to care also? He had the right, yes; but
he had been wanting in tact. He should have waited till they were
ashore. Poor fellow! he looked so white, and his hands were so cold. Was
he there still, looking out at the ship's wake? Margaret, are you quite
sure you never thought of him save as a friendly professor who taught
you philosophy? And there was a little something that would not be
silenced, and that would say--Yes, you are playing tricks with your
feelings, you care for him, you almost love him. And for a moment there
was a fierce struggle in the brave heart of that strong woman as she
shook out her black hair and turned pale to the lips. She rose again,
and went and got the book she had hidden, and laid it just where it had
lain before. Then she knew, and she bowed her head till her white
forehead touched the table before her, and her hands were wet as they
pressed her eyelids.

"I am very weak," she said aloud, and proceeded with her toilet.

"But you will be kind to him, Margaret," said the little voice in her
heart, as she laid her head on the pillow.

"But it is my duty to be cold. I do not love him," she argued, as the
watch struck eight bells.

Poor Saint Duty! what a mess you make of human kindness!

Claudius was still on deck, and a wretched man he was, as his chilled
hands clung to the side. He knew well enough that she was angry, though
she had reproached herself with not having made it clear to him. He said
to himself he ought not to have spoken, and then he laughed bitterly,
for he knew that all his strength could not have kept back the words,
because they were true, and because the truth must be spoken sooner or
later. He was hopeless now for a time, but he did not deceive himself.

"I am not weak. I am strong. And if my love is stronger than I what does
that prove? I am glad it is, and I would not have it otherwise. It is
done now and can never be undone. I am sorry I spoke to-night. I would
have waited if I could. But I could not, and I should despise myself if
I could. Love that is not strong enough to make a man move in spite of
himself is not worth calling love. I wonder if I flattered myself she
loved me? No, I am quite sure I did not. I never thought anything about
it. It is enough for me that I love her, and live, and have told her so;
and I can bear all the misery now, for she knows. I suppose it will
begin at once. She will not speak to me. No, not that, but she will not
expect me to s