“I cannot,” she breathed, in a low tone of returning despair.
“Reflect, girl. Ralph Houston, when he arrives, will surely hear these reports; for, in the country, nothing is forgotten. He may stand by you—I doubt not with his unfunded faith and chivalrous generosity that he will; but—will you, loving and honoring him, as I am sure you do, will you, with a blemished name, give your hand to him, a man of stainless honor?”
“No, no! oh, never, no!” came like a wail of woe from her lips, as her head sank down upon her bosom.
“Then, Margaret, give your friends the right to explain and clear your conduct.”
She was incapable of reply, and so remained silent.
“You will not?”
She mournfully shook her head.
“Good-by, Margaret; God give you a better spirit. I must leave you now,” said the old pastor. And he arose, laid his hand in silent prayer upon the stricken young head bent beneath him, then took up his broad-brimmed hat and quietly left the room.
As he came out, Mrs. Houston opened the front parlor door and invited him in there.
“Well, sir, what success?” she inquired, anxiously, as soon as they were both seated.