James looked at her anxiously. She had a wearied, exhausted expression in her face, and her cheeks were deeply flushed.
"You are very tired, Margaret?"
"Yes, I am. I am easily tired now, and I have been writing for hours."
They went out together, and walked along the terrace into the flower-garden, which looked dreary in its desolate wintry condition. At first they talked vaguely of trifles, but after a while they fell into deep and earnest conversation, and Margaret leaned closely on James's arm as they walked, now quickly, now slowly, and sometimes she held him standing still, as she impressed upon him something that she was saying with emphasis.
The walk and the conference lasted long, and when at length the warning chill of sunset came, and James reminded Margaret of the danger of cold and fatigue, and she yielded to his counsel, and turned towards the house, traces of deep emotion were visible upon the faces of both.
"I will not speak thus to you again," said Margaret, as they reached the portico; "but I have implicit faith in your remembrance of what I have said, and in your promise."
"You may trust both," James answered her in an earnest but broken voice; "I will remember, and I will send for Rose Moore."
"I am delighted you have made up your mind not to return to Italy," said Mr. Carteret a day or two later. "So much travelling would be very unfit for you, and your son and heir ought certainly to be born at the Deane."