“Ah, if I dared! if I dared!” she exclaimed, thrown partly off her guard by agitation, and looking, gazing intently in his face; “but no, I cannot--oh! I cannot!--that sarcastic incredulity, that fierce, blazing scorn--I cannot dare it! Guilty? You even now said I looked, Philip! I am not guilty! The Lord knoweth it well--not guilty, but most unfortunate--most wretched! Philip, your unhappy wife is an honorable woman!” “She thinks it necessary, however, to assure me of that which should be above question. Unhappy? Why are you unhappy? Marguerite, how you torture me.” “Philip, for the last time I pray you, I beseech you, grant my wish. Do not deny me, Philip; do not! Life, more than life, sanity hangs upon your answer! Philip, will you sanction my going?” “Most assuredly not, Marguerite.” “Oh, Heaven! how can you be so inflexible, Philip? I asked for a month--a fortnight might do--Philip; let me go for a fortnight!” “No.” “For a week then, Philip; for a week! Oh, I do implore you--I, who never asked a favor before! Let me go but for a week!” “Not for a week--not for a day! under the circumstances in which you wish to go,” said Mr. Helmstedt, with stern inflexibility. Again Marguerite threw herself at her husband’s feet, clasping his knees, and lifting a deathly brow bedewed with the sweat of a great agony, and eyes strained outward in mortal prayer, she pleaded as a mother might plead for a child’s life. In vain, for Mr. Helmstedt grew obdurate in proportion to the earnestness of her prayers, and at last arose and strode away, and stood with folded arms at the window, looking out upon the stormy weather, while she remained writhing on the spot where late she had kneeled.