back to her side were days of unexampled industry and severe routine, only the most pertinent criticisms interrupting from time to time the even progress from line to line, from page to page, from paragraph to paragraph, from chapter to chapter.  But soon the criticism became less close, the illustration more copious, the tongue more eloquent, and the glance less shy.  The elective strength of their two hearts rose up and wrought mightily, saying, “We are made for each other, we understand each other, and these foolish mortals who carry us about in their bosoms shall not keep us apart.”  And to tell the truth, the foolish mortals made very little effort.  Margaret did not believe that Claudius could possibly break his plighted word, and he knew that he would die rather than forfeit his faith.  And so they sat side by side with the book, ostensibly reading, actually talking, most of the day.  And sometimes one or the other would go a little too near the forbidden point, and then there was a moment’s silence, and the least touch of embarrassment; and once Margaret laughed a queer little laugh at one of these stumbles, and once Claudius sighed.  But they were very happy, and the faint colour that was natural to the Doctor’s clear white skin came back as his heart was eased of its burden, and Margaret’s dark cheek grew darker with the sun and the wind that she took no pains to keep from her face, though the olive flushed sometimes to a warmer hue, with pleasure—­or what?  She thought it was the salt breeze.

“How well those two look!” exclaimed Lady Victoria once to Mr. Barker.

“I have seen Claudius look ghastly,” said Barker, for he thought they looked too “well” altogether.

“Yes; do you remember one morning—­I think it was the day before, or the day after, the accident?  I thought he was going to faint.”

“Perhaps he was sea-sick,” suggested Barker.

“Oh no, we were a week out then, and he was never ill at all from the first.”

“Perhaps he was love-sick,” said the other, willing to be spiteful.

“How ridiculous!  To think of such a thing!” cried the stalwart English girl; for she was only a girl in years despite her marriage.  “But really,” she continued, “if I were going to write a novel I would put those two people in it, they are so awfully good-looking.  I would make all my heroes and heroines beautiful if I wrote books.”

“Then I fear I shall never be handed down to posterity by your pen, Lady Victoria,” said Barker, with a smile.

“No,” said she, eyeing him critically, “I don’t think I would put you in my book.  But then, you know, I would not put myself in it either.”

“Ah,” grinned Mr. Barker, “the book would lose by that, but I should gain.”

“How?” asked her ladyship.

“Because we should both be well out of it,” said he, having reached his joke triumphantly.  But Lady Victoria did not like Mr. Barker, or his jokes, very much.  She once said so to her brother.  She thought him spiteful.