only justice to be kind to her.

"You have been ill, Margret, these two years, while I was gone?"

He could not hear her answer; only saw that she looked up with a
white, pitiful smile. Only a word it needed, he thought,--very
kind and firm: and he must be quick,--he could not bear this
long. But he held the little worn fingers, stroking them with an
unutterable tenderness.

"You must let these fingers work for me, Margret," he said, at
last, "when I am master in the mill."

"It is true, then, Stephen?"

"It is true,--yes."

She lifted her hand to her head, uncertainly: he held it tightly,
and then let it go. What right had he to touch the dust upon her
shoes,--he, bought and sold? She did not speak for a time; when
she did, it was a weak and sick voice.

"I am glad. I saw her, you know. She is very beautiful."

The fingers were plucking at each other again; and a strange,
vacant smile on her face, trying to look glad.

"You love her, Stephen?"

He was quiet and firm enough now.