‘Very well, I will come,’ said Margaret, quietly.  But she lingered strangely.  Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows, with his back to the door, apparently absorbed in watching something in the street.  But, in truth, he was afraid of himself.  His heart beat thick at the thought of her coming.  He could not forget the touch of her arms around his neck, impatiently felt as it had been at the time; but now the recollection of her clinging defence of him, seemed to thrill him through and through,—­to melt away every resolution, all power of self-control, as if it were wax before a fire.  He dreaded lest he should go forwards to meet her, with his arms held out in mute entreaty that she would come and nestle there, as she had done, all unheeded, the day before, but never unheeded again.  His heart throbbed loud and quick Strong man as he was, he trembled at the anticipation of what he had to say, and how it might be received.  She might droop, and flush, and flutter to his arms, as to her natural home and resting-place.  One moment, he glowed with impatience at the thought that she might do this, the next, he feared a passionate rejection, the very idea of which withered up his future with so deadly a blight that he refused to think of it.  He was startled by the sense of the presence of some one else in the room.  He turned round.  She had come in so gently, that he had never heard her; the street noises had been more distinct to his inattentive ear than her slow movements, in her soft muslin gown.

She stood by the table, not offering to sit down.  Her eyelids were dropped half over her eyes; her teeth were shut, not compressed; her lips were just parted over them, allowing the white line to be seen between their curve.  Her slow deep breathings dilated her thin and beautiful nostrils; it was the only motion visible on her countenance.  The fine-grained skin, the oval cheek, the rich outline of her mouth, its corners deep set in dimples,—­were all wan and pale to-day; the loss of their usual natural healthy colour being made more evident by the heavy shadow of the dark hair, brought down upon the temples, to hide all sign of the blow she had received.  Her head, for all its drooping eyes, was thrown a little back, in the old proud attitude.  Her long arms hung motion-less by her sides.  Altogether she looked like some prisoner, falsely accused of a crime that she loathed and despised, and from which she was too indignant to justify herself

Mr. Thornton made a hasty step or two forwards; recovered himself, and went with quiet firmness to the door (which she had left open), and shut it.  Then he came back, and stood opposite to her for a moment, receiving the general impression of her beautiful presence, before he dared to disturb it, perhaps to repel it, by what he had to say.

‘Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday—­’