"I was."
"The storm was—very—beautiful," said she losing her voice in tears before the words were ended.
"I was not watching the storm," he replied.
Overcome by agitation and fright, her nerves thoroughly unstrung by the feelings of the few preceding days, she covered her face with her hands, and gave way to her tears. There was a silence, only broken by her heavy sobs. The thunder had ceased,—the hail was over, only the large fast drops of rain fell splashing among the stiff orange leaves.
"Margaret," he said, "tell me now. What have I done?"
"Nothing—nothing!" she faltered through her tears.
"Then it was for no fault of mine; the change was in yourself," said he suddenly. "You had seen—you had loved; and it has been your turn to suffer."
"I have suffered, Claude," said Margaret withdrawing her hands from her face.
Her voice, her aspect, so inimitably tender and mournful, struck him to the heart.
She had gained courage and composure, and went on.