had heard scraps of her cousin Hannah's talk. But she sat demurely in
the recesses of her deep, ugly bonnet and tried to imagine how the guest
behind her looked.

All trembling sat Marcia in the rusty parlor of the little hostelry, while
David at the table wrote with hurried hand, glancing up at her to smile
now and then, and passing over the sheets as he finished them for her
criticism. She thought she had seen the Heath wagon drive away in the home
direction, but she was not sure. She half expected to see the door open
and Kate walk in. Her heart was thumping so she could scarcely sit still
and the brightness of the world outside seemed to make her dizzy. She was
glad to have the sheets to look over, for it took her thoughts away from
herself and her nameless fears. She was not quite sure what it was she
feared, only that in some way Kate would have power over David to take him
away from her. As he wrote she studied the dear lines of his face and
knew, as well as human heart may ever know, how dear another soul had
grown to hers.

David had not much to write and it was soon signed, approved, and sealed.
He sent his messenger on the way and then coming back closed the door and
went and stood before Marcia.

As though she felt some critical moment had come she arose, trembling, and
looked into his eyes questioningly.

"Marcia," he said, and his tone was grave and earnest, putting her upon an
equality with him, not as if she were a child any more. "Marcia, I have
come to ask your forgiveness for the terrible thing I did to you in
allowing you, who scarcely knew what you were doing then, to give your
life away to a man who loved another woman."

Marcia's heart stood still with horror. It had come then, the dreadful
thing she had feared. The blow was going to fall. He did not love her!
What a fool she had been!

But the steady voice went on, though the blood in her neck and temples
throbbed in such loud waves that she could scarcely hear the words to
understand them.

"It was a crime, Marcia, and I have come to realize it more and more
during all the days of this year that you have so uncomplainingly spent
yourself for me. I know now, as I did not think then in my careless,
selfish sorrow, that I was as cruel to you, with your sweet young life, as
your sister was cruel to me. You might already have given your heart to
some one else; I never stopped to inquire. You might have had plans and
hopes for your own future