God! what did she do that for?
Did not she know that he could put his head beneath her foot then, he was so mad with pity for the woman he had wronged?
Not love, he thought, controlling himself,--it was only justice to be kind to her.
"You have been ill, Margret, these two years, while I was gone ?" He could not hear her answer; only saw that she looked up with a white, pitiful smile.

Only a word it needed, he thought,--very kind and firm: and he must be quick,--he could not bear this long.

But he held the little worn fingers, stroking them with an unutterable tenderness.
"You must let these fingers work for me, Margret," he said, at last, "when I am master in the mill." "It is true, then, Stephen ?" "It is true,--yes." She lifted her hand to her head, uncertainly: he held it tightly, and then let it go.

What right had he to touch the dust upon her shoes,--he, bought and sold?
She did not speak for a time; when she did, it was a weak and sick voice.
"I am glad.

I saw her, you know.