M argo’s first realization that something was ailing her father came at the breakfast table. Hugh refused his coffee in favor to tea. At Margo’s raised eyebrows he explained, “Just a little stomach upset, my dear. Tea—if you remember Kezzie’s firm conviction—is a great healer.” Hugh’s smile did much to allay Margo’s small concern.

And after several days of tea and toast, Hugh did appear to be feeling better. Enough so that when Margo raised the question of the sleigh ride, he waved a thin hand, shrugged, and went back to his newspaper with, “Young Craven, you say? As good as any, I suppose.”

Because there was such a cavalcade of cutters making the Sunday afternoon jaunt, personal chaperones were unnecessary. Winfield at the reins, Margo bundled under a fur rug beside him, swung into a line that extended a mile or more across town, heading for the country.

It was winter at its best. The sun shone on a silver world glinting from every bough, bush, fence rail, and housetop. Better yet was the fact that the jingle of sleigh bells, the creak of harness and runners, along with the merry shouts and happy laughter floating back from dozens of merrymakers, made intimate conversation impossible. Margo relaxed and enjoyed the experience—in the company of a handsome man, warm and comfortable, and more at ease with a masculine escort than at any other time.

Conversation consisted mainly of “Comfortable?” “Just look at that!” “Hungry yet?” shouted from a man intent on handling the reins of a lively horse, keeping the proper distance from the rigs ahead and behind.

Later—warming themselves before an open fire in the drawing room at Heatherstone, drinking hot cocoa and indulging in an array of delicacies from a tray Lorna the maid had brought in, to withdraw into a corner of the room, seat herself, and lower her head into a book—Margo and Winfield forsook Mr. and Miss in favor of first names. As if this intimacy were not enough, Winfield, with his back turned to Lorna and hiding his face and actions, took the cup from Margo’s hand, set it aside, and regained her hand. Surprised, Margo raised her eyes to his while he tightened his hold against her tentative move to free herself.

“Allow me this small favor,” he said tenderly, and he looked into Margo’s eyes so deeply and so steadily that she found herself flushing.

“Tell me you don’t mind,” Winfield said, and his half-whispered words throbbed with unspoken feelings.

Uncomfortable, Margo considered her answer. “I don’t mind ,” she began. Her honest “But I can’t say I really care for it” was cut off by Winfield’s instinctive tightening of his grip, with suggestive manipulation, that, to Margo’s surprise, sent little ripples of pleasure up her arm.

Pressing his advantage, Winfield murmured such things as Margo had never heard before, and she found herself half mesmerized by the hearing.

“Has anyone ever told you,” Winfield murmured, “that your eyes are like”—Margo expected “olives,” the term she herself had used critically when studying those dark features in the mirror—“pools,” he said, showing no imagination at all, but fresh and flattering to Margo.

“And your hair,” he said, fleetingly touching a straying strand, “is like”—a tangle of brambles , Margo immediately came up with silently—“midnight,” Winfield supplied. He seemed to surprise even himself with the additional “misty midnight.”

With a quick glance at Lorna, finding her head nodding and her eyes closed, Winfield slipped from the hassock on which he was perched to a seat beside Margo, his arm going neatly around her shoulders but in a tender, gentle manner more fraught with meaning than if he had “pressed his suit” more vigorously. Margo found the man’s dark eyes, under dark brows, saying things not spoken aloud. The uniqueness of it so gripped her that there was no telling where the evening might have gone if the couple’s fascination in each other had not been rudely interrupted when Casper opened the door, stepped inside, hesitated momentarily, then approached.

Margo, flustered and annoyed at the flustering, said, more sharply than usual, “Yes, what is it?”

“It’s Mr. Galloway, Miss.”

Guiltily imagining her father had somehow discerned his daughter’s indiscretion, Margo halted between a haughty response, coolness in front of the butler, or embarrassment.

“He’s ill, Miss Margaret.” Casper’s starchiness had quite hidden what apparently was serious, for he allowed a faint tone of concern to touch the simple explanation.

Casting foolishness aside, Margo said immediately, “I’ll go right up. Have you called the doctor?”

“Yes, Miss. It’s not the first time.” A muscle moved in the man’s stern jaw, the only emotion he allowed himself.

“Not the first! Why haven’t I been told?”

“Mr. Galloway’s orders, Miss.” Casper’s eyes flickered toward Winfield Craven, and his mouth tightened disapprovingly. Obviously he wasn’t going to say more with Winfield present.

“Winfield . . . Mr. Craven,” Margo began, turning toward her erstwhile wooer. Only later was she to try to puzzle through the expression on his face. So recently flushed with fervor, it was alert, the eyes thoughtful. Certainly it showed no surprise, a surprise in itself. Had Winfield observed something about Hugh’s condition that she, Margo, had not seen? Seeing Hugh only occasionally while Margo saw him daily, was Hugh’s deteriorating health quite obvious to Winfield? Noting this only dimly, it made no great impression at the time.

“You must excuse me, Mr. Craven,” she said, giving Winfield her hand briefly.

“Of course. I’ll come by tomorrow—to see how things are. . . .” Even now Winfield’s tones spoke of something other than the present topic of conversation. But Margo, free from the spell that had gripped her, spoke crisply to Casper, requesting that he bring Mr. Craven’s coat and hat, saying to Winfield only, “It was a delightful day, Mr. Craven. Thank you, and good night.”

Margo flew to her father’s room, to find him in bed and his manservant, Bailey, in attendance. Elbowing Bailey aside, she leaned over Hugh, her eyes widening in alarm. Even in the dim light Hugh’s color seemed dreadful, but what was worse—the evidence of stark pain that twisted his patrician features.

“Papa, Papa—what’s wrong? Oh, what’s wrong?” Margo managed and thought she didn’t have his attention through his suffering.

Eyes shut, mouth twisted, Hugh spoke. Not to Margo but to Bailey.

“Remove her. I—don’t—want—the—girl—here.”

With an apologetic glance Bailey replaced Margo at Hugh’s side. “I think you ought to go, Miss,” he murmured. “The doctor will be here soon, and things will be better.”

Consequently, Margo was waiting in the drawing room when the doctor, a man unknown to her, appeared before the room’s open door, where Casper waited with his cloak.

“Doctor,” Margo said from the drawing room’s dimness, and the man turned his head. “Please come in for a moment. I’m Margaret Galloway,” she added when the doctor had joined her. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Galloway. Mr. Galloway’s strict orders. I feel bound to honor them. If I don’t he’ll simply replace me with someone else who will have the same instructions.”

“But—but, I’m his daughter, for heaven’s sake! Don’t I have a right to know what’s wrong with my own father? This suffering—I don’t understand it. Will it happen again? Has it happened before?”

“Sorry, Miss Galloway.”

Margo attempted to speak calmly. “Doctor, my mother is dead. There is no one, no one else at all but me. I want to be a help—”

With a slight shake of his head, the doctor turned, received his hat and bag from the waiting Casper, bowed to Margo, and left the house.

Casper, who had been with the Heatherstone menage since the Galloways had come to Canada, looked with pity at the girl’s face. Usually so free of care of any kind, pleasant, even lovely, it was now twisted with concern. He saw the dark eyes fill with tears, understood the utter bewilderment on the flushed face.

“Casper,” she whispered, “why?” Knowing she shouldn’t, to a servant, still she did, allowing the very proper staff member a glimpse into her personal feelings.

It was more than Casper could stand. Having already broken faith by advising her that Hugh was ill, Casper went a step further.

“Missy.” He had called her that when she was a very tiny girl of two and three, many years ago, and it came naturally now. “Missy—I’ve felt for a long time that you should know. Your—that is, Mr. Hugh—is ill. Very seriously ill, I’m afraid. In fact, Miss Margaret . . . he’s not going to get well, and I think you ought to know. Ought to be able to plan. Ought to be able to—” Casper’s voice trailed off before the anguish in the two dark eyes before him.

Putting a fatherly arm around the shaking shoulders, Casper helped Margo to her room.

“Try to put it aside—get some sleep,” he said. “I assure you, your father will be asleep, too. The doctor gives him morphine. The medicine ran out tonight; that’s what the trouble was.”

“Morphine! Oh, Casper, what’s wrong with him?”

“It’s a cancer, Miss. Somewhere—in his stomach, maybe in his lungs.” Not knowing whether he felt better or worse for having told her, Casper turned away, confident only that here was a woman, not a girl, and one who was left entirely too much in ignorance of life as most people knew it.

“Thank you, Casper,” Margo managed. “I needed to know. I truly needed to know. And,” she added wisely, “I’ll not let on. But, from now on, I can act more like a daughter to him.”

