Up she arose in an instant.
"Did I not say that at the first hint of this I would go?" she cried. "I am as good as my word," and she would have gone.
"Margaret!" I cried in dismay, "I most humbly crave thy pardon. I did not mean to offend again."
"I do not trust thee," she answered with a frown. "Remember, sir, I shall not say a word, but at the first intimation of this again—out I go. Thou art changed," she said, and she hesitated.
"Thou meanest older, Margaret," I replied. "Yes, older—much older. I have been through much since thou didst see me last, and my sufferings have, I believe, made me a better man."
"I am glad," she said softly, tears in her eyes.
"Margaret," I said, "didst thou learn who was responsible for my captivity?"
"How long has it been Margaret?" she cried impatiently, tapping her little foot. "'Twas not Margaret when I saw thee last, and though I would not be hard upon thee, still I have overlooked it several times," and she looked up at me imperiously.
"I crave thy pardon," I said, coloring to my ears, for I had not been conscious until she spoke that I had called her by her given name. In my joy at seeing her again I had forgotten all else. "I did but call thee, in the confusion of the moment, as I had thought of thee so often. Habit, thou knowest, Lady Margaret, becomes a part of one," and I looked boldly at her.