seated herself; and then pensively moved to the other
end of the bench, because a slanting sunbeam fell there. Since it
was absolutely necessary to blast Mr. Kennaston's dearest hopes,
she thoughtfully endeavoured to distract his attention from his own
miseries--as far as might be possible--by showing him how exactly like
an aureole her hair was in the sunlight. Margaret always had a kind
heart.

Kennaston stood before her, smiling a little. He was the sort of man
to appreciate the manoeuver.

"My lady," he asked, very softly, "haven't you any good news for me on
this wonderful morning?"

"Excellent news," Margaret assented, with a cheerfulness that was
not utterly free from trepidation. "I've decided not to marry you,
beautiful, and I trust you're properly grateful. You see, you're very
nice, of course, but I'm going to marry somebody else, and bigamy is
a crime, you know; and, anyhow, I'm only a pauper, and you'd never be
able to put up with my temper--now, beautiful, I'm quite sure you
couldn't, so there's not a bit of use in arguing it. Some day you'd
end by strangling me, which would be horribly disagreeable for me, and
then they'd hang you for it, you know, and that would be equally
disagreeable for you. Fancy, though, what a good advertisement it would
be for your poems!"

[Illustration: "'My lady,' he asked, very softly, 'haven't you any
good news for me on this wonderful morning?'"]

She was not looking at him now--oh, no, Margaret was far too busily
employed getting the will (which she had carried all this time) into
an absurd little silver chain-bag hanging at her waist. She had no
time to look at Felix Kennaston. There was such scant room in the bag;
her purse took up so much space there was scarcely any left for the
folded paper; the affair really required her closest, undivided
attention. Besides, she had not the least desire to look at Kennaston
just now.

"Beautiful child," he pleaded, "look at me!"

But she didn't.

She felt that at that moment she could have looked at a gorgon, say,
or a cockatrice, or any other trifle of that nature with infinitely
greater composure. The pause that followed Margaret accordingly
devoted to a scrutiny of his shoes and sincere regret that their owner
was not a mercenary man who would be glad to be rid of her.

"Beautiful child," spoke the poet's voice, sadly, "you aren't--surely,
you aren't saying this in mistaken kindness to me? Surely, you aren't
saying t