"We may not be altogether beasts, and yet we may not be able to help it," Winthrop answered, getting up and walking across the room. Margaret's little work-table stood there, gay with ribbons and fringes; mechanically he fingered the spools and bright wools it held.
"At least we can control its manifestations," replied Middleton Moore, still with a deep severity of voice and eyes.
"You would like to have all sinners of that disposition (which doesn't happen to be yours) consumed immediately, wouldn't you? for fear of their influencing others," said Winthrop, leaving the work-table and walking about the room. "In the days of the burnings, now, when it was for strictly wicked persons of that tendency, I suspect you would have brought a few fagots yourself—wouldn't you?—even if you hadn't taken a turn at the bellows."
Mr. Moore turned and surveyed him in unfeigned astonishment.
"I beg your pardon," said the younger man, "I don't know what I'm saying. I'll go out for a while, and try the fresh air."
When he came back half an hour later, Margaret had returned.
"Ah! you have had a walk? The air is probably pleasant," said the clergyman, welcoming him kindly. He wished to show that he had forgotten the bellows. "I was on the point of saying to Mrs. Harold, as you came in, that in case she should be thinking of leaving this house, I will hope most warmly that she will find it consistent with her plans to return to us at Gracias."
"I should much rather stay here," responded Margaret. "I could have Dinah's son Abram to sleep in the house, if necessary."
"You could never stay here alone, you ought not to think of it," said Winthrop. "We know better than you do about that." He had seated himself at some distance from her. Mr. Moore still kept his place before the fire, and Margaret was beside him; she held a little fan-shaped screen in her hand to shade her face from the glow.
"I am sure Mr. Moore will say that it is safe," she answered.