"I have something very important to say to you. My wife is dead."

"What! Lady Margaret dead? I am really very sorry to hear that. She was
always very kind to me. Poor Lady Margaret."

"And do you know, Marie, what her death means to me?"

"No, I don't quite follow you, Mr. McAllister. You say your wife is dead,
I suppose you _mean_ she is dead."

"Yes, yes, of course," replied Noël irritably, "but it means more. It
means that I am free."

"Free! What do you mean?"

"Marie, can you ask me that? Can you pretend not to understand? For the
last ten years my life has been a burden to me. The thought of you has
ever been with me. The memories of Father Point, of the happy days spent
there, haunt me always. And now, Marie, I have come to tell you that
Dunmorton is yours, the Glen is yours, all that I have is yours, and
Marie _I_ am yours."

During this outburst Marie Gourdon's face grew at first crimson, then
very white, and for a moment she did not answer; then she rose from her
chair, and, looking straight at The McAllister, said in a very quiet
tone, without the faintest touch of anger in it:

"Noël McAllister, you are strangely mistaken in me. Do you think I am
exactly the same person I was ten years ago? Do you think I am the same
little country girl whose heart you won so easily and threw aside when