ering sob. He dared not trust himself 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 love you now,--as you might be, not as you
are,--not with those cold, inhuman eyes. I do understand you,--I do. I
know you for a better man than you know yourself this night."

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,
Margaret."

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, Margaret."

She did not answer; her hands worked feebly together.

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

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

She came to him, 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-bye, 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, looking down into
her eyes. She moved uneasily; she dared not trust her resolution.

"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."

"You d