Peter interrupted her. “The youth is honest, and loves you dear. You are young. What is a year or two to you? Gerard will assuredly come back and keep troth.” “And meantime know you what is coming?” “Not I, except that I shall be gone first for one.” “Worse than that. There is worse pain than death. Nay, for pity's sake turn away your head, father.” “Foolish wench!” muttered Peter, but turned his head. She trembled violently, and with her cheeks on fire began to falter out, “I did look on Gerard as my husband--we being betrothed-and he was in so sore danger, and I thought I had killed him, and I-oh, if you were but my mother I might find courage: you would question me. But you say not a word.” “Why, Margaret, what is all this coil about? and why are thy cheeks crimson, speaking to no stranger', but to thy old father?” “Why are my cheeks on fire? Because--because--father kill me; send me to heaven! bid Martin shoot me with his arrow! And then the gossips will come and tell you why I blush so this day. And then, when I am dead, I hope you will love your girl again for her mother's sake.” “Give me thy hand, mistress,” said Peter, a little sternly. She put it out to him trembling. He took it gently and began with some anxiety in his face to feel her pulse. “Alas, nay,” said she. “'Tis my soul that burns, not my body, with fever. I cannot, will not, bide in Sevenbergen.” And she wrung her hands impatiently. “Be calm now,” said the old man soothingly, “nor torment thyself for nought. Not bide in Sevenbergen? What need to bide a day, as it vexes thee, and puts thee in a fever: for fevered thou art, deny it not.” “What!” cried Margaret, “would you yield to go hence, and--and ask no reason but my longing to be gone?” and suddenly throwing herself on her knees beside him, in a fervour of supplication she clutched his sleeve, and then his arm, and then his shoulder, while imploring him to quit this place, and not ask her why. “Alas! what needs it? You will soon see it. And I could never say it. I would liever die.” “Foolish child, who seeks thy girlish secrets? Is it I, whose life hath been spent in searching Nature's? And for leaving Sevenbergen, what is there to keep me in it, thee unwilling? Is there respect for me here, or gratitude? Am I not yclept quacksalver by those that come not near me, and wizard by those I heal? And give they not the guerdon and the honour they deny me to the empirics that slaughter them? Besides, what is't to me where we sojourn? Choose thou that, as did thy mother before thee.” Margaret embraced him tenderly, and wept upon his shoulder. She was respited. Yet as she wept, respited, she almost wished she had had the courage to tell him.