Margaret looked up at her questioner. The rattling noise of the breaking glass--the tremendous sound above, that seemed to rock the walls of the house, so sudden, so bewildering, frightened away her voice. She looked round in complete amaze. She was sitting on one of the hall chairs, and Mr. Haveloc supporting her, kneeling by her side. "Are you not hurt?" he asked again. She passed her hand over her eyes, and gazed around, still confused. "No," said she, "what was it?" "The hail came suddenly," he said. "Yes, it did--but--were you there?" she asked. "I was." "The storm was--very--beautiful," said she losing her voice in tears before the words were ended. "I was not watching the storm," he replied. Overcome by agitation and fright, her nerves thoroughly unstrung by the feelings of the few preceding days, she covered her face with her hands, and gave way to her tears. There was a silence, only broken by her heavy sobs. The thunder had ceased,--the hail was over, only the large fast drops of rain fell splashing among the stiff orange leaves. "Margaret," he said, "tell me now. What have I done?" "Nothing--nothing!" she faltered through her tears. "Then it was for no fault of mine; the change was in yourself," said he suddenly. "You had seen--you had loved; and it has been your turn to suffer." "I have suffered, Claude," said Margaret withdrawing her hands from her face. Her voice, her aspect, so inimitably tender and mournful, struck him to the heart. She had gained courage and composure, and went on. "And it is a comfort to me to have seen and spoken with you once again," said she; "because having done you an injustice, in my thoughts, I am glad to tell you so. I am pleased to think that you acted as I should have most desired, had I known the facts which were so cruelly perverted to me. But still--I hope," she added, as she rose to go, "that as I must remain here for the present, you will not often come to the house, because the sight of you reminds me too forcibly of those old times." How exquisitely graceful she looked; with that imploring attitude--that bashful entreaty in her gesture. "But, I don't understand--" he said, detaining her. "No--it is a long story," said Margaret sadly. "But why not tell it me? Have I not a right to know it? I, who love you better than anything in the world?" Her smiles came back--her blushes. "If you wish it," she said, "only not now. Still I must say for myself, that every one believed as I did. Even your friends here, entirely thought so till Mrs. Fitzpatrick set them right." "But--believed what?" "That you were engaged to Miss Fitzpatrick." "What--engaged--and when? Good Heavens! And you, Margaret--to Miss Fitzpatrick! How could you believe such an incredible lie?" "Don't ask me, Claude," said Margaret, feeling as if it really had been too bad in her to credit her own eyesight, as well as the assurance of every one she came near.