"But you _shall_ tell me, Margaret!" cried Clement, passionately. "I will accept no sentence such as this until I know the reason for pronouncing it; I will suffer no imaginary barrier to stand between you and me. There is some mystery, some mystification in all this, Margaret; some woman's fancy, which a few words of explanation would set at rest. Margaret, my pearl! do you think I will consent to lose you so lightly? My own dear love! do you know me so little as to think that I will part with you? My love is a stronger passion than you think, Madge; and the bondage you accepted when you promised to be my wife is a bondage that cannot so easily be shaken off!" Margaret watched her lover's face with melancholy, tearless eyes. "Fate is stronger than love, Clement," she said, mournfully, "I can never be your wife!" "Why not?" "For a reason which you can never know." "Margaret, I will not submit——" "You must submit," the girl said, holding up her hand, as if to stop her lover's passionate words. "You must submit, Clement. This world seems very hard sometimes, so hard that in a dreadful interval of dull despair the heavens are hidden from us, and we cannot recognize the Eternal wisdom guiding the hand that afflicts us. My life seems very hard to me to-day, Clement. Do not try to make it harder. I am a most unhappy woman; and in all the world there is only one favour you can grant me. Let me go away unquestioned; and blot my image from your heart for ever when I am gone." "I will never consent to let you go," Clement Austin answered, resolutely. "You are mine by right of your own most sacred promise, Margaret. No womanish folly shall part us." "Heaven knows it is no woman's folly that parts us, Clement," the girl answered, in a plaintive, tremulous voice. "What is it, then, Margaret?" "I can never tell you." "You will change your mind." "Never." She looked at him with an air of quiet resolution stamped upon her colourless face. Clement remembered what the doctor had said of his patient's iron will. Was it possible that Mr. Vincent had been right? Was this gentle girl's resolution to overrule a strong man's passionate vehemence? "What is it that can part us, Margaret?" Mr. Austin cried. "What is it? You saw Mr. Dunbar yesterday?" The girl shuddered, and over her colourless face there came a livid shade, which was more deathlike than the marble whiteness that had preceded it. "Yes," Margaret Wilmot said, after a pause. "I was—very fortunate. I gained admission to—Mr. Dunbar's rooms." "And you spoke to him?" "Yes." "Did your interview with him confirm or dissipate your suspicions? Do you still believe that Henry Dunbar murdered your unhappy father?" "No," answered Margaret, resolutely; "I do not." "You do not? The banker's manner convinced you of his innocence, then?" "I do not believe that Henry Dunbar murdered my—my unhappy father."