Such thoughts had been in Madge’s mind, and self-control had been no easy matter.  When to all had been added the excitement of the storm and his unexpected words, her overstrained nerves gave way.  She was too desperately unhappy for the common fear which temporarily overwhelmed many—­the greater swallows up the less—­but the storm had led to words that both wounded and alarmed her.  Why did she so perplex him?  What had the lightning’s gleam revealed, to be understood when he should think it all over?  Could the truth of her love, of which she was so conscious, be detected in spite of her efforts and disguises?  Was she doomed, not only to failure and an impoverished life, but also to the humiliation of receiving a lifelong, yet somewhat complacent pity from Graydon, and possibly the triumphant scorn of her rival?

With these thoughts surging in her mind she locked herself in her room and sobbed like the broken-hearted girl she felt herself to be.  The passing storm was nothing to her.  A heavier storm was raging in her soul, nor had it ceased when the skies without grew cloudless and serene.  She at last felt that she must do something to maintain her disguise.  Hearing little Jack crying and Mrs. Muir trying to hush him, she washed her eyes and went to the partially darkened room where the child was, and said, “Let me take him, Mary, and you go down and see Henry.”

“It’s awfully good of you, Madge.  The children have been so frightened that I’ve been up here all the evening.  You seem to have better luck in quieting Jack than any of us.”

“He’ll be good with me.  Go down at once, and don’t worry.  You have hardly had a chance to see Henry.”

“You will come down again after Jack goes to sleep?”

“Yes, if I feel like it.”

Graydon soon discovered Mrs. Muir after she had joined her husband, and asked, “Where is Madge?”

“She has kindly taken the baby so that I can spend a little time with
Henry.  The children have been frightened, and Jack is very fretful. 
I’m tired out, and don’t know what I should do if it wasn’t for
Madge.”

“Why can’t the nurse take him?”

“He won’t go to her in these bad moods.  Madge can quiet him even better than I. What’s the matter that you are so anxious to see Madge?  You have seemed abundantly able to amuse yourself without her the last few days.  Is Mr. Arnault in the way to-night?”

“As if I cared a rap for him!” said Graydon, turning irritably away.

He did care, however, and felt that Miss Wildmere was making too much use of the liberty she had provided for.  She, like many others, could be half hysterical while the violence of the storm lasted, and yet, when quiet was restored, was capable of making a jest of her fears and the most of a delightful conjunction of affairs, which placed two eligible men at her beck, to either of whom she could become engaged before she slept.  The arrival of her father had turned the scale decidedly in favor of Mr. Arnault, for the latter, without revealing his transaction with Mr. Muir, had whispered to Mr. Wildmere his conviction that Henry Muir was borrowing at ruinous interest.  This information accorded with the broker’s previous knowledge, and he was eager that his daughter should decide for Arnault at once.