Elinor threw her arms about the child with a swift hug, jealously noting that he was taller by a head than last year. The boy belongs to his mother. The man belongs to the world or to some other woman. "I love thee too" was all she said. Clasping his arms close about his mother's neck, Cecil whispered, "God _is_ mending thee, and I _am_ so glad, 'cos now thou wilt have no need to die." When the child was gone the two women drew nearer to the fire and began to rake the ashes together, but slowly, as if loath to put out the cheerful domestic spark, though the air was too soft to need warming, and the full moon blandly shining in through the window served amply for light. With the dying of the fire Elinor's cheer seemed to die too, and she sat silent in the moonlight with hands folded before her and feet thrust out toward the warm ashes. "Margaret!" "Yes." "Ralph Ingle was here yesterday." "I thought I saw him vanishing from the door as I came." "Yes, he was here, and he asked me again to marry him." "And thou--" "I told him for the fortieth time that marriage was not for me." "Did that settle it?" "Nay, he only smiled." "Insolent fellow!" "No, Cousin, there is no insolence in Ralph Ingle, but something which frights me more,--or did till to-day,--a calm biding of his time, as though in the end, struggle against fate as I would, he must triumph and I must yield." "Bah, Elinor! That's the talk of a woman who seeks excuse for yielding. Your will is as strong as his; use it!" Elinor's lips shut in a proud silence. There was something in Margaret Brent's manner which did not invite, much as it justified, self-revelation. Few make confidences to those who never make mistakes. Elinor made a move as if to rise; but Margaret laid her hand upon her arm. "Cousin," said the older woman, "I have heard thy story; now listen to mine. I loved a man once--" Elinor started. "Ah, thou didst never think I had known what it was to love?" "He--he was a lucky man," stammered Elinor, in surprise. "He might have been a lucky man, though perchance it behooves not me to say it; yet I verily believe I could have made him happy, but that he was of a jealous temper--" Elinor, who had a blessed gift for silence, used it now. "Yes," Margaret continued; "he was jealous by nature, and therefore lent a ready ear when one dropped poison in it." "He doubted _thee_?" "He thought he had proof." "And the villain who traduced thee to him--" "Was Dick Ingle, and thou dost well to call him villain. 'Twas years ago in England, and we have met but twice since; but I know the blood, and I swear to thee I'd rather see thee carried out of this room in thy coffin than as the bride of an Ingle." "Yet Ralph--"