“Well done,” said McAllister, “here’s your well-earned sovereign.  Now take your horse to the stables over there and wait for me.”

The cabman departed radiant, wondering over such unwonted generosity, and musing as to the rank and wealth of his fare.

McAllister knocked at the door of the cottage, and presently it was opened by a neat maid-servant, who, in answer to his inquiry, said: 

“I am afraid, sir, Mademoiselle Laurentia will not be able to see you.  What name shall I say, please, sir?”

“Oh, say I’m a Canadian.  I have no cards with me; but I have come on a matter of the utmost importance, and I must see your mistress.”

“Very well, sir; please walk up this way,” and the maid led the way to Mademoiselle Laurentia’s boudoir.

It was a dainty little room furnished in blue and silver.  On the walls hung numerous water-colors and engravings, showing that the prima donna had an artistic eye.

McAllister had not long to wait before the mistress of the house came in.  She was dressed for her part in “Aida,” and wore an Egyptian robe of soft white cashmere, embroidered in dull gold silk with a quaint conventional pattern.  Her gown was slightly open at the throat, round which was a necklace of dull gold beads.  Heavy bracelets of the same material encircled her arms, and a row of them held back her dark brown hair, which fell in heavy masses far below her knees.

She came into the room with her hands stretched out in welcome, but at the sight of McAllister drew back looking surprised.

“How do you do, Mr. McAllister,” she said, in a formal tone.  “This is indeed an unexpected pleasure.  Pray pardon my theatrical dress, but I have such a long drive into town that I am obliged to dress early.”

“Certainly, Marie; your dress is very becoming; in fact, you look altogether charming.”

“Mr. McAllister, before you speak again, I think I may tell you that once before I have had to remind you that only to my most intimate friends am I known as Marie Gourdon.”

“Am I not your friend?  I have known you all your life.”

“I do not wish to continue that subject; and pardon me, Mr. McAllister, if I seem rude, but it is now past six o’clock, and I must leave here in twenty minutes.  It is a long drive into town, and I must be at the opera on time.”

“I have something very important to say to you.  My wife is dead.”

“What!  Lady Margaret dead?  I am really very sorry to hear that.  She was always very kind to me.  Poor Lady Margaret.”

“And do you know, Marie, what her death means to me?”

“No, I don’t quite follow you, Mr. McAllister.  You say your wife is dead, I suppose you mean she is dead.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” replied Noel irritably, “but it means more.  It means that I am free.”

“Free!  What do you mean?”

“Marie, can you ask me that?  Can you pretend not to understand?  For the last ten years my life has been a burden to me.  The thought of you has ever been with me.  The memories of Father Point, of the happy days spent there, haunt me always.  And now, Marie, I have come to tell you that Dunmorton is yours, the Glen is yours, all that I have is yours, and Marie I am yours.”