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And Margaret, neglecting the book which lay on her lap, and looking out the window, felt it in all her veins. It is said that the world is created anew for every person who is in love. There is therefore this constant miracle of a new heavens and a new earth. It does not depend upon the seasons.
"Is the house yours, my Lord, or this man's?" said Margaret. Can ye deny it, sir? Look i' my face, and deny it if ye daur!" The man smiled, and his Lordship laughed; and Margaret wondered at the easy good-nature of a Lord in forgiving such a heinous offence on the part of a servitor.
"Dona Margaret," he answered gravely, "can you not guess? Well, I will tell you, lest you should guess wrong. First, it is to ask your forgiveness as I have done before, for the many crimes to which my love, my true love, for you has driven me. This time yesterday I knew well that I could expect none. To-day I dare to hope that it may be otherwise." "Why so, Marquis?"
Margaret made a comical grimace. "Is it cold?" "Ice," said Margaret, shutting her eyes involuntarily. "If it is too disagreeable we can give it up," suggested Richard. "No, don't touch it!" she cried, waving him back with her free arm. "I don't mind; but it's as cold as so much snow. How curious! What does it?" "I suppose a scientific fellow could explain the matter to you easily enough.
It had reached perfection, like everything else, in Deerbrook. "What! tired already?" said Hester to her husband. "What have you done with your skates?" "Oh, I have left them somewhere there, I suppose." He drew her arm within his own. "Come, my dear, let us go home. Margaret is gone." "Gone! Why? Is not she well? It is not so very cold." "She has got wet, and she has gone home to warm herself."
There it is a queer dream for a sober old country doctor. I don't know why I told you, don't tell any one again." And he walked away, muttering. "For he told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking," leaving Margaret with her eyes full of tears, and Ethel vehemently caressing the baby. "How beautiful!" said Ethel. "It has been a comfort to him, I am sure," said Margaret.
It was a letter Mary Isona had written to her, Margaret Kempton, the night before she died, more than thirty years ago. The writer recounted the many harsh circumstances of her life; but they would all have been bearable, she said, save for one great and terrible secret.
Somehow by that time they were all ready for anything she had to suggest, and they watched again breathlessly as she wrote another song on the blackboard, taking the other side of the room for it, and this time a hymn "I Need Thee Every Hour." When they began to sing it, however, Margaret found the tune went slowly, uncertainly. "Oh, how we need a piano!" she exclaimed.
"Well, of all !" cried Mrs. Schofield, astounded. "What was the matter? He just went like that!" She made a flurried gesture. "In heaven's name, Margaret, what DID you say to him?" "I!" exclaimed Margaret indignantly. "Nothing! He just WENT!" "Why, he didn't even take off his hat when he said good-night!" said Mrs. Schofield.
'A man's ideal is what he wants, and nothing else in the world. Margaret was not sure whether she should resent the speech a little, or let it pass. For an instant they looked at each other in silence. Then she made up her mind to laugh. 'Do you know that you are going ahead at a frightful pace? she asked. 'Why should I waste time? My time is my life. It's all I have.
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