The girl rose and looked at her lover with a grave and quiet earnestness of expression; but her face was quite as colourless as it had been upon the previous night, and her lips trembled a little as she spoke to Clement.
"I have had sufficient rest," she said, in a low, tremulous voice; "I got up early because—because—I am going away."
Her two hands had been hanging loosely amongst the fringes of her shawl; she lifted them now, and linked her fingers together with a convulsive motion; but she never withdrew her eyes from Clement's face, and her glance never faltered as she looked at him.
"Going away, Margaret?" the cashier cried; "going away—to-day—this morning?"
"Yes, by the half-past nine o'clock train."
"Margaret, you must be mad to talk of such a thing."
"No," the girl answered, slowly; "that is the strangest thing of all—I am not mad. I am going away, Clement—Mr. Austin. I wished to avoid seeing you. I meant to have written to you to tell you——"
"To tell me what, Margaret?" asked Clement. "Is it I who am going mad; or am I dreaming all this?"
"It is no dream, Mr. Austin. My letter would have only told you the truth. I am going away from here because I can never be your wife."
"You can never be my wife! Why not, Margaret?"