“That is well. Now, Margaret, could you swear to this visitor of ours?”
“No,” said Margaret, softly, looking round, as if to convince herself that he was not there still. “No: his bonnet was so large, and he kept the shadow of it so carefully upon his face, that I should not know him again—at least, not in any other dress; and we shall never see him again in this. It is very disagreeable,” she continued, shuddering slightly, “to think that we may pass him any day or every day, and that he may say to himself as we go by, ‘There go the ladies that sat with their feet on the fender so comfortably when I went in, without leave!’”
“Poor wretch! he will rather say, ‘There goes the young lady that I made so unhappy about her ring. I wish I had choked with the wine I drank, before I took that ring!’ The first man you meet that cannot look you in the face is the thief, depend upon it, Margaret.”
“I must not depend upon that. But, Maria, could you swear to him?”
“I am not quite sure at this moment, but I believe I could. The light from the fire shone brightly upon his black chin, and a bit of lank hair that came from under his mob cap. I could swear to the shawl.”
“So could I: but that will be burned to-morrow morning. Now, Maria, do go to bed.”
“Well, if you had rather—. Cannot we be together? Must I be treated as a guest, and have a room to myself?”
“Not if you think we can make room in mine. We shall be most comfortable there, shall not we—near to Morris and Hester?”
Rather than separate, they both betook themselves to the bed in Margaret’s room. Maria lay still, as if asleep, but wide awake and listening. Margaret mourned her turquoise with silent tears all the rest of the night.