"You do not love me?" he said, flinging her off, his face whitening.

She said nothing, gathered her damp shawl around her, and turned to go.
Just a moment they stood, looking at each other. If the dark square
figure standing there had been an iron fate trampling her young life
down into hopeless wretchedness, she forgot it now. Women like Margret
are apt to forget. His eye never abated in its fierce question.

"I will wait for you yonder, if I die first," she whispered.

He came closer, waiting for an answer.

"And--I love you, Stephen."

He gathered her in his arms, and put his cold lips to hers, without a
word; then turned, and left her slowly.

She made no sign, shed no tear, as she stood, watching him go. It was
all over: she had willed it, herself, and yet--he could not go! God
would not suffer it! Oh, he could not leave her,--he could not!--He
went down the hill, slowly. If it were a trial of life and death for
her, did he know or care?--He did not look back. What if he did not?
his heart was true; he suffered in going; even now he walked wearily.
God forgive her, if she had wronged him!--What did it matter, if he
were hard in this life, and it hurt her a little? It would come
right,--beyond, some time. But life was long.--She would not sit down,
sick as she was: he might turn, and it would vex him to see her
suffer.--He walked slowly; once he stopped to pick up something. She
saw the deep-cut face and half-shut eyes. How often those eyes had
looked into her soul, and it had answered! They never would look so
any more.--There was a tree by the place where the road turned into
town. If he came back, he would be sure to turn there.--How tired he
walked, and slow!--If he was sick, that beautiful woman could be near
him,--help him.--SHE never would touch his hand again,--never again,
never,--unless he came back now.--He was near the tree: she closed her
eyes, turning away. When she looked again, only the bare road lay
there, yellow and wet. It was over, now.

How long she sat there she did not know. She tried once or twice to go
to the house, but the lights seemed so far off that she gave it up and
sat quiet, unconscious, except of the damp stone-wall her head leaned
on, and the stretch of muddy road. Some time, she knew not when, there
was a heavy step beside her, and a rough hand shook hers where she
stooped, feebly tracing out the lines of mortar between the stones. It
was Knowles. She lo