'Your way of speaking shocks me. It is blasphemous. I cannot help

it, if that is my first feeling. It might not be so, I dare say,

if I understood the kind of feeling you describe. I do not want

to vex you; and besides, we must speak gently, for mamma is

asleep; but your whole manner offends me--' 'How!' exclaimed he. 'Offends you! I am indeed most unfortunate.' 'Yes!' said she, with recovered dignity. 'I do feel offended;

and, I think, justly. You seem to fancy that my conduct of

yesterday'--again the deep carnation blush, but this time with

eyes kindling with indignation rather than shame--'was a personal

act between you and me; and that you may come and thank me for

it, instead of perceiving, as a gentleman would--yes! a

gentleman,' she repeated, in allusion to their former

conversation about that word, 'that any woman, worthy of the name

of woman, would come forward to shield, with her reverenced

helplessness, a man in danger from the violence of numbers.' 'And the gentleman thus rescued is forbidden the relief of

thanks!' he broke in contemptuously. 'I am a man. I claim the

right of expressing my feelings.' 'And I yielded to the right; simply saying that you gave me pain

by insisting upon it,' she replied, proudly. 'But you seem to

have imagined, that I was not merely guided by womanly instinct,

but'--and here the passionate tears (kept down for

long--struggled with vehemently) came up into her eyes, and

choked her voice--'but that I was prompted by some particular

feeling for you--you! Why, there was not a man--not a poor

desperate man in all that crowd--for whom I had not more

sympathy--for whom I should not have done what little I could

more heartily.' 'You may speak on, Miss Hale. I am aware of all these misplaced

sympathies of yours. I now believe that it was only your innate

sense of oppression--(yes; I, though a master, may be

oppressed)--that made you act so nobly as you did. I know you

despise me; allow me to say, it is because you do not understand

me.' 'I do not care to understand,' she replied, taking hold of the

table to steady herself; for she thought him cruel--as, indeed,

he was--and she was weak with her indignation.

'No, I see you do not. You are unfair and unjust.' Margaret compressed her lips. She would not speak in answer to

such accusations. But, for all that--for all his savage words, he

could have thrown himself at her feet, and kissed the hem of her

wounded pride fell hot and fast. He waited awhile, longing for

garment. She did not speak; she did not move. The tears of her to

say something, even a taunt, to which he might reply. But she was

silent. He took up his hat.




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