"My Laura," said Margaret half aloud, "forgive me—he is unworthy."
She laid down the miniature softly, and taking up the other looked at it silently, then turning it she touched a clasp at the back. Between the gold and the ivory lay a scrap of yellow paper. With a sudden impulse she crushed it in her hand, then smoothing it out carefully she read it by the candlelight. The words written were few and simple: "A Mddles. Marguerite et Laure, des amitiés bien sincères—L'Estrange;" but the strong man's hand that had traced them had trembled visibly, and as the woman whose dignity he had outraged, whose treasure, as she believed, he had stolen, looked on them that night, she remembered how her heart had warmed at the thought of those trembling fingers, and of what that trembling told.
It was not this, however, that brought the softness to her face at that moment. Slowly she put down the paper and the opened miniature; taking up the other, she held it against her heart. "Laura, my darling, forgive me!" she murmured; "I would have kept your treasure; I cannot." With the other hand she took the piece of yellow paper and held it in the flames till it was consumed. Then replacing the first miniature, she shut and locked the box, put it back in its place with scrupulous care, and returned to Adèle and Arthur.
There was no trace of agitation in Margaret's manner as she held out the miniature.
"This was a common treasure of my cousin's and mine," she said with a sad smile. "I kept it only in obedience to her dying wishes, but I must find my child, and my poor Laura would forgive me."
Arthur took it. "I think you are right," he said; "but about your child?"
"I have plenty of likenesses of her. You had better take the last; it is wonderfully good: I have never seen a better photograph of a child. But, Arthur, before you send this miniature away, look at it carefully; you may possibly come across them."
"If I do—!" said Arthur from between his clenched teeth.
Margaret laid her hand on his arm and looked at him anxiously: "You would do nothing rash, I hope, Arthur; you know my history; you will be able to understand me when I say that for the sake of those old days, for my darling's memory, I would not have a hair of his head touched. I only want my child."
"Be of good courage," said Arthur cheerily; "if she is in the land of the living, we shall find her, Mrs. Grey, and bring her back to you in triumph. Thank you for these; they will be of great use to us. But now, ladies, it is getting late, and I shall have to be up early to-morrow, so I think I shall say good-night and good-bye. I have taken a room at the hotel, and as I find the first train to York leaves this—or rather the station—at half-past seven in the morning, it will be best to make my adieus to-night."