"Oh, Guardy, you will not die! I will work for you—yes, I will toil night and day, and work my fingers to the bone, if need be. I can work more than you would think."
"It would be useless, worse than useless. I should not live to make you work for me. Refuse, if you will, and go through life with the death of a fellow-creature on your soul."
"Oh! I wish I had never been born," said Gipsy, wringing her pale fingers in anguish.
"Consent! consent! Gipsy, for my sake! For the sake of the old man who loves you!"
She did not reply; she was pacing up and down the room like one half-crazed, with wild, excited eyes, and flushed cheeks.
"You do not speak. 'Silence gives consent,' as Solomon says," said the squire, the ruling habit still "strong in death."
"Let me think! You must give me time, Guardy! I will go to my room now, and to-morrow you shall have my answer."
"Go, then; I know it will be favorable. I dare not think otherwise. To-morrow morning I will know."
"Yes, to-morrow," said Gipsy, as she left the room and fled wildly up stairs.
"To-morrow," said the old sinner, looking after her. "And what will that answer be? 'Who can tell what a day may bring forth?' as Solomon says."