“Well, that’s best for me, don’t you think?” she replied, with something of the same flash of spirit, “seeing that I have, as people say, nobody to think of but myself.” “And the boy? Meg, you have promised me that you will think of what I said about the boy. He should want for nothing. He should have all the advantages education could give, if you would trust him to me--or to my father, if that would give you more confidence.” “It is not confidence that is wanting,” she said. “Then, what is it? It cannot be that you think I speak without warrant. My father will write to you. I will pledge myself to you--as if he were my very own. His future should be my care; his education, his outset in the world----” Margaret stood looking at him for some time in silence, a faint smile about her lips, which began to quiver, the colour forsaking her cheeks. What she said was so perfectly irrelevant, so idiotic, to the straight-forward mind of the man who was offering her the most unquestionable advantage, and asking nothing but a direct answer--yes, or no--that he could almost have struck her in his impatience. He did metaphorically, with the severity of that flash in his eyes. “And how there looked him in the face An angel, beautiful and bright; And how he knew it was a fiend, That miserable knight.” --This was what Margaret said. “What do you mean?” he cried; “is it I that am the fiend, offering the best I can think of?” “Oh, the angel,” said Margaret; “and is it my own heart that is the fiend, that makes the other picture? Oh, God help me! I don’t know. My child is my life. But there are things better than life, and that might be given up. Yet, he is my duty, too, and not yours, Gerald. Prosperity and comfort, and your great warm-hearted, honourable kindness; or poverty and nature, and a poor mother--and love? Which would be the best for him? We cannot see a step before us; and the issues are of life and death.” “It is better not to exaggerate,” he said, with an almost angry impatience. “There need be no cutting off. You should, of course, see the child when you liked, for his holidays and that sort of thing. There’s no question of life or death, but of a man’s career for the boy, under men’s influence, or---- I know, I know! You would teach him everything that is good, and put the best principles into him, and sacrifice yourself, and all that. In short, you would make a perfect woman of him, had Osy been a girl; but, as he is a boy----!” “Don’t you think you’re a little sharp, Gerald,” she cried, “bidding me cut out my heart and give it you, and showing me all the advantages!” She laughed, with her lips quivering, holding her hands clasped, fiercely determined, whatever she did, not to cry, which is a woman’s weakness. “Meg, you are a sensible woman: not a girl, to know no better.”