"
The storm had been dark and windy: it cleared now slowly, the
warm summer rain falling softly, the fresh blue stealing broadly
from behind the gray. It seemed to Margret like a blessing; for
her brain rose up stronger, more healthful.
"I will not swear," she said, weakly. "I think He heard my
prayer. I think He will answer it. He was a man, and loved as
we do. My love is not selfish; it is the best gift God has given
me."
Knowles went slowly with her to the house. He was not baffled.
He knew that the struggle was yet to come; that, when she was
alone, her faith in the far-off Christ would falter; that she
would grasp at this work, to fill her empty hands and starved
heart, if for no other reason,--to stifle by a sense of duty her
unutterable feeling of loss. He was keenly read in woman's
heart, this Knowles. He left her silently, and she passed
through the dark passage to her own room.
Putting her damp shawl off, she sat down on the floor, leaning
her head on a low chair,--one her father had given her for a
Christmas gift when she was little. How fond Holmes and her
father used to be of each other! Every Christmas he spent with
them. She remembered them all now. "He was sitting by her now,
holding her hand in his." She said that over to herself, though
it was not hard to understand.
After a long time, her mother came with a candle to the door.
"Good-night, Margret. Why, your hair is wet, child!"
For Margret, kissing her good-night, had laid her head down a
minute on her breast.
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