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Updated: June 8, 2025
Some dim instinct had troubled the old man all day; it did now: whenever Margret spoke, he listened eagerly, and forgot to answer sometimes, he was so lost in thought. At last he put his hand on her head, and whispered, "What ails my little girl?"
You had to go down a steep path from the glen before you came to an open space, where you could see the reek of the chimneys under you. Every morning Margret brought the eggs and the trussed chickens to the Hall. But no one disturbed her solitude, except when the deer, or the wild little red cattle came gazing curiously through the netting at Margret and her charges.
Things allus do come right, some time," she added, in a reflective tone, brushing a fly off Barney's ear. Margret smiled. "Always? Who brings them right for you, Lois?" "The Master," she said, turning with an answering smile. Margret was touched. The owner of the mill was not a more real verity to this girl than the Master of whom she spoke with such quiet knowledge.
Yet life in the veins of these people flowed slow and cool; their sorrows and joys were few and life-long. The enduring air suited this woman, Margret Howth. Her blood could never ebb or flow with sudden gusts of passion, like his own, throbbing, heating continually: one current, absorbing, deep, would carry its tide from one eternity to the other, one love or one hate.
Little Margret, sitting by the muddy road, digging her fingers dully into the clover-roots, while she looked at the spot where the wheels had passed, looked at life differently, it may be; or old Joe Yare by the furnace-fire, his black face and gray hair bent over a torn old spelling-book Lois had given him.
"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.
I was alone then: mother was dead, and father was gone, 'n' th' Lord thought 't was time to see to me, special as th' overseer was gettin' me an enter to th' poor-house. So He sent Mr. Holmes along. Then it come right!" Margret did not speak. Even this mill-girl could talk of him, pray for him; but she never must take his name on her lips!
"You seem to have looked at them very closely, Frau Margret." "From the wind-mill at the gate," replied the other. "The envoy stopped on the bridge directly under us. A handsome man on a stately horse. His trumpeter too was mounted, and the velvet cloth on his trumpet bristled with beautiful embroidery in gold thread and jewels. They earnestly entreated admittance, but the gate remained closed."
In 'The Romaunt of Margret' it detected the influence of Tennyson a suggestion which Miss Barrett repudiated rather warmly; and it concluded with the declaration that the authoress 'possesses a fine poetical temperament, and has given to the public, in this volume, a work of considerable merit.
Whatever power was in the tide should be his, in its entirety. It was his right. Was not his aim high, the highest? It was his right. Margret, looking up, saw the man's eye fixed on her. She met it coolly.
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