ected it. Don't think of a word I have said,
he didn't look at me; I tried, but he wouldn't; he despises me, I know.
I like him better than any one in the world, now that Lucian is gone,"
she went on, with her bare frankness. "But he will never care for me;
and a very good reason, too, when it is _you_ he cares for!"

Margaret had bowed her head upon her arm, which rested upon the sofa's
back. Garda sat down beside her. "How many times have you comforted me!"
she said. "If I could only be of the smallest comfort to you, Margaret!"

Margaret did not answer.

"And it has been so all these long years," Garda murmured, after
sitting still and thinking of it. "You are better than I am!"

"Better!"

"There isn't an angel in heaven at this moment better than you are,"
Garda responded, vehemently. "But you mustn't keep on in this way, you
know," she added, after a moment.

"I can't talk, Garda."

"That is it, Evert has talked! He has tired you out. I can imagine that
when once he is in earnest--Margaret, let me tell you this one thing:
you can't live under all this, you'll die."

"It's not so easy to die," answered Lansing Harold's wife.

"You think I don't know about Mr. Harold. But I do. Lucian heard the
whole in Rome; I even saw her myself--in a carriage on the Pincio. I
know that he left you twice to go to her--twice; what claim has he,
then, upon you? But what is the use of my talking, if _Evert_ has been
able to do nothing!"

Margaret sat up. "Go now, Garda. I would rather be alone."

But Garda would not go. "I could never be like you," she went on. "And
this is a case where you had better be more like me. Margaret!
Margaret!" and she clung to her, suddenly. "Such a love as his would
be!" she whispered--"how _can_ you refuse it? I think it's wicked, too,
because it's his whole life, _he_ isn't Lansing Harold! And you love him
so; you needn't deny it; I can feel your heart beating now."

"Go," said Margaret, drawing herself free, and rising. "You only hurt
me, Garda. And you cannot change me."

But Garda followed her. "You adore him. And he--And you give all _that_
up? Why--it's the dearest thing there is, the dearest thing we have;
what are you made of?" She kept up with her, walking by her side.

Margaret was pacing the room aimlessly; she put out her arm as if to
keep Garda off.

The girl accepted this, moving to that distance; but still she walked by
her side. "And don't you ever think of the life _he