well to make you miserable. Go to the man you love — you are free!”
“And what is to become of me?”’ wailed Isabella.
“Oh, you! — I had forgotten about you,” said Mark, kind of weary-like. He took a paper from his pocket, and dropped it in the grate. “There is the mortgage. That is all you care about, I think. Good-morning.”
He went out. He was only a common fellow, but, somehow, just then he looked every inch the gentleman. I would have gone after him and said something but — the look on his face — no, it was no time for my foolish old words!
Phillippa was crying, with her head on Owen's shoulder. Isabella Clark waited to see the mortgage burned up, and then she came to me in the hall, all smooth and smiling again.
“Really, it’s all very romantic, isn’t it? I suppose it’s better as it is, all things considered. Mark behaved splendidly, didn’t he? Not many men would have done as he did.”
For once in my life I agreed with Isabella. But I felt like having a good cry over it all — and I had it. I was glad for my dearie’s sake and Owen's; but Mark Foster had paid the price of their joy, and I knew it had beggared him of happiness for life.
