t."

She turned to go. He put his hand on her arm; something we have never
seen on his face struggled up,--the better soul that she knew.

"Come back," he said, hoarsely; "don't leave me with myself. Come back,
Margret."

She did not come; stood leaning, her sudden strength gone, against the
broken wall. There was a heavy silence. The night throbbed slow about
them. Some late bird rose from the sedges of the pool, and with a
frightened cry flapped its tired wings, and drifted into the dark. His
eyes, through the gathering shadow, devoured the weak, trembling body,
met the soul that looked at him, strong as his own. Was it because it
knew and trusted him that all that was pure and strongest in his
crushed nature struggled madly to be free? He thrust it down; the
self-learned lesson of years was not to be conquered in a moment.

"There have been times," he said, in a smothered, restless voice, "when
I thought you belonged to me. Not here, but before this life. My soul
and body thirst and hunger for you, then, Margret."

She did not answer; her hands worked feebly together, the dull blood
fainting in her veins.

Knowing only that the night yawned intolerable about her, that she was
alone,--going mad with being alone. No thought of heaven or God in her
soul: her craving eyes seeing him only. The strong, living man that
she loved: her tired-out heart goading, aching to lie down on his
brawny breast for one minute, and die there,--that was all.

She did not move: underneath the pain there was power, as Knowles
thought.

He came nearer, and held up his arms to where she stood,--the heavy,
masterful face pale and wet.

"I need you, Margret. I shall be nothing without you, now. Come,
Margret, little Margret!"

She came to him, then, and put her hands in his.

"No, Stephen," she said.

If there were any pain in her tone, she kept it down, for his sake.

"Never, I could never help you,--as you are. It might have been, once.
Good-by, Stephen."

Her childish way put him in mind of the old days when this girl was
dearer to him than his own soul. She was so yet. He held her close to
his breast, looking down into her eyes. She moved uneasily; she dared
not trust herself.

"You will come?" he said. "It might have been,--it shall be again."

"It may be," she said, humbly. "God is good. And I believe in you,
Stephen. I will be yours some time: we cannot help it, if we would:
but not as you are."