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 do 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.