"Is he?" Marie laughed. "He's only a boy," she said carelessly.

Miss Chester looked pained.

"Boys have hearts as well as grown men," she said gently.

"More, sometimes," Marie answered flippantly.

But she knew that Miss Chester was right. She knew that lately there was a different light in young Atkins' eyes and a strange quality in his voice whenever he spoke to her.

Sometimes she was sorry--sometimes she told herself that she did not care! Why should she be the only one to suffer?

"He can't love me--really," she told herself fretfully, when conscience spoke more loudly than usual, reproaching her. "He has always known I am married--he would never be so silly as to fall in love with a married woman." Then she would shed bitter tears as she thought of the farce her marriage had been, and long with all her soul for someone to love her--not a boy, as young Atkins was, but a man to whom she could look up, a man who would see that the pathways ran as smoothly as possible for her tired feet.

Often the temptation came to her to write and ask Chris to come home. He had been away three weeks now, and she knew that Miss Chester was wondering about it all and worrying silently.

After all, she was his wife, and it was his duty to be with her! So Marie argued sometimes, knowing all the time that she would rather die than ask anything of him which he would only grant unwillingly.

The big box of heather had arrived from Feathers, and as Marie buried her face in it and closed her eyes she seemed to breathe the keen mountain air that had swept it on the Scotch moors and feel the soft, springy turf beneath her feet.

Oh, to be there with Chris!--to pa.s.s the long hours of the fading summer days with him and be happy!

She wrote a little note to Feathers and thanked him.

"It was kind of you to think of me. I have never been to Scotland, but the smell of the heather seemed to show it to me as plainly as if I could really see it all. You have never found any white heather, I suppose? If you do, please send me a little piece for luck."

She had no real belief in luck--it had long since pa.s.sed her by, she was sure--but a day or so later a tiny parcel arrived containing a little bunch of white heather, smelling strongly of cigarettes--for a cigarette box had been the only one Feathers could find in which to pack it.

He had got up with the dawn the day after her note reached him and searched the country for miles to find the thing for which she had asked him.

Marie slept with it under her pillow and carried it in her frock by day; a sort of shyness prevented her from showing it to Miss Chester, though once she asked her about it.

"Aunt Madge, are you superst.i.tious?"

Miss Chester looked up and smiled.

"I used to be years ago," she admitted. "I used to bow to every sweep I met and refuse to sit down thirteen at a table."

"Is that all?" Marie asked.

Miss Chester stifled a little sigh.

"Well, I once wore a piece of white heather round my neck night and day for two years," she said after a moment. "It was given to me by the man I should have married if he had lived. But the white heather brought me no luck, for he was drowned at sea when he was on his way home for our wedding."

Marie's face hardened a little.

"There is no such thing as luck." she said.

"I know a better word for it." Miss Chester answered gently. "I mean Fate. I think each one of us has his or her fate mapped out, and that it always happens for the best, though we may not think so."

There was a little silence.

"I wonder!" Marie said sadly.

But she still wore the white heather.

CHAPTER XII

"When two friends meet in adverse hour, 'Tis like a sunbeam through a shower, A watery ray an instant seen And darkly closing clouds between."

MARIE was alone at home one afternoon when young Atkins called.

It was Sunday, and Miss Chester had motored out into the country to see a friend who was sick.

Perhaps young Atkins knew this, for, at any rate there was a look of determination about him as he walked into the drawing-room, where Marie was pretending to read and trying to prevent herself from writing to Chris.

A moment ago she had been feeling desperately lonely, and longing for someone to come in, but a queer sort of fear came to her as she looked into young Atkins' eyes.

He was rather pale, and this afternoon the boyishness seemed to have been wiped out of his face by an older, graver look.

"Won't you have some tea?" she asked him. "I've had mine, but we will soon get some more for you."

No, he would not have tea. He sat down only to get up again immediately and walk restlessly about the room.

Marie watched him nervously.

"Shall we go for a walk?" she asked with sudden inspiration. "I have not been out all day. Do let us go for a walk."

He hardly seemed to hear. He had taken up a cigarette case belonging to Chris, and was opening and shutting it with nervous aimlessness.

Suddenly he asked abruptly:

"When is Chris coming home?"

Marie caught her breath sharply.

"I was never good at riddles," she said in a hard voice.

There was a moment's silence, then he flung the cigarette case down, and, turning, came over to where she stood and caught her in his arms--such strong young arms they were, which there was no resisting.

"I love you," he said desperately. "I think I've always loved you, and I can't bear it any longer. If Chris doesn't care for you, what did he want to marry you for? It was cheating some other poor devil out of Paradise ... Marie--I know you think I'm only a boy, but I'd die for you this minute if it would make you happy; I'd ...

oh, my darling, don't cry."

Marie had made no attempt to free herself from his clasp. She was standing in the circle of his arms, her head averted, and the big tears running slowly down her cheeks.