This was the place.

He sat down on the stone, resting.

Just there she had stood, clutching her little fingers behind her, when he came up and threw back her hood to look in her face: how pale and worn it was, even then! He had not looked at her to-night: he would not, if he had been dying, with those men standing there.

He stood alone in the world with this little Margret.

How those men had carped, and criticised her, chattered of the duties of her soul! Why, it was his, it was his own, softer and fresher.