ll tell you what," said he; "I have
got a cousin a lawyer. I'll go and ask him whether you are married or
single."

"Nay, I shall ask my own heart, not a lawyer. So that is your regard for
me; to go making me the town talk, oh, fie!"

"That is done already without a word from me."

"But not by such as seek my respect. And if you do it, never come nigh
me again."

"Ay," said Luke, with a sigh, "you are like a dove to all the rest; but
you are a hardhearted tyrant to me."

"'Tis your own fault, dear Luke, for wooing me. That is what lets me
from being as kind to you as I desire, Luke, my bonny lad, listen to
me. I am rich now; I can make my friends happy, though not myself. Look
round the street, look round the parish. There is many a quean in it
fairer than I twice told, and not spoiled with weeping. Look high; and
take your choice. Speak you to the lass herself, and I'll speak to the
mother; they shall not say thee nay; take my word for't."

"I see what ye mean," said Luke, turning very red. "But if I can't have
your liking, I will none o' your money. I was your servant when you were
poor as I; and poorer. No; if you would liever be a friar's leman than
an honest man's wife, you are not the woman I took you for: so part we
withouten malice: seek you your comfort on yon road, where never a she
did find it yet, and for me, I'll live and die a bachelor. Good even,
mistress."

"Farewell, dear Luke; and God forgive you for saying that to me."

For some days Margaret dreaded, almost as much as she desired, the
coming interview with Gerard. She said to herself, "I wonder not he
keeps away a while; for so should I." However, he would hear he was
a father; and the desire to see their boy would overcome everything.
"And," said the poor girl to herself, "if so be that meeting does not
kill me, I feel I shall be better after it than I am now."

But when day after day went by, and he was not heard of, a freezing
suspicion began to crawl and creep towards her mind. What if his absence
was intentional? What if he had gone to some cold-blooded monks his
fellows, and they had told him never to see her more? The convent had
ere this shown itself as merciless to true lovers as the grave itself.

At this thought the very life seemed to die out of her.

And now for the first time deep indignation mingled at times with her
grief and apprehension. "Can he have ever loved me? To run from me and
his boy without a word! Why, this po