Margaret paused a moment on the threshold. She saw before her a man who, low and mean and ignoble as he was, had won her heart in the days of her youthful freshness, and now in spite of the resentment which she felt at his unworthy treatment, she could not look upon him without a pang,—without a longing to become to him once more what she had been.
“Jacob!” she uttered in an uncertain voice.
Jacob Wynne turned round with a guilty start as though he had been detected in some knavery, and half unconsciously drew his sleeve over the pile of gold, as if to screen it from observation. When he saw who it was that had so startled him, a frown gathered upon his face, and he said, impatiently,—
“You here, Margaret?”
“You seem glad to see me after my long absence!” she said. “By your leave I will take a seat, as I am somewhat tired.”
He looked uneasily at her, not feeling altogether certain of her purpose in calling, and muttered, half to himself, “I wish you had waited till next week.”
“Why should you wish that?” she asked, catching his words.
“Because I shall then be gone,” he said, coldly.
“Gone! Where?”
“Never mind! Why should you want to know?” he demanded, sulkily.