humbled
himself in her eyes as low as he lay in his own, and accepted her pardon
as a necessity of her enduring, faithful nature: now the whole strength
of the man sprang into rage and mad desire of conquest.

He came gravely across the room, holding out his hand with his old quiet
control. She might be cold and grave as he, but underneath he knew there
was a thwarted hungry spirit,--a strong fine spirit as dainty Ariel. He
would sting it to life, and tame it: it was his.

"I thought you would come, Stephen," she said, simply, motioning him to
a chair.

Could this automaton be Margaret? He leaned on the mantel-shelf, looking
down with a cynical sneer.

"Is that the welcome? Why, there are a thousand greetings for this time
of love and good words you might have chosen. Besides, I have come back
ill and poor,--a beggar perhaps. How do women receive such,--generous
women? Is there no formula? no hand-shaking? nothing more? remembering
that I was once--not indifferent to you."

He laughed. She stood still and grave as before.

"Why, Margaret, I have been down near death since that night."

He thought her lips grew gray, but she looked up clear and steady.

"I am glad you did not die. Yes, I can say that. As for hand-shaking, my
ideas may be peculiar as your own."

"She measures her words," he said, as to himself; "her very eye-light is
ruled by decorum; she is a machine, for work. She has swept her child's
heart clean of anger and revenge, even scorn for the wretch that sold
himself for money. There was nothing else to sweep out, was
there?"--bitterly,--"no friendships, such as weak women nurse and coddle
into being,--or love, that they live in, and die for sometimes, in a
silly way?"

"Unmanly!"

"No, not unmanly. Margaret, let us be serious and calm. It is no time to
trifle or wear masks. That has passed between us which leaves no room
for sham courtesies."

"There needs none,"--meeting his eye unflinchingly. "I am ready to meet
you and hear your farewell. Dr. Knowles told me your marriage was near
at hand. I knew you would come, Stephen. You did before."

He winced,--the more that her voice was so clear of pain.

"Why should I come? To show you what sort of a heart I have sold for
money? Why, you know, little Margaret. You can reckon up its deformity,
its worthlessness, on your cool fingers. You could tell the serene and
gracious lady who is chaffering for it what a bargain she has
made,--that there is