‘But, Mr. Blake,’ she said in a low voice, ‘you are not a Christian.’ Hubert was silent. From a man he would have resented the imputation. Yet he knew that, in Margaret’s sense of the word, she only spoke the truth. ‘Not as you are, perhaps,’ he said at length; ‘but that need not part us. You will make me a Christian; you will teach me.’ Margaret shook her head sadly, and turned away. ‘Don’t go yet,’ cried Hubert, following her. ‘Answer me one question first. Do you love me? That is the only thing I care for.’ ‘It is not the only thing,’ answered the girl. ‘I would never marry a man who was not a Christian.’ Hubert saw it was useless to argue. ‘Do you love me?’ he repeated. Margaret looked up, her lovely face pale with emotion. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘Will you not try to love me?’ ‘No, I cannot,’ she repeated in a lower tone. ‘Do, Margaret.’ ‘No; please don’t ask me again.’ Her tone was firmer and clearer now, and Hubert saw that the case was decided. ‘If I come again--in six months, or a year?’ ‘You would only distress me. I should only tell you again what I tell you to-night.’ ‘Is that your final answer, Margaret?’ ‘It is--my final answer.’ ‘Then--good-bye. I will not forget my promise about your brother.’ He turned his back on the farm, and walked away by himself, not returning until it was time for the evening meal. He felt the disappointment keenly, all the more keenly that he had never anticipated a refusal. It was cruel to think that Margaret was sacrificing his happiness, and perhaps her own, to what he called her fanaticism. He was furious to think that she would never be his, that he might entreat her to the end of time, and she would never yield. As for Margaret, she slipped into the house and was very little seen again that evening. No one ever knew what had passed between her and Hubert Blake. Not even to her own heart did Margaret answer the last question which he had pressed upon her. That night she waited long behind the half-open door of her room, that she might waylay her brother as he came upstairs. At last the lights were put out, and she heard his footstep. She came up to him with a half-articulate whisper, and threw her arms round his neck. Then she sobbed, as if her heart would break. ‘Don’t, Maggie. Don’t, dear old Maggie,’ whispered her brother as he kissed her. ‘Oh, Alec! you are going away. Perhaps I may never see you again; and I’ve been so cold and unkind! Oh, Alec, I don’t want to lose you: that was the reason of it. But I am so sorry! I would give anything--all I have in the world--if only I had behaved differently.’ ‘It was my fault, Maggie, every bit as much as yours.’ ‘No; no; no!’ ‘Yes, it was. But never mind. What does it matter now? I know you love me, Maggie, and that’s all I care for.’ ‘And you will write to me?’ ‘Every week, Maggie.’ ‘Whether you have anything to say or not?’ ‘Whether I have anything to say or not. And I will come to see you at Christmas.’ ‘_Will_ you?’