which I had no solution.

There were but two persons in Haddon Hall to whom I cared to say farewell.
They were Lady Madge and Will Dawson. The latter was a Scot, and was
attached to the cause of Queen Mary. He and I had become friends, and on
several occasions we had talked confidentially over Mary's sad plight.

When my bundle was packed, I sought Madge and found her in the gallery
near the foot of the great staircase. She knew my step and rose to greet
me with a bright smile.

"I have come to say good-by to you, Cousin Madge," said I. The smile
vanished from her face.

"You are not going to leave Haddon Hall?" she asked.

"Yes, and forever," I responded. "Sir George has ordered me to go."

"No, no," she exclaimed. "I cannot believe it. I supposed that you and my
uncle were friends. What has happened? Tell me if you can--if you wish.
Let me touch your hand," and as she held out her hands, I gladly grasped
them.

I have never seen anything more beautiful than Madge Stanley's hands. They
were not small, but their shape, from the fair, round forearm and wrist to
the ends of the fingers was worthy of a sculptor's dream. Beyond their
physical beauty there was an expression in them which would have belonged
to her eyes had she possessed the sense of sight. The flood of her vital
energy had for so many years been directed toward her hands as a
substitute for her lost eyesight that their sensitiveness showed itself