' Good God, to think that I have done this! To think of
the countless days of agony, the nights, the years of solitude
that have brought her to this,--little Margret!"
He paced the floor, slowly. She sat down on a low stool, leaning
her head on her hands. The little figure, the bent head, the
quivering chin brought up her childhood to him. She used to sit
so when he had tormented her, waiting to be coaxed back to love
and smiles again. The hard man's eyes filled with tears, as he
thought of it. He watched the deep, tearless sobs that shook her
breast: he had wounded her to death,--his bonny Margret! She was
like a dead thing now: what need to torture her longer? Let him
be manly and go out to his solitary life, taking the remembrance
of what he had done with him for company. He rose
uncertainly,--then came to her: was that the way to leave her?
"I am going, Margret," he whispered, "but let me tell you a story
before I go,--a Christmas story, say. It will not touch you,--it
is too late to hope for that,--but it is right that you should
hear it."
She looked up wearily.
"As you will, Stephen."
Whatever impulse drove the man to speak words that he knew were
useless, made him stand back from her, as though she were
something he was unfit to touch: the words dragged from him
slowly.
"I had a curious dream to-night, Margret,--a waking dream: only a
clear vision of what had been once. Do you remember--the old
time?"
What disconnected rambling was this? Yet the girl understood it,
looked into the low fire with sad, listening eyes.
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