her young life down into hopeless wretchedness, she forgot it
now. Women like Margret 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