ared to know
it,--silly child! Doubtless she was wiser now. He remembered he used
to think, that, when this woman loved, it would be as he himself would,
with a simple trust which the wrong of years could not touch. And once
he had thought---- Well, well, he was mistaken. Poor Margret! Better
as it was. They were nothing to each other. She had put him from her,
and he had suffered himself to be put away. Why, he would have given
up every prospect of life, if he had done otherwise! Yet he wondered
bitterly if she had thought him selfish,--if she thought it was money
he cared for, as the others did. It mattered nothing what they
thought, but it wounded him intolerably that she should wrong him.
Yet, with all this, whenever he looked forward to death, it was with
the certainty that he should find her there beyond. There would be no
secrets then; she would know then how he had loved her always. Loved
her? Yes; he need not hide it from himself, surely.

He was now by the door of the office;--she was within. Little Margret,
poor little Margret! struggling there day after day for the old father
and mother. What a pale, cold little child she used to be! such a
child! yet kindling at his look or touch, as if her veins were filled
with subtile flame. Her soul was--like his own, he thought. He knew
what it was,--he only. Even now he glowed with a man's triumph to know
he held the secret life of this woman bare in his hand. No other human
power could ever come near her; he was secure in possession. She had
put him from her;--it was better for both, perhaps. Their paths were
separate here; for she had some unreal notions of duty, and he had too
much to do in the world to clog himself with cares, or to idle an hour
in the rare ecstasy of even love like this.

He passed the office, not pausing in his slow step. Some sudden
impulse made him put his hand on the door as he brushed against it:
just a quick, light touch; but it had all the fierce passion of a
caress. He drew it back as quickly, and went on, wiping a clammy sweat
from his face.

The room he had fitted up for himself was whitewashed and barely
furnished; it made one's bones ache to look at the iron bedstead and
chairs. Holmes's natural taste was more glowing, however smothered,
than that of any saffron-robed Sybarite. It needed correction, he
knew; here was discipline. Besides, he had set apart the coming three
or four years of his life to make mone