“I need you, Margaret. I shall be nothing without you, now. Come, Margaret, little Margaret!”
She came to him, and put her hands in his.
“No, Stephen,” she said.
If there were any pain in her tone, she kept it down, for his sake.
“Never, I could never help you,—as you are. It might have been, once. Good-bye, 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, looking down into her eyes. She moved uneasily; she dared not trust her resolution.
“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 off her hand.
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 Margaret are apt to forget. His eye never abated in its fierce question.