“Is that all?” he demanded, fiercely.

“No, not all.  It pleases me to feel I have a warm home, and to help keep it cheerful.  When my father kisses me at night, or my mother says, ’God bless you, child,’ I know that is enough, that I ought to be happy.”

The old clock in the corner hummed and ticked through the deep silence like the humble voice of the home she toiled to keep warm, thanking her, comforting her.

“Once more,” as the light grew stronger on her face,—­“will you look down into your heart that you have given to this great work, and tell me what you see there?  Dare you do it, Margaret?”

“I dare do it,”—­but her whisper was husky.

“Go on.”

He watched her more as a judge would a criminal, as she sat before him:  she struggled weakly under the power of his eye, not meeting it.  He waited relentless, seeing her face slowly whiten, her limbs shiver, her bosom heave.

“Let me speak for you,” he said at last.  “I know who once filled your heart to the exclusion of all others:  it is no time for mock shame.  I know it was my hand that held the very secret of your being.  Whatever I may have been, you loved me, Margaret.  Will you say that now?”

“I loved you,—­once.”

Whether it were truth that nerved her, or self-delusion, she was strong now to utter it all.

“You love me no longer, then?”

“I love you no longer.”

She did not look at him; she was conscious only of the hot fire wearing her eyes, and the vexing click of the clock.  After a while he bent over her silently,—­a manly, tender presence.

“When love goes once,” he said, “it never returns.  Did you say it was gone, Margaret?”

One effort more, and Duty would be satisfied.

“It is gone.”

In the slow darkness that came to her she covered her face, knowing and hearing nothing.  When she looked up, Holmes was standing by the window, with his face toward the gray fields.  It was a long time before he turned and came to her.

“You have spoken honestly:  it is an old fashion of yours.  You believed what you said.  Let me also tell you what you call God’s truth, for a moment, Margaret.  It will not do you harm.”—­He spoke gravely, solemnly.—­“When you loved me long ago, selfish, erring as I was, you fulfilled the law of your nature; when you put that love out of your heart, you make your duty a tawdry sham, and your life a lie.  Listen to me.  I am calm.”

Was he calm?  It was calmness that made her tremble as she had not done before.

“You have deceived yourself:  when you try to fill your heart with this work, you serve neither your God nor your fellow-man.  You tell me,” stooping close to her, “that I am nothing to you:  you believe it, poor child!  There is not a line on your face that does not prove it false.  I have keen eyes, Margaret !”—­He laughed,—­a savage, despairing laugh.—­“You