"Margaret," I answered, "I would know one thing. The priest once showed me a paper in thy hand and stamped with thy crest, in which thou didst say that thou lovest Dunraven, and would be his wife. It almost shook my faith in God and man, that thou, whom I believed so pure and noble, shouldst love one so black as he. I had thought to ask thee that night in the prison, but it slipped my mind. Tell me, didst thou write such a note as this?"
"And thou thinkest that I would do such a thing as that?" she answered, with a look of reproach. "For shame, Sir Thomas! Have I ever in my whole life given thee cause to think thus of me?"
"Forgive me," I replied. "But the note was in thy handwriting, upon thy paper, and scented with thy perfume."
"Thou mightst have known better," she answered gravely, and she looked out again upon the river.
"Oh, man," she cried in scorn, "canst thou never believe that a woman cares naught but for wealth and fame; that she plans for naught but rank and position, and that her mind is ever filled with thoughts of conquest?"
"I know of one lady who, I think is all that mortal should be," I answered; "whose pure soul can hold no unworthy thought."
"And who pray may this person be? Fain would I know such a one," and she looked up again at me, smiling faintly.
"Thou knowest her well," I answered quickly; "she is perhaps thy best friend."
"I know not of whom thou speakest," she cried innocently, or was it but a subterfuge—"unless it be the Lady Jane Porter."
"'Tis thyself, Margaret," I answered. "Thou art the one of whom I speak," and I bent forward to look into her face.