CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Margaret Dornham knew no peace until she had carried out her intention.
It was but right, she said to herself, that Lord Arleigh should know that his fair young wife was dying.
"What right had he to marry her ?" she asked herself indignantly, "if he meant to break her heart ?" What could he have left her for?
It could not have been because of her poverty or her father's crime--he knew of both beforehand.

What was it?
In vain did she recall all that Madaline had ever said about her husband--she could see no light in the darkness, find no solution to the mystery; therefore the only course open to her was to go to Lord Arleigh, and to tell him that his wife was dying.
"There may possibly have been some slight misunderstanding between them which one little interview might remove," she thought.
One day she invented some excuse for her absence from Winiston House, and started on her expedition, strong with the love that makes the weakest heart brave.

She drove the greater part of the distance, and then dismissed the carriage, resolving to walk the remainder of the way--she did not wish the servants to know whither she was going.

It was a delightful morning, warm, brilliant, sunny.

The hedge-rows were full of wild roses, there was a faint odor of newly-mown hay, the westerly wind was soft and sweet.
As Margaret Dornham walked through the woods, she fell deeply into thought.