"I have deserved it," he muttered to himself. "It is too late to
amend."
Some light touch thrilled his arm.
"Is it too late, Stephen?" whispered a childish voice.
The strong man trembled, looking at the little dark figure
standing near him.
"We were both wrong: I have been untrue, selfish. More than you.
Stephen, help me to be a better girl; let us be friends again."
She went back unconsciously to the old words of their quarrels
long ago. He drew back.
"Do not mock me," he gasped. "I suffer, Margret. Do not mock me
with more courtesy."
"I do not; let us be friends again."
She was crying like a penitent child; her face was turned away;
love, pure and deep, was in her eyes.
The red fire-light grew stronger; the clock hushed its noisy
ticking to hear the story. Holmes's pale lip worked: what was
this coming to him? His breast heaved, a dry heat panted in his
veins, his deep eyes flashed fire.
"If my little friend comes to me," he said, in a smothered voice,
"there is but one place for her,--her soul with my soul, her
heart on my heart."--He opened his arms.--"She must rest her head
here. My little friend must be--my wife."
She looked into the strong, haggard face,-- a smile crept out on
her own, arch and debonair like that of old time.
"I am tired, Stephen," she whispered, and softly laid her head
down on his breast.
The red fire-light flashed into a glory of crimson through the
room, about the two figures standing motionless there,--shimmered
down into awe-struck shadow: who heeded it? The old clock ticked
away furiously, as if rejoicing that weary days were over for the
pet and darling of the house: nothing else broke the silence.
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