“Is—­it—­time?” she said, with her hands locked tight together.

I said not a word, hoping that the unlooked-for sight of Owen would break down her resolution.  I just held out my hand to her, and led her downstairs.  She clung to me and her hands were as cold as snow.  When I opened the parlor door I stood back, and pushed her in before me.

She just cried, “Owen!” and shook so that I put my arms about her to steady her.

Owen made a step towards her, his face and eyes all aflame with his love and longing, but Mark barred his way.

“Wait till she has made her choice,” he said, and then he turned to Phillippa.  I couldn’t see my dearie’s face, but I could see Mark’s, and there wasn’t a spark of feeling in it.  Behind it was Isabella’s, all pinched and gray.

“Phillippa,” said Mark, “Owen Blair has come back.  He says he has never forgotten you, and that he wrote to you several times.  I have told him that you have promised me, but I leave you freedom of choice.  Which of us will you marry, Phillippa?”

My dearie stood straight up and the trembling left her.  She stepped back, and I could see her face, white as the dead, but calm and resolved.

“I have promised to marry you, Mark, and I will keep my word,” she said.

The color came back to Isabella Clark’s face; but Mark’s did not change.

“Phillippa,” said Owen, and the pain in his voice made my old heart ache bitterer than ever, “have you ceased to love me?”

My dearie would have been more than human, if she could have resisted the pleading in his tone.  She said no word, but just looked at him for a moment.  We all saw the look; her whole soul, full of love for Owen, showed out in it.  Then she turned and stood by Mark.

Owen never said a word.  He went as white as death, and started for the door.  But again Mark Foster put himself in the way.

“Wait,” he said.  “She has made her choice, as I knew she would; but I have yet to make mine.  And I choose to marry no woman whose love belongs to another living man.  Phillippa, I thought Owen Blair was dead, and I believed that, when you were my wife, I could win your love.  But I love you too well to make you miserable.  Go to the man you love—­you are free!”

“And what is to become of me?” wailed Isabella.

“Oh, you!—­I had forgotten about you,” said Mark, kind of weary-like.  He took a paper from his pocket, and dropped it in the grate.  “There is the mortgage.  That is all you care about, I think.  Good-morning.”

He went out.  He was only a common fellow, but, somehow, just then he looked every inch the gentleman.  I would have gone after him and said something but—­the look on his face—­no, it was no time for my foolish old words!

Phillippa was crying, with her head on Owen’s shoulder.  Isabella Clark waited to see the mortgage burned up, and then she came to me in the hall, all smooth and smiling again.