But Margaret would not leave him like this; the next moment she was kneeling beside him on the sand. They say there is always something of the maternal element in the love of a good woman; and there was something of this protecting tenderness in Margaret's heart as she drew Hugh's head to her shoulder. He did not resist her; the first fierceness of his anger had now died out, and only the bitterness of his despair remained. "Hugh, before we part to-night, will you not tell me that you forgive me?" "How am I to tell you that," he answered, in a dull weary voice, "when you are robbing my life of its happiness?" "Oh, Hugh, when I loved you." "You are proving your love"--with the utmost bitterness; but she answered him with the same gentleness. "You are still angry with me. Well, I must bear your anger; it will only make it all a little harder for me. If you could have said a word that would have helped me to bear it--but no--you are too unhappy; by and by you will do me justice." "I am not a saint like you," he answered, harshly; "I have a man's feelings. You have often told me I am passionate and willful--well, you were right." "Yes, you were always willful, Hugh; but you have never been cruel to me before; it is cruel to doubt my love because my duty compels me to give you up. Ah," with a sudden passionate inflection in her voice, "do you know of what self-sacrifice a woman can be capable? for your dear sake, Hugh, I am content to suffer all my life, to stand aside and be nothing to you--yes, even to see another woman your wife, if only you will be brave and true to yourself, if you will live your life worthily. Will you promise me this, Hugh?" "I will promise nothing," was the reckless answer; "I will take no lie upon my lips even to please you, Margaret." "Then it must be as God wills," she returned with white lips; "this pain will not last forever. One day we shall meet where it will be no sin to love each other. Good-bye until then, Hugh--my Hugh." "You are not leaving me, Margaret," and Hugh's arms held her strongly; but the next moment they had dropped to his side--she had stooped and kissed him on the forehead, and the touch of those cold lips seemed his death-warrant; the next moment he was alone, and Margaret was walking swiftly along the little path hollowed out of the cliff. The sunset clouds had long ago faded, and only a gray sky and sea remained. Half an hour later, as Margaret turned in at the gate of the Grange, a dark figure standing bare-headed under the trees came in groping fashion to meet her. "Is that you, Margaret?" "Yes, it is I," and Margaret stood still and motionless until Raby touched her. "Have you seen him, dear?"