He would sting it to life, and tame it: it was his.
"I thought you would come, Stephen," she said, simply, motioning him to a chair.
Could this automaton be Margret?
He leaned on the mantel-shelf, looking down with a cynical sneer.
"Is that the welcome?
Why, there are a thousand greetings for this time of love and good words you might have chosen.

Besides, I have come back ill and poor,--a beggar perhaps.

How do women receive such,--generous women?
Is there no etiquette?
no hand-shaking?
nothing more?
remembering that I was once--not indifferent to you." He laughed.

She stood still and grave as before.
"Why, Margret, I have been down near death since that night." He thought her lips grew gray, but she looked up clear and steady.
"I am glad you did not die.

Yes, I can say that.