question which all the years past and to come had left for this
day to decide.

Some such idle fancy it may have been that made the man turn from
the usual way down a narrow passage into which opened doors from
small offices. Margret Howth, he had learned to-day, was in the
first one. He hesitated before he did it, his sallow face
turning a trifle paler; then he went on in his hard, grave way,
wondering dimly if she remembered his step, if she cared to see
him now. She used to know it,--she was the only one in the world
who ever had cared to know it,--silly child! Doubtless she was
wiser now. He remembered he used to think, that, when this woman
loved, it would be as he himself would, with a simple trust which
the wrong of years could not touch. And once he had thought----
Well, well, he was mistaken. Poor Margret! Better as it was.
They were nothing to each other. She had put him from her, and
he had suffered himself to be put away. Why, he would have given
up every prospect of life, if he had done otherwise! Yet he
wondered bitterly if she had thought him selfish,--if she thought
it was money he cared for, as the others did. It mattered
nothing what they thought, but it wounded him intolerably that
she should wrong him. Yet, with all this, whenever he looked
forward to death, it was with the certainty that he should find
her there beyond. There would be no secrets then; she would know
then how he had loved her always. Loved her? Yes; he need not
hide it from himself, surely.

He was now by the door of the office;-- she was within. Little
Margret, poor little Margret! struggling there day after day for
the old father and mother. What a pale, cold little child she