Fox colored deeply; he was suddenly forced into an impossible position. “My dear Margaret,” he said gravely, “I have no words to meet it; you must know how profoundly I feel it!” “If I did not--if I were not sure of you!” she replied, a little wildly, “it would kill me sooner. Sometimes I have wanted to die. The doctors say that I have heart trouble--I hope I have! If I believed in prayer I should have prayed to die.” “Margaret! is it as bad as that?” he cried, in sudden uncontrollable pity; he remembered her as so young, so beautiful, so happy! Her lips twitched. “As bad as that?” she repeated wildly; “I feel like a trapped squirrel, a rabbit in a snare, I can only shriek because it hurts me--it isn’t bad enough yet to kill! I’m caged--oh, William, William, help me get out!” “Margaret!” he exclaimed sharply, “don’t you know that I can’t hear this? This is White’s house, I’ve broken his bread. My God, how dreadful it all is!” Her hand clenched unconsciously at her side, her white neck rose and fell with her tortured breathing, a horrible doubt had assailed her. Then the light broke over her face; he loved her, that was it, and he was too honorable to speak! She held out both hands. “William, forgive me,” she murmured softly, “but what have we gained by silence? What does it all matter to the world? But you must go, perhaps I did wrong to tell you now! Good-night, I--I--” Her lips quivered pitifully. “I have always loved you--don’t think me a wicked woman.” “Margaret!” he groaned, deeply, terribly touched, yet with a sickening consciousness of his own unresponsive heart. She smiled faintly, moving away from him toward the stairs. “Oh, you must go, good-night!” she repeated, as he paused half reluctant. “I’m resolved, nothing shall change me--in a little while--” she paused and he saw the change in her face, its lighting up and softening, the revelation of its beauty, its subtle charm; saw it with a slow agony of remorse and reluctance; “in a little while,” she said, and her smile was wonderful, “I shall be free!” Fox scarcely knew how he got out of the house; he left it in a dream and went directly home to his own apartments in an uptown flat. The distance was not great and he scarcely allowed himself to think. His mind was almost confused by the sudden and blinding climax. But as he opened his door, and the dog, Sandy, leaped to meet him, a rush of feeling swept away his passive resistance; he forced himself to turn on the lights more fully and to look about at the familiar objects which met his eyes on all sides, his books, his pictures, his littered writing-table; he even picked up the evening mail, which his clerk had left in its accustomed place, and looked over the pile of letters and pamphlets. But it cost him an effort.