ladyship brought your maid?”

“No,” replied Lady Arleigh; “the fact is I have not chosen one.  The Duchess of Hazlewood promised to find one for me.”

The illustrious name pleased the housekeeper.  She had felt puzzled at the quiet marriage, and the sudden home-coming.  If the new mistress of Beechgrove was an intimate friend of her Grace of Hazlewood’s, as her words seemed to imply, then all must be well.

When Lady Arleigh had changed her traveling-dress, she went down-stairs.  Her young husband looked up in a rapture of delight.

“Oh, Madaline,” he said, “how long have you been away from me?  It seems like a hundred hours, yet I do not suppose it has been one.  And how fair you look, my love!  That cloudy white robe suits your golden hair and your sweet face, which has the same soft, sweet expression as when I saw you first; and those pretty shoulders of yours gleam like polished marble through the lace.  No dress could be more coquettish or prettier.”

The wide hanging sleeves were fastened back from the shoulders with buttons of pearl, leaving the white, rounded arms bare; a bracelet of pearls—­Lady Peters’ gift—­was clasped round the graceful neck; the waves of golden hair, half loose, half carelessly fastened, were like a crown on the beautiful head.

“I am proud of my wife,” he said.  “I know that no fairer Lady Arleigh has ever been at Beechgrove.  When we have dined, Madaline, I will take you to the picture-gallery, and introduce you to my ancestors and ancestresses.”

A recherche little dinner had been hastily prepared, and was served in the grand dining-room.  Madaline’s eyes ached with the dazzle of silver plate, the ornaments and magnificence of the room.

“Shall I ever grow accustomed to all this?” she asked herself.  “Shall I ever learn to look upon it as my own?  I am indeed bewildered.”

Yet her husband admired her perfect grace and self-possession.  She might have been mistress of Beechgrove all her life for any evidence she gave to the contrary.  His pride in her increased every moment; there was no one like her.

“I have never really known what ‘home’ meant before, Madaline,” he said.  “Imagine sitting opposite to a beautiful vision, knowing all the time that it is your wife.  My own wife—­there is magic in the words.”

And she, in her sweet humility, wondered why Heaven had so richly blessed her, and what she had done that the great, passionate love of this noble man should be hers.  When dinner was ended he asked her if she was tired.