“No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved me. I didn’t think of it before then; I had only thought of him as an old friend.” “And you _encouraged_ him?” said Tom, with an expression of disgust. “I told him that I loved him too.” Tom was silent a few moments, looking on the ground and frowning, with his hands in his pockets. At last he looked up and said coldly,— “Now, then, Maggie, there are but two courses for you to take,—either you vow solemnly to me, with your hand on my father’s Bible, that you will never have another meeting or speak another word in private with Philip Wakem, or you refuse, and I tell my father everything; and this month, when by my exertions he might be made happy once more, you will cause him the blow of knowing that you are a disobedient, deceitful daughter, who throws away her own respectability by clandestine meetings with the son of a man that has helped to ruin her father. Choose!” Tom ended with cold decision, going up to the large Bible, drawing it forward, and opening it at the fly-leaf, where the writing was. It was a crushing alternative to Maggie. “Tom,” she said, urged out of pride into pleading, “don’t ask me that. I will promise you to give up all intercourse with Philip, if you will let me see him once, or even only write to him and explain everything,—to give it up as long as it would ever cause any pain to my father. I feel something for Philip too. _He_ is not happy.” “I don’t wish to hear anything of your feelings; I have said exactly what I mean. Choose, and quickly, lest my mother should come in.” “If I give you my word, that will be as strong a bond to me as if I laid my hand on the Bible. I don’t require that to bind me.” “Do what _I_ require,” said Tom. “I can’t trust you, Maggie. There is no consistency in you. Put your hand on this Bible, and say, ‘I renounce all private speech and intercourse with Philip Wakem from this time forth.’ Else you will bring shame on us all, and grief on my father; and what is the use of my exerting myself and giving up everything else for the sake of paying my father’s debts, if you are to bring madness and vexation on him, just when he might be easy and hold up his head once more?” “Oh, Tom, _will_ the debts be paid soon?” said Maggie, clasping her hands, with a sudden flash of joy across her wretchedness. “If things turn out as I expect,” said Tom. “But,” he added, his voice trembling with indignation, “while I have been contriving and working that my father may have some peace of mind before he dies,—working for the respectability of our family,—you have done all you can to destroy both.” Maggie felt a deep movement of compunction; for the moment, her mind ceased to contend against what she felt to be cruel and unreasonable, and in her self-blame she justified her brother. “Tom,” she said in a low voice, “it was wrong of me; but I was so lonely, and I was sorry for Philip. And I think enmity and hatred are wicked.”