About nine o'clock he went to Mrs. Rymer's. The shop was closed, and Mr. Sale entered by the private door. Margaret sat in the parlour alone, reading; Mrs. Rymer was out. In her soft black dress, with its white frilling at the throat, Margaret did not look anything like her nearly twenty years. Her mild brown eyes and tale-telling cheeks lighted up at the entrance of the curate. Letting her nervous little hand meet his strong one, she would have drawn a chair forward for him, but he kept her standing by him on the hearthrug. "I have come this evening to have some final conversation with you, Margaret, and I am glad your mother is out," he began. "Will you hear me, my dear?" "You know I am always glad to hear you," she said in low, timid tones. And Mr. Sale made no more ado, but turned and kissed her. Then he released her hand, sat down opposite to her on the other side of the hearth, and entered on his argument. It was no more, or other, than she had heard from him before--the whole sum and substance of it consisted of representations why he must accept this chaplaincy at the Bahamas, and why she must accompany him thither. In the midst of it Margaret burst into tears. "Oh, Isaac, why prolong the pain?" she said. "You know I _cannot_ go: to refuse is as painful to me as to you. Don't you see that I have no alternative but to remain here?" "No, I do not see it," replied Mr. Sale, stoutly. "I think your mother could do without you. She is an active, bustling woman, hardly to be called middle-aged yet. It is not right that you should sacrifice yourself and your prospects in life. At least, it seems to me that it is not." Margaret's hand was covering her face; the silent tears were dropping. To see him depart, leaving her behind, was a prospect intensely bitter. Her heart ached when she thought of it: but she saw no hope of its being otherwise. "It is a week and a day since I told you that the promotion was at length offered me," resumed Mr. Sale, "and we do not seem to be any nearer a decision than we were then. I have kept it to myself and said nothing about it abroad, waiting for you to speak to me, Margaret; and the Rector--to whom I at length spoke yesterday--is angry with me, and says I ought to have told him at once. In three days from this--on Thursday next--I _must_ give an answer: accept the post, or throw it up." Margaret took her hand from her face. Mr. Sale could see how great was the conflict at work within her. "There is nothing to wait for, Isaac. I wish there was. You must go by yourself, and leave me." "I have told you that I will not. If you stay here, I stay." "Oh, pray don't do that! It would be so intense a disappointment to you to give it up." "The greatest disappointment I have ever had in life," he answered. "You must go with me."