"Ah! that's it," he said eagerly, catching at a straw; "you are weak and low; you must eat strengthening things."
(Soft-minded fellow! as if, in her languid condition, she was not stronger than the strongest man!)
"Strengthening things!" she echoed, in a tone of soft reproach.
"And you must drink bottled stout. A bottle every day," he said uneasily.
"Bottled stout!" she echoed, in the saddest of tones, which, although she did not say so in as many words, conveyed a distinct denial that bottled stout was a cure for a breaking heart.
On another day it was--"I had a dreadful dream the night before last, Philip."
"There! there! frightening yourself with fancies."
"They are killing me, Philip. I dreamt about you and the shaft. You were working at the bottom. I don't know where I was standing, but dreams are such curious things you know, Philip. I was standing there, and saw you below, and I saw the men at the top, also, working. I saw right down the shaft, Philip, and all at once there was a great crying and screaming, and the men flew wildly about. The shaft had fallen in, and you were buried beneath tons and tons of earth. I could see you even then, holding out your hands to me, and crying to me to help you!"
Margaret's eyes were full of tears, and she shivered and cowered. And I declare I do not know how much of this was acting and how much was genuine.
What could a man do under this sort of persecution? What can he do but yield?