"Is—it—time?" she said, with her hands locked tight together.
I said not a word, hoping that the unlooked-for sight of Owen would break down her resolution. I just held out my hand to her, and led her downstairs. She clung to me and her hands were as cold as snow. When I opened the parlor door I stood back, and pushed her in before me.
She just cried, "Owen!" and shook so that I put my arms about her to steady her.
Owen made a step towards her, his face and eyes all aflame with his love and longing, but Mark barred his way.
"Wait till she has made her choice," he said, and then he turned to Phillippa. I couldn't see my dearie's face, but I could see Mark's, and there wasn't a spark of feeling in it. Behind it was Isabella's, all pinched and gray.
"Phillippa," said Mark, "Owen Blair has come back. He says he has never forgotten you, and that he wrote to you several times. I have told him that you have promised me, but I leave you freedom of choice. Which of us will you marry, Phillippa?"
My dearie stood straight up and the trembling left her. She stepped back, and I could see her face, white as the dead, but calm and resolved.
"I have promised to marry you, Mark, and I will keep my word," she said.
The color came back to Isabella Clark's face; but Mark's did not change.
"Phillippa," said Owen, and the pain in his voice made my old heart ache bitterer than ever, "have you ceased to love me?"