God! what did she do that for? Did not she know that he could put his head beneath her foot then, he was so mad with pity for the woman he had wronged? Not love, he thought, controlling himself,--it was only justice to be kind to her. "You have been ill, Margret, these two years, while I was gone?" He could not hear her answer; only saw that she looked up with a white, pitiful smile. Only a word it needed, he thought,--very kind and firm: and he must be quick,--he could not bear this long. But he held the little worn fingers, stroking them with an unutterable tenderness. "You must let these fingers work for me, Margret," he said, at last, "when I am master in the mill." "It is true, then, Stephen?" "It is true,--yes." She lifted her hand to her head, uncertainly: he held it tightly, and then let it go. What right had he to touch the dust upon her shoes,--he, bought and sold? She did not speak for a time; when she did, it was a weak and sick voice. "I am glad. I saw her, you know. She is very beautiful." The fingers were plucking at each other again; and a strange, vacant smile on her face, trying to look glad. "You love her, Stephen?" He was quiet and firm enough now. "I do not. Her money will help me to become what I ought to be. She does not care for love. You want me to succeed, Margret? No one ever understood me as you did, child though you were." Her whole face glowed. "I know! I know! I did understand you!" She said, lower, after a little while,-- "I knew you did not love her." "There is no such thing as love in real life," he said, in his steeled voice. "You will know that, when you grow older. I used to believe in it once, myself." She did not speak, only watched the slow motion of his lips, not looking into his eyes,--as she used to do in the old time. Whatever secret account lay between the souls of this man and woman came out now, and stood bare on their faces. "I used to think that I, too, loved," he went on, in his low, hard tone. "But it kept me back, Margret, and"---- He was silent. "I know, Stephen. It kept you back"---- "And I put it away. I put it away to-night, forever." She did not speak; stood quite quiet, her head bent on her breast. His conscience was clear now. But he almost wished he had not said it, she was such a weak, sickly thing. She sat down at last, burying her face in her hands, with a shivering sob. He dared not trust him self to speak again. "I am not proud,--as a woman ought to be," she said, wearily, when he wiped her clammy forehead. "You loved me, then?" he whispered. Her face flashed at the unmanly triumph; her puny frame started up, away from him. "I did love you, Stephen. I did love you,--as you might be, not as you are,--not with those inhuman eyes. I do understand you,--I do. I know you for a better man than you know yourself this night."