“Now,” he added, pale and half fearful, “you may forgive me――if you can.” For many moments Margaret sat motionless, her hands still loosely clasped, her face averted. John waited anxiously, breathing hard, possessed with an almost fierce exultation for that he had proclaimed himself her lover and that, whatever happened, no longer could she consider him as merely her brother’s friend, an acquaintance to be smiled upon politely and dismissed from her thoughts. Whether she sent him away or bade him remain, he was her lover, a factor in her life. Whether she ever cared for him or not, at least she could never forget him; as long as she lived the mention of his name must summon recollection. All this would be but poor consolation for losing her, but now, as he waited for her to speak, he found a fierce comfort in the knowledge that already it was beyond her power to put him entirely from her life. When at length she turned her face to him it was paler than his own and the little smile that quivered about the lips was one of pain. Her eyes met his bravely, infinitely tender. John read his answer and his heart sank; but he gave back her smile. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. John nodded and looked away. He wanted to say something, but the right words would not come; he could only smile. It came to him with a shock that he had allowed himself to hope too much; that, despite pretense of reckoning with possible disappointment, he had not, in reality, considered it. The sunlit world suddenly looked sickeningly blank. Perhaps Margaret read something of all this in his expression. When she spoke again her voice held pain and regret. “There’s so much I’d like to say,” she murmured. “But――I don’t know how. I wish――I want you to believe that I am sorry, more sorry than I can tell you. And I thank you very, very much for the honour, for it is an honour that a woman may be proud of, Mr. North. Oh, tell me this, please: have I been to blame?” “To blame! You!” “I mean have I done anything, said anything to make you think――that I might――care for you?” “Great heavens, no!” John protested. “It has been all my fault. But, no, not a fault; I won’t call it that. It would have been a fault not to have loved you. I――I’ve made a mistake in telling you, that is all, Miss Ryerson. Please don’t think of it any more; don’t let it trouble you. It――it’ll be all right.” “Will it?” she asked wistfully. “I hope so, oh, I do hope so! I never thought――if I had suspected for a moment, I would have done something――gone away――――”