After a time she noticed that Madaline never spoke voluntarily of her husband.

She would answer any questions put to her--she would tell her mother anything she desired to know; but of her own accord she never once named him.

That did not look like happiness.
She even once, in answer to her mother's questions, described Beechgrove to her--told her of the famous beeches, the grand picture gallery; she told her of the gorgeous Titian--the woman with rubies like blood shining on her white neck.

But she did not add that she had been at Beechgrove only once, and had left the place in sorrow and shame.
She seemed to have every comfort, every luxury; but Margaret noticed also that she never spoke of her circle of society--that she never alluded to visitors.
"It seems to me, my darling, that you lead a very quiet life," she said, one day; and Madaline's only answer was that such was really the case.
Another time Margaret said to her: "You do not write many letters to your husband, Madaline.

I could imagine a young wife like you writing every day," and her daughter made no reply.
On another occasion Mrs.Dornham put the question to her: "You are quite sure, Madaline, that you love your husband ?" "Love him!" echoed the girl, her face lighting up--"love him, mother?
I think no one in the wide world has ever loved another better!" "Such being the case, my darling," said Margaret, anxiously, "let me ask you if you are quite sure he loves you ?" No shadow came into the blue eyes as she raised them to her mother's face.
"I am as sure of it," she replied, "as I am of my own existence." "Then," thought Margaret to herself, "I am mistaken; all is well between them." Madaline did not intend to remain very long with her mother, but it was soothing to the wounded, aching heart to be loved so dearly.