“Miss Margaret!” Rob Glen said. He was greatly surprised and very glad, having heard of the arrival, which he feared would put a stop to the possibility of his visits. But then he added, in anxious tones, “What is the matter? you are crying. What has happened?” He thought, so miserable were her looks, that Sir Ludovic was dead, and it was with a natural impulse of tenderness and pity that the young man suddenly knelt down beside her and took her hand quietly between his own. “Oh no,” said Margaret, with a sob; “not that, not yet! but they tell me--they tell me--” She could not go any farther for tears. Rob did not say anything, but he put his lips to her hand, and looked anxiously in her face. Margaret could not look at him again--could not speak. She was blind and inarticulate with tears. She only knew that he wept too, and that seemed to make them one. “Did _you_ hear _that_?” she said; “is that what everybody says? I think it will kill me too!” Rob Glen had no premeditated plan. His heart ached for her, so desolate, so young, under the moaning firs. He put his arm round her unconsciously, holding her fast. “Oh, my poor darling!” he said, “my love! I would die to keep any trouble from _you_!” Margaret was entirely overpowered with the sorrow and the sympathy. She leaned her head upon him unawares; she felt his arm support her, and that there was a vague comfort in it. She cried and sobbed without any attempt to restrain herself. No criticism was here, no formal consolations, nothing to make her remember that now she was a woman, and must not abandon herself like a child to her misery. He only wept with her, and after a while began to kiss her hair and her pale cheeks, murmuring over her, “My Margaret, my poor darling!” She did not hear or heed what he said. She was conscious of nothing but anguish, with a vague, faint relief in it, a lessening of the burden, a giving way of the iron band that had seemed to be about her heart. When this passion of weeping was spent, the evening had fallen into dusk. The house had become grayer, paler than ever; the glimmer of the window more red; the trees about were like ghosts, looming indistinctly through the gloom; and Rob was kneeling by her with his arms round her, her head pillowed against him, his face close to hers. There did not seem anything strange in it to poor Margaret. He was very, very kind; he had wept, too, breaking his heart like her; it seemed all so natural, so simple. And she was a little relieved, a little consoled. “Darling,” he was saying, “I don’t think it can be quite true. The doctor would not deceive me, and he did not say so. Who should know best--they who have just come, or we who have been here all the time? Oh, my sweet, don’t break your dear heart!--that would break mine too. I don’t think it can be so bad as they say.” “Oh, do you think so? do you think there is any hope?” said Margaret.