"Nay," said the Marchioness, with gentle insistence, "stay where you are.

Your soul is bruised.

You must rest." "Alas," cried Winnifred, "who am I that I should rest?
Alone, despised, buffeted by fate, what right have I to your kindness ?" "Miss Clair," replied the noble lady, "wait till you are stronger.

There is something that I wish to say to you." Then at last, one morning when Winnifred's temperature had fallen to ninety-eight point three, the Marchioness spoke.
"Miss Clair," she said, in a voice which throbbed with emotion, "Winnifred, if I may so call you, Lord Muddlenut and I have formed a plan for your future.

It is our dearest wish that you should marry our son." "Alas," cried Winnifred, while tears rose in her eyes, "it cannot be!" "Say not so," cried the Marchioness.