"She will recover, I have every reason to believe," said the doctor, "but she has evidently suffered long and terribly. Some domestic trouble, my lord, I suppose, that has preyed upon her?"
"Yes," replied Lord Atherton, "a domestic trouble that she has been foolish enough to keep to herself and which had preyed on her mind."
She had the best of care, the kindest and most constant attention, yet it was some time before she opened her eyes to the ordinary affairs of this life.
Lord Atherton never forgot the hour—he was sitting by her bedside. He had barely left her since her illness began, and suddenly he heard the sound of a low, faint sigh.
He looked eagerly into the worn, sweet face—once more the light of reason shone in those lovely eyes.
"Marion," he said, gently.
She gave one half-frightened glance at him, then buried her face in her hands with a moan.
"My sweet wife," he said, "do not be afraid. I know all about it, darling. I have made that villain destroy those letters. You need fear no more."
"And you are not cross?" she whispered.
"Not with you, my poor child; always trust me, Marion. I love you better than any one else in the world could love you. I am afraid even that I love your faults."