I did not
see her face; but the impression that her figure gave me haunted me as I
passed on. Some one passing me saw my disturbed look.
"What have you seen? a ghost?" he asked.
"Who is writing in that room? Can you tell me?" I said.
"You know them all," was his answer, "except the new-comer, Miss Stuart.
Have not you heard the talk of her history,--how the father has failed
and died and all that, and how the daughter is glad enough to get work
under Mr. Clarkson's patronage?"
The bell was ringing that called me, and I could not listen to more. My
brain was whirling uncertainly, and I doubted if I ought to believe my
ears. I went back to my work more dazed and bewildered than ever in my
youthful days. I forgot the wonder of the morning. It was quite
outshone by the wonder of the afternoon. I longed for my hour of
release. I longed for a time for thought,--to learn whether what had
been told me could be true. When the time came, I hastened down-stairs;
but I found the door of the office closed. Its occupants had all gone. I
hastened through the village, turned back again, and on the bridge over
the little stream met Margaret Stuart.
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