“And you love your husband very much, Madaline, do you not?” inquired Margaret.

“Yes, I love him with all my heart and soul!” was the earnest reply.

“Thank Heaven that my darling is happy!” said Margaret, “I shall find everything easier to bear now that I that.”

Chapter XXXV.

Margaret Dornham was neither a clever nor a far-seeing woman; had she been either, she would never have acted as she did.  She would have known that in taking little Madaline from Castledene she was destroying her last chance of ever being owned or claimed by her parents; she would have understood that, although she loved the child very dearly, she was committing a most cruel act.  But she thought only of how she loved her.  Yet, undiscerning as she was, she was puzzled about her daughter’s happiness.  If she was really so happy, why did she spend long hours in reverie—­why sit with folded hands, looking with such sad eyes at the passing clouds?  That did not look like happiness.  Why those heavy sighs, and the color that went and came like light and shade?  It was strange happiness.  After a time she noticed that Madaline never spoke voluntarily of her husband.  She would answer any questions put to her—­she would tell her mother anything she desired to know; but of her own accord she never once named him.  That did not look like happiness.  She even once, in answer to her mother’s questions, described Beechgrove to her—­told her of the famous beeches, the grand picture gallery; she told her of the gorgeous Titian—­the woman with rubies like blood shining on her white neck.  But she did not add that she had been at Beechgrove only once, and had left the place in sorrow and shame.

She seemed to have every comfort, every luxury; but Margaret noticed also that she never spoke of her circle of society—­that she never alluded to visitors.

“It seems to me, my darling, that you lead a very quiet life,” she said, one day; and Madaline’s only answer was that such was really the case.

Another time Margaret said to her: 

“You do not write many letters to your husband, Madaline.  I could imagine a young wife like you writing every day,” and her daughter made no reply.

On another occasion Mrs. Dornham put the question to her: 

“You are quite sure, Madaline, that you love your husband?”

“Love him!” echoed the girl, her face lighting up—­“love him, mother?  I think no one in the wide world has ever loved another better!”

“Such being the case, my darling,” said Margaret, anxiously, “let me ask you if you are quite sure he loves you?”

No shadow came into the blue eyes as she raised them to her mother’s face.

“I am as sure of it,” she replied, “as I am of my own existence.”

“Then,” thought Margaret to herself, “I am mistaken; all is well between them.”

Madaline did not intend to remain very long with her mother, but it was soothing to the wounded, aching heart to be loved so dearly.  Margaret startled her one day, by saying: