"
"You'll never hear it from her lips," said I.
Isabella gave me a venomous look.
"You'll not see Phillippa until she is a better man's wife," she
said stubbornly, "and I order you to leave my house, Owen Blair!"
"No!"
It was Mark Foster who spoke. He hadn't said a word; but he came
forward now, and stood before Owen. Such a difference as there
was between them! But he looked Owen right in the face,
quiet-like, and Owen glared back in fury.
"Will it satisfy you, Owen, if Phillippa comes down here and
chooses between us?"
"Yes, it will," said Owen.
Mark Foster turned to me.
"Go and bring her down," said he.
Isabella, judging Phillippa by herself, gave a little moan of
despair, and Owen, blinded by love and hope, thought his cause
was won. But I knew my dearie too well to be glad, and Mark
Foster did, too, and I hated him for it.
I went up to my dearie's room, all pale and shaking. When I went
in she came to meet me, like a girl going to meet death.
"Is--it--time?" she said, with her hands locked tight together.
I said not a word, hoping that the unlooked-for sight of Owen
would break down her resolution. I just held out my hand to her,
and led her downstairs. She clung to me and her hands were as
cold as snow. When I opened the parlor door I stood back, and
pushed her in before me.
She just cried, "Owen!" and shook so that I put my arms about her
to steady her.
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