“Then don’t go.”
“But I am afraid of him.”
“Defy him in God’s name.”
“But besides the fear, there is something that I can’t describe, that always keeps telling me—no, not telling me, pushing me—no, drawing me, as if I could not rest a moment till I go. I cannot describe it. I hate to go, and yet I feel that if I were cold in my grave, I must rise and go if he called me. I wish I could tell you what it is like. It is as if some demon were shaking my soul till I yielded and went. Oh! don’t despise me. I can’t help it.”
“My darling, I don’t, I can’t despise you. You shall not go to him.”
“But I must,” answered she, with a despairing faintness more convincing than any vehemence; and then began to weep with a slow, hopeless weeping, like the rain of a November eve.
Margaret got out of bed. Euphra thought she was offended. Starting up, she clasped her hands, and said:
“Oh Margaret! I won’t cry. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”
She entreated like a chidden child.
“No, no, I didn’t mean to leave you for a moment. Lie down again, dear, and cry as much as you like. I am going to read a little bit out of the New Testament to you.”