Madaline's eyes ached with the dazzle of silver
plate, the ornaments and magnificence of the room.
"Shall I ever grow accustomed to all this?" she asked herself. "Shall I
ever learn to look upon it as my own? I am indeed bewildered."
Yet her husband admired her perfect grace and self-possession. She might
have been mistress of Beechgrove all her life for any evidence she gave
to the contrary. His pride in her increased every moment; there was no
one like her.
"I have never really known what 'home' meant before, Madaline," he said.
"Imagine sitting opposite to a beautiful vision, knowing all the time
that it is your wife. My own wife--there is magic in the words."
And she, in her sweet humility, wondered why Heaven had so richly
blessed her, and what she had done that the great, passionate love of
this noble man should be hers. When dinner was ended he asked her if she
was tired.
"No," she answered, laughingly; "I have never felt less fatigued."
"Then I should like to show you over the house," he said--"my dear old
home. I am so proud of it, Madaline; you understand what I mean--proud
of its beauty; its antiquity--proud that no shadow of disgrace has ever
rested on it.
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