hat came upon them, till she must have pined and withered in her
remorse. But she would never marry him. In that calm, loving heart
there was a fund of strength and endurance truly marvelous. In her
spirit of self-sacrifice she belonged to the noble army of women of
whose ranks the proto-martyr, Mary of Nazareth, was first and chief;
who can endure to suffer and to see their beloved suffer: who can
thrust, uncomplainingly, the right hand--if need be--into the
purifying flame, and so go through life halt or maimed, so that their
garments may be always white and stainless.

And so looking upon him whom she loved, she gave him up forever; and
Hugh's anguish and despair failed to shake her resolution. The Divine
Will had forbidden their union; she had promised his father that she
would never marry him; she had vowed in last night's bitter conflict
never to be the wife of any man. This was what she told him, over and
over again, and each time there was a set look about her beautiful
mouth that told Hugh that there was no hope for him.

He came to believe it at last, and then his heart was very bitter
against her. He said to himself, and then aloud--for in his angry
passion he did not spare her, and his hard words bruised her gentle
soul, most pitilessly--he said that she did not love him, that she
never had, that that cold, pure soul of hers was incapable of passion;
and he wondered with an intolerable anguish of anger whether she would
suffer if he took her at her word and married another; and when he had
flung these cruel words at her--for he was half-maddened with
misery--he had turned away from her with a groan, and had hidden his
head in his hands. His wishes had ceased to influence her; she had
given him up; she would never be his wife, and all the sunshine and
promise of his youth seemed dimmed.

But Margaret would not leave him like this; the next moment she was
kneeling beside him on the sand. They say there is always something of
the maternal element in the love of a good woman; and there was
something of this protecting tenderness in Margaret's heart as she
drew Hugh's head to her shoulder. He did not resist her; the first
fierceness of his anger had now died out, and only the bitterness of
his despair remained.

"Hugh, before we part to-night, will you not tell me that you forgive
me?"

"How am I to tell you that," he answered, in a dull weary voice, "when
you are robbing my life of its happiness?"

"Oh,