Margaret winced, and her face began to burn. He seemed to himself to be speaking brutally to her; but what else could he say? “I did not see him at all for a long time,” she said; “and then he came back. He always said he was not--as good as we were. But do you think it all depends upon where you are born? You can’t help where you are born.” “No; but you must be content with it, and keep to your own place,” said Ludovic, an argument which did not make much impression on his own mind. “But he is very clever; he can draw most beautifully,” said Margaret. “The first time he came-- It was--papa that said he might come.” The name brought with it, as was natural, a sob; and Ludovic, horribly compunctious, patted his little sister on the shoulder with a kind and lingering hand. “He made a picture of _him_,” cried Margaret, half inarticulate, struggling with the “climbing sorrow.” “Oh, Loodie! I found it just yesterday; it is _him_, his very self.” “My poor little Margaret! don’t think me cruel,” said the good man, with a break in his voice. “I _must_ hear.” “Yes, Ludovic. He used to come often, and sometimes would cheer him up and make him laugh. And he grew--a great friend. Then, when _he_ was ill, when I went out to cry-- I could not cry when everybody was there.” “My poor child!” “That was the first time I met him in the wood. He was very, very kind. I--could do nothing but cry.” Ludovic took her hand into his, and held it between his own. He was beginning to understand. “I see how it was,” he said, his voice not so steady as at first. “I see exactly how it was; and I don’t blame you, my dear. But, Margaret, has he taken advantage of this? Has he got you to promise--to marry him? Is that what he talks to you about? Forget I am an old man, old to the like of you--or rather think that I am your father, Margaret.” “No, no,” she said, “you are not that; no one will ever be that again; but you are very kind. My father--would have been pleased to see how kind you are.” “God knows--and my poor father too, if he knows anything of what he’s left behind him--that I want to be kind to you, as kind as he could have been, my poor little Margaret. Tell me then, dear, has this young man spoken of marriage to you, and love?” “Of love? oh yes!” said Margaret, drooping her head. “I am not sure about the other. He was for going away yesterday when I told him I had a fortune; and I had to tell him myself that was no reason for going away, that there would be plenty for us both.” “Does that mean that you promised to marry him, Margaret?” “I do not know,” she said, slowly; “I did not think of that. I suppose, when you come to think of it”--the color had all gone out of her face, and she was quite pale again, and letting the words fall more and more slowly--“when you come to think of it, though I never did stop to think--that is what it would mean.”