"Come, darling, come—come—you ought not to have spoken to me; why have you said all this?" said Margaret, sadly and hurriedly.
"Now, Margaret darling, you are going to stay for a moment, and I will call him."
"No!" said the girl, passionately, "my mind's made up; not in haste, cousin Anne, but long ago. I've looked my last on him."
"Darling, listen: you know I've seen him, he's looking ill, I think; and I've told him that you must speak to him, Margaret; and I tell you you must," said Miss Sheckleton, blushing in her eagerness.
"No, cousin Anne, let there be an end of this between us; I thought it was over long ago. To him, I will never, never—while life remains—never speak more."
As she thus spoke, walking more hurriedly toward the house, she heard a voice beside her say,—
"Margaret! Margaret, darling—one word!"
And turning suddenly, she saw Cleve Verney before her. Under the thick folds of her chestnut hair, her features were pale as marble, and for a time it seemed to him he saw nothing but her wild, beautiful eyes fixed upon him.
Still as a statue, she stood confronting him. One little foot advanced, and her tiny hand closed, and pressed to her heart in the attitude in which an affrighted nun might hold her crucifix.
"Yes, Margaret," he said at last, "I was as near going—as you were near leaving me—unheard; but, thank God! that is not to be. No, Margaret darling, you could not. Wild as my words may sound in your ears, you will listen to them, for they shall be few; you will listen to them, for you are too good to condemn any one that ever loved you, unheard."