,--"there is no hurt in your heart that fears detection?"

She came out into the full light, and stood before him, pushing back
the hair from her forehead, that he might see every wrinkle, and the
faded, lifeless eyes. It was a true woman's motion, remembering even
then to scorn deception. The light glowed brightly in her face, as the
slow minutes ebbed without a sound: she only saw his face in shadow,
with the fitful gleam of intolerable meaning in his eyes. Her own
quailed and fell.

"Does it hurt you that I should even look at you?" he said, drawing
back. "Why, even the sainted dead suffer us to come near them after
they have died to us,--to touch their hands, to kiss their lips, to
find what look they left in their faces for us. Be patient, for the
sake of the old time. My whim is not satisfied yet."

"I am patient."

"Tell me something of yourself, to take with me when I go, for the last
time. Shall I think of you as happy in these days?"

"I am contented,"--the words oozing from her white lips in the
bitterness of truth. "I asked God, that night, to show me my work; and
I think He has shown it to me. I do not complain. It is a great work."

"Is that all?" he demanded, fiercely.

"No, not all. It pleases me to feel I have a warm home, and to help
keep it cheerful. When my father kisses me at night, or my mother
says, 'God bless you, child,' I know that is enough, that I ought to be
happy."

The old clock in the corner hummed and ticked through the deep silence,
like the humble voice of the home she toiled to keep warm, thanking
her, comforting her.

"Once more," as the light grew stronger on her face,--"will you look
down into your heart that you have given to this great work, and tell
me what you see there? Dare you do it, Margret?"

"I dare do it,"--but her whisper was husky.

"Go on."

He watched her more as a judge would a criminal, as she sat before him:
she struggled weakly under the power of his eye, not meeting it. He
waited relentless, seeing her face slowly whiten, her limbs shiver, her
bosom heave.

"Let me speak for you," he said at last. "I know who once filled your
heart to the exclusion of all others: it is no time for mock shame. I
know it was my hand that held the very secret of your being. Whatever
I may have been, you loved me, Margret. Will you say that now?"

"I loved you,--once."

Whether it were truth that nerved her, or self-delusion, she was strong
now t