Miss Skeat changed her own position a little so as to be nearer to her.
"Poor child!" repeated Miss Skeat almost in a whisper, as she bent down to the regal head that lay against her hand, smoothing the thick hair with her worn fingers.

"Poor child, do you love him so very dearly ?" She spoke almost inaudibly, and her wrinkled eyelids were wet.

But low as was her voice, Margaret heard, and moved her head in assent, without lifting it from the table.
Ah yes--she loved him very, very much.

But she could not bear to confess it, for all that, and a moment afterwards she was sitting upright again in her chair, feeling that she had weathered the first storm.

Her companion, who was not ignorant of her ways, contented herself then with patting Margaret's hand caressingly during the instant it remained in her own, before it was drawn away.