"Never, I could never help you,—as you are. It might have been, once. Good-by, Stephen."
Her childish way put him in mind of the old days when this girl was dearer to him than his own soul. She was so yet. He held her close to his breast, looking down into her eyes. She moved uneasily; she dared not trust herself.
"You will come?" he said. "It might have been,—it shall be again."
"It may be," she said, humbly. "God is good. And I believe in you, Stephen. I will be yours some time: we cannot help it, if we would: but not as you are."
"You do not love me?" he said, flinging her off, his face whitening.
She said nothing, gathered her damp shawl around her, and turned to go. Just a moment they stood, looking at each other. If the dark square figure standing there had been an iron fate trampling her young life down into hopeless wretchedness, she forgot it now. Women like Margret are apt to forget. His eye never abated in its fierce question.
"I will wait for you yonder, if I die first," she whispered.
He came closer, waiting for an answer.
"And—I love you, Stephen."
He gathered her in his arms, and put his cold lips to hers, without a word; then turned, and left her slowly.