"
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, Margret?"
"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 of all others: it is no time for mock
shame. I know it was my hand that held the very secret of your
being. Whatever I may have been, you loved me, Margret. Will
you say that now?"
"I loved you,--once."
Whether it were truth that nerved her, or self-delusion, she was
strong now to utter it all.
"You love me no longer, then?"
"I love you no longer."
She did not look at him; she was conscious only of the hot fire
wearing her eyes, and the vexing click of the clock. After a
while he bent over her silently,--a manly, tender presence.
"When love goes once," he said, "it never returns. Did you say
it was gone, Margret?"
One effort more, and Duty would be satisfied.
"It is gone."
In the slow darkness that came to her she covered her face,
knowing and hearing nothing.
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