“In a word, sir, has misfortune happened to any of my friends?” inquired Margaret, with a pale cheek, but with a strange, calm voice.
“No; that were more easily told than what I have to tell,” said the minister, solemnly.
“Please go on then, sir, and let me know the worst at once.”
“Then, my dear Margaret, I have been informed that you, a betrothed wife, have an intimate male correspondent, who is neither your father nor your affianced husband, and whose name and character, and relations with yourself, you decline to divulge?”
Margaret grew ashen pale, clasped her hands, compressed her lips, and remained silent.
“What have you to say to this charge, Margaret?”
There was a pause, while Mr. Wellworth gazed upon the maiden’s steadfast, thoughtful face. She reasoned with herself; she struggled with herself. It occurred to her to say, “My correspondent is a gray-haired man, whom I have never set eyes upon.” But immediately, she reflected. “No, this may put suspicion upon the true scent; I must say nothing.”
“Well, Margaret, what have you to answer to this charge?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing?”