And though it was difficult to accomplish, Margo spent more time with her father. His visits to his office and other interests grew less and less and finally ceased altogether. His meals at the table were discontinued and, eventually, Hugh was bedfast. Margo read the paper to him and attempted to bathe his forehead if he seemed to be in pain, a personal touch that he resisted more often than not. There were three months of misery, for Margo as for Hugh, though in a different way. Her pain was an inner one, and morphine wouldn’t touch it. To her, it seemed her father was slipping away, and she didn’t know him, had never known him.

Hugh’s business partners and associates, at first, visited frequently. His lawyer was often in evidence. Hugh displayed the characteristics that had made him a rare businessman and was just as careful in his dying as in his living.

“Papa,” Margo asked, more than once, “shouldn’t I be in while Fletcher Wren is talking to you? Can’t I help . . . shouldn’t I—”

“No, no,” Hugh would answer impatiently. “There’s no need, no need.”

Two things made her turn toward the waiting arms of Winfield Craven. First of all was the need to talk about her father’s affairs; Winfield, to a small extent at least, was privy to some of the estate’s vast tentacles. Connected in a minor way with the construction business under the Galloway name, Winfield was in a position to understand, Margo felt, her helplessness and her concern about her ignorance.

To Winfield she was able to say, “Ralph Greeley was in today; he and Father talked a long time. Surely it was greatly important and yet—”

“The railroad,” Winfield supplied. “Greeley is vice president. They’re talking about the extension into the Territories, back of beyond, I guess you’d say.”

“But shouldn’t I know?” Margo would ask anxiously, twisting her hands.

Winfield would take those tense hands in his, smile gently, and assure her that everything could quite reasonably be put under one person’s leadership at her father’s . . . passing. And he, personally, would be dedicated to helping her find that man.

“I’m sure,” he said, more than once, “your father has it all down in writing. He has confidence in his associates and knows you will be able to depend on them. And, if you wish, I’ll stand by to help interpret, explain, perhaps relay some of your desires and wishes concerning, well, all kinds of things.”

All kinds of things, Margo knew, would be overwhelming alone. Winfield, at least, knew enough to calm her fears and more—to actually take on the work that would, undoubtedly, fall upon her at her father’s death. It was a source of comfort to Margo, and she clung to it rather desperately. Certainly, without Winfield, she would be absolutely alone.

The other reason that made Winfield indispensable was more personal—Margo simply had no one on whom to lavish the love that hungered for an outlet. Like a pent-up dam that finds a small leak, lets a droplet through, then another, to find all energy eventually pouring through the small opening, so Margo’s emotions, so long pent up and so denied any outlet at all, catapulted through the opening that was Winfield Craven.

There came a time when, after her father’s oft-recurring battle with pain, Margo had left his room, shaken, tearful, desperately alone, to find Winfield’s arms open and his shoulder available. More and more often this happened, until it seemed a natural haven.

One day, leading her to a comfortable seat in the drawing room, Winfield seated himself by her, drawing her head to his shoulder and patting her, as he had often done before. This time, however, he tipped back her head, dried her eyes with his own handkerchief, and kissed her lips. So tender was it, so natural after the many embraces, that Margo could not object. Nor was she sure she wanted to. After all, she was twenty years old, mistress of Heatherstone, heir to millions, and able to make up her own mind concerning her future. And she was alone, terribly alone.

Moreover, she was healthy and had a young woman’s normal physical response. In spite of herself Margo felt her breath quicken, felt the pound of her heart, felt, in fact, quite dizzy with her response. So ignorant, so unpracticed, still her lips responded with a warmth and urgency that surprised her and, apparently, surprised Winfield. Surprised and pleased Winfield. Recognizing that he had an advantage, he was not slow in following it up. Three kisses he allowed, no more. Then, gently, wisely, he looked into Margo’s bemused face and murmured, “Darling Margaret, may this sweet privilege always be mine! Tell me I may look after you always . . . keep you in my arms always. Marry me, Margaret.”

What was there to say, to do? Having thus committed herself, Margo could not withdraw from his embrace declaring it was all an act on her part or something she indulged in without meaning. It was easier to offer him her lips, again, in capitulation and assent.

“You’ve made me the happiest man on earth!” Winfield said fervently. “When may we marry, my dearest?”

“Why,” Margo stammered, drawing back, “not for a long time, I’m sure. Not while Papa is sick. Not after . . .”

“But, my dearest,” Winfield said, brushing the hair back from her brow, drawing her near, and giving her another lingering kiss, “that may be too long to wait. Don’t you think?”

