"You need not be afraid," said Meg. "Nothing is in the least likely to happen to me. It is those whose lives are worth the most who run the risks; I shall probably live to a ripe old age."
The perplexed self-reproach that had weighed heavily on her all the way home prompted the speech. She hardly knew herself how sad it was, until she saw him wince, as if she had hurt him.
"Are ye so unhappy?" he said; "an' I'd give my soul for yours! My little lass, what shall I do? If there's aught i' this world 'll make ye happier, I'll do it somehow. I'd be glad if the fever took me, if that 'ud be easiest for ye; but it's easy saying I'd die for ye, when it's the living is the puzzle. Ay, I know I am scaring ye even now; I love ye a deal more nor ye want me to, but ye are a woman after all. Margaret, Margaret, have ye no heart for me?"
Meg covered her face with her hands; the appeal moved her, though not to love.
"Don't, don't!" she cried. "It's my fault that it's not in me to care—like that. I can't help it, Barnabas; but it's all wrong from the beginning to end; and it's my fault."
Barnabas drew himself up with a quick gesture.
"Shame on me!" he said. "I hadn't meant to ha' said that. Ye must forget it, lass. Ay, it's time I went. See now, I'm going. But doan't 'ee cry so; gi'e me one look; for I canna leave ye like this. I'm sore ashamed to ha' made ye cry."
Meg lifted her head and looked at him, ashamed too, though with a smile through her tears.
"It was something in your voice that made me so silly," she said. "But I am not going to be unhappy, and I wasn't crying for myself."
"Good-bye," said the preacher steadily. "But I want no pity, my lass. I'll not have ye waste tears for me. We've not come to the end yet."