A sharp knock came at the door, and for some strange reason she moved round so that nothing could be seen but her back, draped in the hood and cloak, while Mrs. David bustled to the door.
“It is you, sir! Come in and welcome! He’s sleeping sound now, sir. Ah, Heaven give you happiness, as you have given it to me to-day!”
A curious sensation stole over Margery’s heart—a sensation that brought a vague touch of joy. The next moment the joy increased, for a voice spoke, the tones of which recalled all the golden dream of her early love.
It was Stuart, her lover! Her hands, clasped together, were clasped against her throbbing heart, her lips murmured his name silently; but still she stood motionless; and Stuart’s eye went from the unknown woman in the hood and cloak to the child.
“He’s all right now, Mrs. David; there is no fever. You will have him as jolly as ever in a day or two.”
“Oh, thank you, sir! And you yourself, sir—you ain’t got no harm?”
“Not a bit,” laughed Stuart, cheerily. “Sea water does not hurt me; I am used to it. I have been in a gale or two at sea, you know. It is rough weather, though, to-day, Mrs. David.”
“That it is, sir. Here’s her ladyship, sir, quite done up by the wind. She’s honored me with resting a while.”
Stuart stared. How blind he had been! How could he have overlooked that slender figure? His heart burned within his breast, he could hardly restrain his joy. And Margery? In a moment her doubts, her sad misgivings vanished; she knew that her love lived again in all its strength and sweetness. It had been clouded, not overcome. She moved from the window and put out her hand.
“I know this gentleman, Mrs. David,” she said, steadily, though her limbs were trembling. “He is my cousin.”