“No, no . . . not at all . . . not at all. . . .” It was hard for Margo to sound positive with his lips so insistent on hers and hers so absurdly responding.

Winfield bided his time. A beautiful ring appeared, an announcement of the betrothal was made, and Winfield’s unrelenting plans for the marriage made it all more real day by day.

One place Winfield was no help—in the sickroom. Though he seemed to suffer Margo’s presence at times, the one time Winfield entered, to stand supporting her at the bedside, Hugh had roused with an agitation that brought the nurse swiftly to his side.

“What’s he doing here?” the invalid’s voice demanded. “Get that pecksniffian weakling out of here!”

Ugly red surged up into the handsome face at Margo’s shoulder, while her own face turned pale. “I think you should go,” she urged, and with a dark glance at the man in the bed, Winfield left the room.

“Whatever did he mean?” Margo asked Winfield later. “Pecksniffian—I never heard the term.”

Neither had Winfield, but “weakling” he well understood. “Remember, my dear,” he said with an effort at rationality, “the man is not responsible for what he says. He’s clearly raving.”

“Papa is a great lover of Dickens,” Margo said thoughtfully. “He often read his works aloud to Mama . . . sometimes to me. There was a Pecksniff in Martin Chuzzlewit as I remember. Not a savory character . . . selfish and corrupt behind a seeming display of benevolence. Whatever could have possessed Papa—”

“As I said, clearly out of his mind. He’s back in Dickens’ days, living them out in his imagination.”

“I suppose so,” Margo said rather doubtfully and, at the first opportunity, when Hugh had a good day and was lifted into a chair by the window to watch the snow as it fell and the chickadees as they fed, she sat beside him and hesitantly brought up the subject of Winfield and her proposed nuptials.

“Papa, you know I’m engaged . . . you remember I told you about that?”

“Of course I remember. I haven’t got cancer of the brain.” Hugh spoke more harshly in his sickness than ever in health.

“What do you think of it?”

“Every woman should be married, I suppose.” Hugh was supremely indifferent.

“To Winfield Craven, Papa.”

“As good as any, I suppose. I imagine you have your full wits about you. He certainly has.”

“Why do I get the impression, Papa—” Margo’s voice was smothered as she dared ask the question, “that you don’t like him? You do like him, don’t you, Papa?”

“Like him? Like him? Is it necessary that I like him?” Hugh watched the scene outside the window for a moment, then, with a return to his usual politeness, said, “Marry him, my dear. Yes, yes, you must go ahead and marry. I think,” he swung his sunken eyes toward her, “if your mother were here, she would urge you toward marriage. Believe me, I’m thinking of your best interests. If Winfield Craven is your choice, so be it—marry.”

Margo sighed. Everything, it seemed, herded her toward Winfield and marriage. The alternative—life alone, with no family, and with the burden of the Galloway estate to care for by herself as unready as she was—was too dreadful to contemplate.

Margo’s helplessness and aloneness were emphasized when Hugh slipped away in his sleep, in the middle of the night. Margo was not even at his bedside. Casper woke her and broke the news to her, but aside from his sympathetic face there was no one to whom to turn, no one to put an arm around her, no one to advise her. When, later in the day, Winfield arrived, Margo threw all reserve and training to the wind and flung herself into his arms.

It was now, when she was at her lowest ebb, when his presence and help were so desperately needed, that Winfield pressed his advantage and urged an immediate marriage.

“Oh, no!” Margo whispered, horrified at the thought of the impropriety of it.

“My dearest, who is to care? Let us please ourselves rather than society at this time. I can’t bear to leave you—tonight or any night hereafter. I can’t bear to let you out of my arms, when you need them so.” And Winfield held her tenderly, wiping her tears away, soothing her fears, assuaging her loneliness.

In Margo’s weakness and need, Winfield did indeed appear as a tower of strength, and it wasn’t difficult for her to be persuaded. Especially when Winfield loved her so and pledged such devotion and faithful attention to her needs.

With Margo’s tearful acquiescence, Winfield stepped in to take charge of the countless details in regard to the funeral, any business problems, and the running of the Heatherstone staff. “With your permission, my dearest,” he had said, and Margo had gladly turned all such matters over to him. How desperately, after all, she needed him!

“One week, Margaret,” Winfield eventually persuaded. “One week after the burial. That’s enough time, isn’t it, my dear, to be ready? After all, it will just be us, the staff, and a couple of close friends. Then—oh, then, my love,” and Winfield’s voice deepened with the thrill of “then.”

Margo was persuaded.