The strong man trembled, looking at the little dark figure standing near him.
"We were both wrong: I have been untrue, selfish. More than you. Stephen, help me to be a better girl; let us be friends again."
She went back unconsciously to the old words of their quarrels long ago. He drew back.
"Do not mock me," he gasped. "I suffer, Margret. Do not mock me with more courtesy."
"I do not; let us be friends again."
She was crying like a penitent child; her face was turned away; love, pure and deep, was in her eyes.
The red fire-light grew stronger; the clock hushed its noisy ticking to hear the story. Holmes's pale lip worked: what was this coming to him? His breast heaved, a dry heat panted in his veins, his deep eyes flashed fire.
"If my little friend comes to me," he said, in a smothered voice, "there is but one place for her,—her soul with my soul, her heart on my heart."—He opened his arms.—"She must rest her head here. My little friend must be—my wife."
She looked into the strong, haggard face,—a smile crept out on her own, arch and debonair like that of old time.
"I am tired, Stephen," she whispered, and softly laid her head down on his breast.