She looked into the strong, haggard face,--a smile crept out on her own, arch and debonair like that of old time. "I am tired, Stephen," she whispered, and softly laid her head down on his breast. The red fire-light flashed into a glory of crimson through the room, about the two figures standing motionless there,--shimmered down into awe-struck shadow: who heeded it? The old clock ticked away furiously, as if rejoicing that weary days were over for the pet and darling of the house: nothing else broke the silence. Without, the deep night paused, gray, impenetrable. Did it hope that far angel-voices would break its breathless hush, as once on the fields of Judea, to usher in Christmas morn? A hush, in air, and earth, and sky, of waiting hope, of a promised joy. Down there in the farm-window two human hearts had given the joy a name; the hope throbbed into being; the hearts touching each other beat in a slow, full chord of love as pure in God's eyes as the song the angels sang, and as sure a promise of the Christ that is to come. Forever and ever,--not even death would part them; he knew that, holding her closer, looking down into her face. What a pale little face it was! Through the intensest heat of his passion the sting touched him: it was but one mark of his murderous selfishness. Some instinct made her glance up at him, as he thought this, with a keen insight, and she lifted her head from his breast, and when he stooped to touch her lips, shook herself free, laughing carelessly. Their whole life was before them to taste happiness, and she had a mind they should taste it drop by drop. Alas, Stephen Holmes! you will have little time for morbid questionings in those years to come: your very pauses of silent content and love will be rare and well-earned. No more tranced raptures for to-night,--let tomorrow bring what it would. "You do not seem to find your purer self altogether perfect?" she demanded. "I think the pale skin hurts your artistic eye, or the frozen eyes,--which is it?" "They have thawed into brilliant fire,--something looks at me half-yielding and half-defiant,--you know that, you vain child! But, Margaret, nothing can atone"-- He stopped. "That is right, Stephen. Remorse grows maudlin when it goes into words," laughing again at his astounded look. He took her hand,--a dewy, healthy hand,--the very touch of it meant action and life. "What if I say, then," he said, earnestly, "that I do not find my angel perfect, be the fault mine or hers? The child Margaret, with her sudden tears and laughter and angry heats, is gone,--I killed her, I think,--gone long ago. I will not take in place of her this worn, pale ghost, who wears clothes as chilly as if she came from the dead, and stands alone, as ghosts do."