“And your own heart?”

“And my own heart.”

She wondered as she looked at him if ever he could have guessed what had been in her mind that day when she had gone to Hurst Dormer to see him.  How full of love for him her heart had been then!  And then she remembered what he had said, those four words that had ended her dream for ever—­“Better than my life.”  So he loved Joan, and now she knew that she too loved with her whole heart.

Death had been very close, and perhaps it had been pity for that fine young life that seemed to be so near its end that had awakened love.  Yet, whatever the cause, she knew now that her love for Tom had come to stay.

“And Joan?” Marjorie asked.

“Joan?” he said.  “Joan, she is in her own home.”

“And her heart is still hard against you, Hugh?”

“Her pride is still between us, Marjorie,” he said, and quickly turned the conversation, and a few minutes later was up in the bedroom talking cheerily enough to Tom.

“It’s all right, Alston, everything is all right.  Lady Linden wanted to shoot the horse; but I wouldn’t have it.  I owe him too much—­you understand, Alston, don’t you?  Everything is all right between Marjorie and me.”

And then Hugh went back to Hurst Dormer—­thank, Heaven there was some happiness in this world!  There was happiness at Cornbridge, and after Cornbridge Hurst Dormer seemed darker and more solitary than ever.

It was while she had been talking to Hugh that Marjorie had made up her mind.

“I am going to tell Joan the whole truth, the whole truth,” she thought.  And Hugh was scarcely out of the house before Marjorie sat down to write her letter to Joan.

“...  I know that you have always blamed him for what was never his fault.  He did it because he is generous and unselfish.  He loved me in those days.  I know that it could not have been the great abiding love; it was only liking that turned to fondness.  Yet he wanted to marry me, Joan, and when he knew that there was someone else, and that he stood in the way of our happiness, the whole plan was arranged, and we had to find a name, you understand.  And he asked me to suggest one, and I thought of yours, because it is the prettiest name I know; and he, Hugh, never dreamed that it belonged to a living woman.  And so it was used, dear, and all this trouble and all this misunderstanding came about.  I always wanted to tell you the truth, but he wouldn’t let me, because he was afraid that if Aunt got to hear of it, she might be angry and send Tom away.  But now I know she would not, and so I am telling you everything.  The fault was mine.  And yet, you know, dear, I had no thought of angering or of offending you.  Write to me and tell me you forgive me.  And oh, Joan, don’t let pride come between you and the man you love, for I think he is one of the finest men I know, the best and straightest.

      “Marjorie.”