o not love me?" he said, flinging off her hand.

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 Margaret 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 stones 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
looked up, bewildered.

"Hunting catarrhs, eh?" h