And then he thought of Margaret. He must make her future more sure. He must indeed tell her everything now, and he would see Dallington first of all. They must be married at once; there was really no reason why they should not be; and if they were, and they both knew all, he would have no misgivings in regard to his dear child to make his death the harder. “Presently,” he reminded himself, “it will be too late to do; I shall only be able to bear.” Margaret’s heart sank with dismay when she saw him. He looked like a man who, though habitually calm, had been forced into a conflict so bitter that it had taken his very life from him. She threw her arms around him, and drew him to a chair, and put his head upon her breast, and kissed him with the fervour and tenderness of a daughter. He had not told her that he was ill; but she had feared, and now she knew. “Dear, darling, how tired you are!” she said. “I shall fetch a sponge and bathe your face, and you must have some tea at once. Rest a little first.” He did not speak, but lifted his hand caressingly to her face, and felt that, but for distressing her, he must have sobbed. After partaking of some refreshment, however, he revived, and they both tried to be cheerful. “How have you got on without me to-day?” he asked. “Has there been a crowd of customers? Have you sold any more of the poets?” “At one time the shop was very full,” she answered. “There were three people in it together, and all talking at once.” “How did you manage without assistance? Did you call Ann to help you?” “I could not, for Ann was in the midst of one of her most thrilling stories, which she was recounting to the baker, and I knew that genius does not like to be interrupted. But I was as adroit as I could be, and my customers were patient; so we managed fairly. And I have such news for you—James Peters is engaged.” “Really? Well, he’s a nice boy, and deserves a good wife. Who is it that he has chosen?” “Guess!” “Nancy Jones? Emma Swift? Louisa Mellars? No? I give it up.” “I think it is very ungallant of you not to guess me. Why should it not be me? I am tall enough and young enough and all the rest enough for him, I hope.” “He knows better than to choose you, Madge. Tell me, now—Jennie Swain? Well, I never!” “But so it is; Jennie has the prize, and a dozen of us have nothing but the power and privilege of tearing our hair if we please.” “You respect your hair, Madge, far too highly to tear it.” So they talked on, while a great burden of fear was on Margaret’s heart, and it seemed to Harris that the shadowy man with the scythe stood behind his chair. There was presently a pause in the conversation; and afterward Harris resolved to prepare Margaret a little for what was coming. “What do you think took me to London this morning, Madge?” he asked. “The train, dear.” “How clever a guesser _you_ are! And the train was punctual. I went to see the great Doctor Fulton.”