"It's a curious story, isn't it?" Margaret said to Winthrop, when she repeated to him some of these confidences. "She wished me to tell you, she asked me to do so; she said she should like to have you understand her life."
"Does she expect me to admire it?" said Winthrop, rather surprised himself to feel how quickly the old heat could rise in his throat again when confronted with a tale like this. For the southern women, who had everywhere suffered so much, given so much, and lost their all, he had nothing but the tenderest pity. But a northern woman who had joined their cause—that seemed to him apostasy. That the apostasy had been but pretence only made it worse.
"She expects you to remember her motive for it, after she is gone," Margaret answered.
"Her motive can't make me like it. Even in the midst of her mistakes, however, she has been a wonderful little creature. But you say 'after she is gone'—do you think her worse, then? I thought she was so much better."
"So she is better. But she will fail again; at least that is what she thinks herself, and I cannot help fearing she is right."
"I am very sorry to hear it." He seemed to have the idea that she would say more; and he waited. But she did not speak.
"I suppose, then, you have had some further talk about Garda?" he said at last, breaking the pause.
"Yes."
"You would rather not tell me?"
"I will tell you later."