A silence followed, a silence only broken by the dying man's difficult long-drawn breaths, by the occasional dropping of a coal into the grate, or the creaking of the heavy old furniture. And all the time Margaret stood immovable in her place, her arms about the dying man, his head close pillowed against her. All at once he spoke again, hurriedly, fearfully. "You--are--sure--forgiveness," he gasped out. "God--will--forgive?" "I am sure," she answered, and there was no quaver in her voice, only a great certainty; "there are no bounds to God's love. He will forgive. He loves you, my dear. I am quite sure you need not be afraid." She spoke as gently, in as simple language as though he had been a little child, and the fear slowly died out of his face. His eyes looked once again into hers, with a look of adoring love and reverence; then, with a tired sigh, the sigh of an over-weary child, his head sank back more heavily against her, and the gasping breath was still. CHAPTER XV. "I DO TRUST, CICELY, YOU KEEP HER IN HER PLACE." "Your being in town for Christmas is quite an unusual occurrence, isn't it, Cousin Arthur?" "Quite unusual; I may almost say, unprecedented. Dear Ellen and I, as you know, have the greatest horror of any prolonged stay in this Babylon, but, at the present moment, it is impossible to avoid it." "And Cousin Ellen is bearing up pretty well?" Cicely could not keep the twinkle out of her eyes, although her voice was perfectly grave; but Sir Arthur, being, as has been said, totally devoid of humour, only observed the becoming gravity of tone, and not the twinkle. "As well as can be expected," he responded, with a gloomy shake of the head, "but she dislikes hotels at all times, and at Christmas she doubly dislikes having to live a hotel life. We have our little festivities at home, quite small, unpretentious festivities, for the servants and the men on the estate, and we shall feel not taking part in them." "And surely the servants will miss you?" Cicely said with her pretty gracious manner, whilst, it must be confessed, she inwardly wondered whether the Congreves' household staff would regret or be relieved, by the absence of their master and mistress at this festive season. "We hope so, we hope so," Sir Arthur answered pompously; "dear Ellen and I always try to infuse a wholesome spirit into all the little gaieties, and we feel keenly being absent this Christmas. But we must be in London just now. Our own beloved border is too remote." Cicely thought with a shudder of that wild Welsh border on which the Congreve mansion stood, and instinctively she drew her costly furs more closely round her dainty person, as if the very memory of the remote region gave her a sensation of chill.