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 and said aloud, "Now, while there is yet time, I must speak;" and so passed out of the garden with a slow step and a quiet, pale face.

At the Darius Hardens', dinner had been got through with somehow, General Ruysdale and his host bearing the burden of the conversation. The two ladies had retired as early as possible to the music-room, where they were soon joined by Philip, who came to take leave. Mrs. Harden was at the piano singing the last comic air from the "Folies Bergères" which Bouton de Rose had taught her, and Margaret was standing at the open window pulling the ears of Mrs. Harden's skye-terrier. Philip was about to leave, but Mrs. Harden asked him to turn the pages of her song; and he lingered, not unwilling to be longer in the company of one who, gentle or unkind, was always dear to him. It was pleasant to look at her even while she kept her head so obstinately turned away from him. The twist of soft hair, the curve of her white neck, the slim waist, and delicate outline against the darkness of the open window, were only less beautiful in his sight than her deep eyes and small flower mouth. He was glad that other people found Margaret only "rather pretty," or "sweet-looking;" to him she had a wonderful loveliness,—a loveliness which was not apparent to the first glance of any careless observer, but which grew and grew as one