“You must let these fingers work for me, Margaret,” he said, at last, “when I am master in the mill.”
“It is true, then, Stephen?”
“It is true,—yes.”
She lifted her hand to her head, uncertainly: he held it tightly, and then let it go. What right had he to touch the dust upon her shoes,—he, bought and sold? She did not speak for a time; when she did, it was a weak and sick voice.
“I am glad. I saw her, you know. She is very beautiful.”
The fingers were plucking at each other again; and a strange, vacant smile on her face, trying to look glad.
“You love her, Stephen?”
He was quiet and firm enough now.
“I do not. Her money will help me to become what I ought to be. She does not care for love. You want me to succeed, Margaret? No one ever understood me as you did, child though you were.”
Her whole face glowed.