Come, Margret, little Margret!"

She came to him, then, 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-by, 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 close to his breast, looking down into her eyes. She moved
uneasily; she dared not trust herself.

"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 her off, his face
whitening.

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