My soul and body thirst and hunger for you, then, Margret." She did not answer; her hands worked feebly together, the dull blood fainting in her veins.
Knowing only that the night yawned intolerable about her, that she was alone,--going mad with being alone.

No thought of heaven or God in her soul: her craving eyes seeing him only.

The strong, living man that she loved: her tired-out heart goading, aching to lie down on his brawny breast for one minute, and die there,--that was all.
She did not move: underneath the pain there was power, as Knowles thought.
He came nearer, and held up his arms to where she stood,--the heavy, masterful face pale and wet.
"I need you, Margret.

I shall be nothing without you, now.

Come, Margret, little Margret!" She came to him, then, and put her hands in his.
"No, Stephen," she said.
If there were any pain in her tone, she kept it down, for his sake.
"Never, I could never help you,--as you are.