‘As to my speaking falsely concerning William Henry’s fidelity,’ he answered quietly, ‘time alone can prove that: and there will be certainly plenty of time; while as to cruelty I really cannot accuse myself of having been cruel.’ ‘What! when you have allowed the mutual love between your son and me for months to ripen without censure? When you have heard him call me his own ten times a day, and never reproved him for it. When you have thrown us together and left us together? And now because something has not succeeded, of the success of which you made sure, do you wish to tear us asunder and bid us forget one another. And then, oh shame, do you dare to say you are not cruel?’ The old man made her no reply, perhaps his conscience pricked him in the matter, or perhaps he perceived that it was useless to argue with her in her present excited state. ‘Have you any fault to find with Willie?’ she continued reproachfully. ‘Has he not done all he could do in this unfortunate affair? What has happened to the “Vortigern“ that he could help or hinder? Do you suppose he has deceived you because it has not succeeded? ‘Of course not,’ put in the antiquary testily; ‘the boy is honest enough, no doubt; but one must look at things from a reasonable point of view. Come, come, we can talk of these things to-morrow. It is getting late. Let us to bed.’ She answered not a word, but sat with her face bowed down on the table and hidden in her hands, while he took up his candle and left her. She remained in the same position for many minutes, when suddenly there came a gentle knock, a mere tap, at the front door. She was on her feet in a moment, with her long hair loose behind her ears, listening. It was not Willie’s knock, she knew, but it might be news of Willie. The clock on the mantelpiece had just struck two. Then came the tap again; this time a little more distinct. It was evident that her uncle had not heard it, and the servant had long gone to bed. There were many bad characters abroad in the street in those times, restrained by a very inefficient constabulary, but Margaret did not hesitate to obey this second summons. She went to the door and undid the fastenings without making the least noise. A woman stood on the step, to judge by her figure a young one, but her face was hidden in her hood. ‘You are Margaret?’ she said, in clear sweet tones mingled with an ineffable pity. ‘I am,’ she answered, with a dreadful fear at her heart. She felt that some messenger of evil tidings stood before her. ‘I thought so; I felt sure that you would be sitting up for him,’ murmured the other softly. ‘Where is he? Is he ill? Why does he not come home?’ gasped Margaret. ‘He is not ill, but he cannot come home. Let me in, and I will tell you all.’