“No, you shall not go,” rejoined Margaret, firmly. “I must, I must,” answered Euphra, wringing her hands. “Do come in,” said Margaret, “you must not stand there in the cold.” “Let me get into your bed.” “Better let me go with you to yours. That will be more comfortable for you.” “Oh! yes; please do.” Margaret threw a shawl round Euphra, and went back with her to her room. “He wants me. He wants me. He will call me soon,” said Euphra, in an agonised whisper, as soon as the door was shut. “What shall I do!” “Come to bed first, and we will talk about it there.” As soon as they were in bed, Margaret put her arm round Euphra, who was trembling with cold and fear, and said: “Has this man any right to call you?” “No, no,” answered Euphra, vehemently. “Then don’t go.” “But I am afraid of him.” “Defy him in God’s name.” “But besides the fear, there is something that I can’t describe, that always keeps telling me—no, not telling me, pushing me—no, drawing me, as if I could not rest a moment till I go. I cannot describe it. I hate to go, and yet I feel that if I were cold in my grave, I must rise and go if he called me. I wish I could tell you what it is like. It is as if some demon were shaking my soul till I yielded and went. Oh! don’t despise me. I can’t help it.” “My darling, I don’t, I can’t despise you. You shall not go to him.” “But I must,” answered she, with a despairing faintness more convincing than any vehemence; and then began to weep with a slow, hopeless weeping, like the rain of a November eve. Margaret got out of bed. Euphra thought she was offended. Starting up, she clasped her hands, and said: “Oh Margaret! I won’t cry. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” She entreated like a chidden child. “No, no, I didn’t mean to leave you for a moment. Lie down again, dear, and cry as much as you like. I am going to read a little bit out of the New Testament to you.” “I am afraid I can’t listen to it.” “Never mind. Don’t try. I want to read it.” Margaret got a New Testament, and read part of that chapter of St. John’s Gospel which speaks about human labour and the bread of life. She stopped at these words: “For I came down from heaven, not to do mine own will, but the will of him that sent me.” Euphra’s tears had ceased. The sound of Margaret’s voice, which, if it lost in sweetness by becoming more Scotch when she read the Gospel, yet gained thereby in pathos, and the power of the blessed words themselves, had soothed the troubled spirit a little, and she lay quiet.