There was again a momentary pause, during which Mr. Sinclair's merciless eyes searched the cold face beside him. {45} Margaret did not observe that all the company had gone, that the procession had disappeared, the crowd melted away. She had sat there and listened like one in a dream, too dull and weary to be angry, or to wonder that such words should be addressed to her, and such bold assertions made, where her most intimate friends had never ventured a hint even. When Mr. Sinclair spoke again, his voice was soft and earnest. "Have you any friend so dear and trusty, that his frown would make your heart ache yet more? In all the world, do you know one to whom your actions are of moment, who thinks of you anxiously and tenderly, for whose sake you would walk in a straight path, though it might be full of thorns? Is there one?" "There is not one," she said. "Come with me, then!" he exclaimed. "Think of Italy, and what that name means, of the east, of all the lands that live in song and in story. Drop for ever from your hands the necessity for toil, and let your heart and mind take holiday. 'Not one,' you said; but, Maud, you mistook, I thought of you all the time, and got your troubles by heart. Leave this miserable, cramping life of yours, and come with me where we shall be as free from criticism as if we were disembodied spirits. Forget this paltry Boston, with its wriggling streets and narrow breaths. Fancy now that the breeze in our faces blows off the blue Mediterranean, the little dome above us rises and swells to St. Peter's, that last flutter of a banner over the hill is the argent ground with golden keys. Or Victor Immanuel has got Rome for his own, and there floats the red, white, and green of Italy. How you would color and brighten like a rose under such sunshine! Come with me, Margaret, come! She looked at him with troubled, uncomprehending eyes, groping for the meaning under the flowery speech. His glance dazzled her. "It is like a fairy-tale," she said. "How can it come true? I am poor, yet you bid me travel as only the rich can. How am I to go with you? who else is going?" He smiled. "O silly Margaret! since there is no other way, and since in all the world there is no one to care for or to question you, come with me alone." Then Margaret Hamilton knew that her cup of bitterness had lacked one poisoned drop. She got up from the seat, shrinking away, feeling as though she lessened physically. But when she reached the door, Mr. Sinclair was there before her. "At least, forgive me!" she heard him say. "Let me go!" she exclaimed, without looking up. "Remember my tenderness and pity for you," he urged. "You have none!" she said. "Let me go." "And you are not indifferent to me," he continued. She lifted her face at that, and looked at him with eyes that were bright, gray, and angry as an eagle's.