Another time Margaret would have paused to speak to the little waif of humanity before her, for she was a lover of children, and was never happier than when she was surrounded by these little creatures--the very babies crowed a welcome to her from their mother's arms. But this evening Margaret's eyes had a strange unseeing look in them; they were searching the winding shore for some expected object, and she scarcely seemed to notice the little one at her play. Only four-and-twenty hours had passed since Sir Wilfred had paid that ill-omened visit to the Grange, and yet some subtle mysterious change had passed over Margaret. It was as though some blighting influence had swept over her; her face was pale, and her eyes were swollen and dim as though with a night's weeping, and the firm beautiful mouth was tremulous with pain. "I thought I should have met him by now," she murmured; "I am nearly at the boat-house; surely Sir Wilfred must have given him my message." But the doubt had hardly crossed her mind before a tall figure turned the corner by the lonely boat-house, and the next moment Hugh was coming rapidly toward her. "Margaret!" he exclaimed, as he caught hold of her outstretched hands, "what does this mean? why have you kept me away from you all these hours, and then appointed this solitary place for our meeting?" Then, as she did not answer, and he looked at her more closely, his voice changed: "Good heavens! what has happened; what has my father done to you? How ill! how awfully ill you look, my darling!" "It is nothing; I have not slept," she returned, trying to speak calmly. "I am unhappy, Hugh, and trouble has made me weak." "You weak," incredulously; then, as he saw her eyes filling with tears, "sit down on this smooth white bowlder, and I will place myself at your feet. Now give me your hand, and tell me what makes you so unlike yourself this evening." Margaret obeyed him, for her limbs were trembling, and a sudden mist seemed to hide him from her eyes; when it cleared, she saw that he was watching her with unconcealed anxiety. "What is it, Margaret?" he asked, still more tenderly; "what is troubling you, my darling?" But he grew still more uneasy when she suddenly clung to him in a fit of bitter weeping and asked him over and over again between her sobs to forgive her for making him so unhappy. "Margaret," he said at last, very gently but firmly, "I can not have you say such things to me; forgive you who have been the blessing of my life; whose only fault is that you love me too well."