"Love me, Margaret! Try to love me! There are so few to love me now!"
It was as if the cry of Elinor's full heart broke down the barriers that had somehow raised themselves between her and Margaret Brent. A single word had laid them low, never to rise again.
"I do love thee; I do," whispered Margaret, folding her arms close about Elinor. "Poor child! Life hath been a hard school for thee."
"And I an unruly scholar," murmured Elinor, smiling through her tears.
"Perchance; most of us are. But now shalt thou give proof of thy new-found spirit of obedience by obeying me, and getting this weary body of thine into bed. Hark! the watchman is crying ten of the clock."
With a certain joy in being bidden like a little child, Elinor rose and moved to her chamber. It is, however, one thing to go to bed, and quite another to go to sleep. Strive as she would, she could not shake off the sombre shadow of Margaret's words.
At last, unable to rest quiet longer, she rose and went to Cecil's little bed. There he lay, flushed and rosy in sleep, with the coverlid thrust aside and revealing the firm curves of a sturdy leg.
"Thank God for him!" murmured his mother, and taking down a vial of holy water she sprinkled a few drops on the golden curls. Then from the shelf beneath the crucifix she took down a little brown book with worn cover and dog's-eared corners. Opening at random her eyes fell on these words:—
"Love is a great thing, yea, a great and thorough good: by itself it makes everything that is heavy light, and it bears evenly all that is uneven. For it carries a burden which is no burden and makes everything which is bitter sweet and savory."