d he must be quick,--he could not bear this long. But he held the
little worn fingers, stroking them with an unutterable tenderness.

"You must let these fingers work for me, Margret," he said, at last,
"when I am master in the mill."

"It is true, then, Stephen?"

"It is true,--yes."

She lifted her hand to her head, uncertainly: he held it tightly, and
then let it go. What right had he to touch the dust upon her
shoes,--he, bought and sold? She did not speak for a time; when she
did, it was a weak and sick voice.

"I am glad. I saw her, you know. She is very beautiful."

The fingers were plucking at each other again; and a strange, vacant
smile on her face, trying to look glad.

"You love her, Stephen?"

He was quiet and firm enough now.

"I do not. Her money will help me to become what I ought to be. She
does not care for love. You want me to succeed, Margret? No one ever
understood me as you did, child though you were."

Her whole face glowed.

"I know! I know! I did understand you!"

She said, lower, after a little while,--

"I knew you did not love her."

"There is no such thing as love in real life," he said, in his steeled
voice. "You will know that, when you grow older. I used to believe in
it once, myself."

She did not speak, only watched the slow motion of his lips, not
looking into his eyes,--as she used to do in the old time. Whatever
secret account lay between the souls of this man and woman came out
now, and stood bare on their faces.

"I used to think that I, too, loved," he went on, in his low, hard
tone. "But it kept me back, Margret, and"----

He was silent.

"I know, Stephen. It kept you back"----

"And I put it away. I put it away to-night, forever."

She did not speak; stood quite quiet, her head bent on her breast. His
conscience was clear now. But he almost wished he had not said it, she
was such a weak, sickly thing. She sat down at last, burying her face
in her hands, with a shivering sob. He dared not trust him self to
speak again.

"I am not proud,--as a woman ought to be," she said, wearily, when he
wiped her clammy forehead.

"You loved me, then?" he whispered.

Her face flashed at the unmanly triumph; her puny frame started up,
away from him.

"I did love you, Stephen. I did love you,--as you might be, not as you
are,--not with those inhuman eyes. I do understand you,--I do. I know
you for a better man than you know yourself this nigh