CHAPTER XIV.
“Margery! Margery!”
The light of the setting sun was gilding the branches of the few trees standing in the center of the square garden. A girl was sitting in a bay window in one of the largest and gloomiest of the houses in the square, apparently watching the sunset; but really the sunset had no charm for her. She was so deep in thought that the sweet tones coming from the further end of the room did not reach her.
“Margery!”
The girl turned quickly, her musings disturbed by the touch of plaintive wistfulness in the last word.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Enid,” she said, hurriedly, moving from the window.
“I am sorry to disturb your dreams, Margery,” observed Lady Enid, gently, “but I should like to sit up for a while, and no one can help me like you.”
She smiled affectionately as she spoke, her beautiful, dark eyes resting with pleasure on the figure of her young companion; she looked so dainty, so frail, yet so lovely, lying back on her cushions, that it was hard to imagine so fair a form was aught but perfect. It was an angel’s face, pale and sweet, surrounded by short, wavy locks of rich, dark-brown hair, and lighted by a pair of luminous brown eyes.
Margery bent quickly and took away the silken coverlet from the couch, then, putting her arm under the slight figure, raised it easily into a sitting position; thence, after a moment’s pause, she assisted the invalid to a large, luxurious chair drawn close at hand.
“Thank you,” said Lady Enid, as she reclined against the well-padded, upright back. “How good you are, Margery! What should I do without you?”