She broke down. Life had nothing now for her but shame and sorrow. Alas, the world has no pity for its children.
Hard indeed must have been his heart, had it not relented then. He went and placed his hand upon her head, saying,
“I would marry you, Margaret, if I had money enough,” and just that moment he meant it.
She looked up through her tears to him, and seeing the expression which accompanied his words, mistook it for real sorrow at parting from her, and answered in a hopeful, bright voice,—
“I can work ever so hard, and we might be married privately if you chose, as no one knows us, and go away. You don't know how hard I can work, Clarence.”
“And then, sometime we might become rich,” she continued, without looking at his face, “and I would study, too, and improve myself. Then we could return to your parents and be forgiven. They surely could not blame us for loving each other. You will not forsake me, will you, Clarence?”
He bowed his head. She thought he wept, and she continued her words of cheer till he could bear it no longer.
She laid her bursting head upon his bosom saying, “I will go away from here to-day, Clarence, and be no burden to you, till you can support us both.”
He nerved himself for the desperate emergency, and shook her off as though she was poison, saying, in cold, measured words, not to be this time misunderstood,—
“No, it cannot be; don't deceive yourself; you can never be my wife,” and then he left her.