"No, Margery," he said, slowly, "I only saw Mary because,"—
Margery raised her head.
"John, dear John, don't talk about it! I don't believe it any more! I know I was a bad, foolish wife! Only love me again, and forgive me, dear, dear John! Oh, I don't believe it any more!" and she took his right hand and kissed it, as Mary had done.
"Wont you forgive me, John? I will never, never go away from you," she pleaded, while the tears streamed down her face.
He took her in his arms once more, and kissed her lips.
The red evening sunlight had crept away from the little grave, and the dusk was fast gathering about it. Margery bent down and kissed the white marble cross; then they turned their steps homeward, Margery holding John's hand like a child.
"I must unpack my clothes again to-night," she said, after a while. "I have all the baby's little things in my trunk, but, John, I was going to leave you one of the little shoes."
She felt her hand clasped closer in his.
"Margery," he said then, "I think I had better tell you about Mary."