“O God, I am so young, so young!
I am not used to tears at night
Instead of slumber, nor to pray’r
With sobbing lips and hands outwrung;”
and, uttering a bitter cry, Margery buried her face in her hands till the paroxysm was passed.
Fatigue and sorrow had told upon her, and she rose from her knees looking, with her white, tear-stained face, the ghost of the lovely girl of a week before. Her tears had relieved her, the dull pain at her heart was gone; but the passion of her grief had weakened her, and for many minutes she lay back in a chair, the faint breeze stirring the curls on her forehead.
Presently the sound of footsteps aroused her, and, looking up, she saw Reuben Morris enter the garden, accompanied by a young man, who, despite his handsome face, was certainly of a plebeian stamp. The two men were talking earnestly; and Margery noticed with a pang the stoop in the sturdy shoulders, the worn face of the bereaved man. She had always loved him, though the link that bound her to the dead woman was wanting in her affection for him; and she forgot her own sorrow for the moment in thinking of his.
She was leaning back in the shadow, and neither perceived her; but her ears caught her own name; and, too weary to move, she remained in her seat.
“Then you have not spoken to Margery yet?” she heard the young man question.
“No; but I shall do it afore nighttime. I cannot bear to think of quitting her, poor lamb! But there’s many here as’ll be good to her, and I cannot stay in the place; it would kill me.”