d to kiss her hand, but she drew it away. God! what did she do that
for? Did not she know that he could put his head beneath her foot then, he
was so mad with pity for the woman he had wronged? Not love, he thought,
controlling himself,--it was only justice to be kind to her.

"You have been ill, Margaret, these two years, while I was gone?"

He could not hear her answer; only saw that she looked up with a white,
pitiful smile. Only a word it needed, he thought,--very kind and firm: and
he must be quick,--he could not bear this long. But he held the little
worn fingers, stroking them with an unutterable tenderness.

"You must let these fingers work for me, Margaret," he said, at last,
"when I am master in the mill."

"It is true, then, Stephen?"

"It is true,--yes."

She lifted her hand to her head, uncertainly: he held it tightly, and then
let it go. What right had he to touch the dust upon her shoes,--he, bought
and sold? She did not speak for a time; when she did, it was a weak and
sick voice.

"I am glad. I saw her, you know. She is very beautiful."

The fingers were plucking at each other again; and a strange, vacant smile
on her face, trying to look glad.

"You love her, Stephen?"

He was quiet and firm enough now.

"I do not. Her money will help me to become what I ought to be. She does
not care for love. You want me to succeed, Margaret? No one ever
understood me as you did, child though you were."

Her whole face glowed.

"I know! I know! I did understand you!"

She said, lower, after a little while,--

"I knew you did not love her."

"There is no such thing as love in real life," he said, in his steeled
voice. "You will know that, when you grow older. I used to believe in it
once, myself."

She did not speak, only watched the slow motion of his lips, not looking
into his eyes,--as she used to do in the old time. Whatever secret account
lay between the souls of this man and woman came out now, and stood bare
on their faces.

"I used to think that I, too, loved," he went on, in his low, hard tone.
"But it kept me back, Margaret, and"--

He was silent.

"I know, Stephen. It kept you back"--

"And I put it away. I put it away to-night, forever."

She did not speak; stood quite quiet, her head bent on her breast. His
conscience was quite clear now. But he almost wished he had not said it,
she was such a weak, sickly thing. She sat down at last, burying her face
in her hands, with a shiv