“Margaret,” said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, “Margaret.”
She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, fearing evil tidings.
He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner, alarmed her. “Why, Simon,” she cried, “what is it? What has come over thee?”
“Nought,” he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; “but I love thee, Margaret.”
“Simon, what dost thou mean?” faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going down like lead.
“Nought, sweetheart—but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is coming home!”
Her heart seemed to stop beating.
“Margaret,” said he, huskily, “I do love thee, lass. Is it too late to tell thee so?”
“Nay, Simon,” answered his wife, simply, “’tis never too late to mend.” And with that she laughed—but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran down her cheek.
FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of men singing together, and this was the quaint old song they sang: