Margaret choked back a sob. “Come away,” she said, with her hand upon his arm, “come away until to-morrow.”
“Until to-morrow,” he repeated, softly. He closed the door quietly, as though he feared the sound might break her sleep.
Iris was resting, and Margaret tiptoed down into the parlour, where the Doctor sat with his grey head bowed upon his hands. “She knows it now,” he said again, “and she forgives me. I can feel it in my heart.”
“If she had known it before,” said Margaret, “things would have been different,” but she knew that what she said was untrue.
“No,” he returned, shaking his head, “the line was there. You would not know what it is like unless there had been a line between you and the one you loved.”
“There was,” she answered, hoarsely, then her eyes met his.
“You, too?” he asked, unbelieving, but she could not speak. She only bowed her head in assent. Then his hand grasped hers in full understanding. The false line divided them, also, but in one thing, at least, they were kindred.
“I wish,” said the Doctor, after a little, “that we could hide her away before to-morrow. The people she has held herself apart from all her life will come and look at her now that she is helpless.”
“That is the irony of it,” returned Margaret. “I have even prayed to outlive those I hated, so that they could not come and look at me when I was dead.”