Margaret--his Margaret--refuse to be his wife! His whole impetuous nature rose against such a cruel sentence--neither God nor man had decreed it; it was unreasonable, untrue, to suppose such a thing. How could he think of the consequences to his unborn children, of the good of future generations of Redmonds, when he could hear nothing but the voice of his passion that told him no other woman would be to him like Margaret? The news had indeed been a shock to him, but, as he had told his father, nothing should prevent his marrying Margaret. But he little knew the woman with whose will he had to cope. Margaret's very love for him gave her strength to resist--besides, she could not look at things from Hugh's point of view. If she had married him she would never have known a moment's peace. If she had had children and they had died, she would have regarded their death as a punishment. She would have seen retributive justice in every trouble that came upon them, till she must have pined and withered in her remorse. But she would never marry him. In that calm, loving heart there was a fund of strength and endurance truly marvelous. In her spirit of self-sacrifice she belonged to the noble army of women of whose ranks the proto-martyr, Mary of Nazareth, was first and chief; who can endure to suffer and to see their beloved suffer: who can thrust, uncomplainingly, the right hand--if need be--into the purifying flame, and so go through life halt or maimed, so that their garments may be always white and stainless. And so looking upon him whom she loved, she gave him up forever; and Hugh's anguish and despair failed to shake her resolution. The Divine Will had forbidden their union; she had promised his father that she would never marry him; she had vowed in last night's bitter conflict never to be the wife of any man. This was what she told him, over and over again, and each time there was a set look about her beautiful mouth that told Hugh that there was no hope for him. He came to believe it at last, and then his heart was very bitter against her. He said to himself, and then aloud--for in his angry passion he did not spare her, and his hard words bruised her gentle soul, most pitilessly--he said that she did not love him, that she never had, that that cold, pure soul of hers was incapable of passion; and he wondered with an intolerable anguish of anger whether she would suffer if he took her at her word and married another; and when he had flung these cruel words at her--for he was half-maddened with misery--he had turned away from her with a groan, and had hidden his head in his hands. His wishes had ceased to influence her; she had given him up; she would never be his wife, and all the sunshine and promise of his youth seemed dimmed.