t; then it fell again.

"Anything you wish, Stephen," she said, gravely.

"Yes. Come nearer, then, and let me see what I have lost. A heart so
cold and strong as yours need not fear inspection. I have a fancy to
look into it, for the last time."

She stood motionless and silent.

"Come,"--softly,--"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, Margaret?"

"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 o