When Margaret received the post that afternoon she thought the small note was for her father as it seemed to sport the handwriting of his favorite pupil. On closer inspection however, she was shocked to find it was actually addressed to her. Doubting now that it was Mr. Thornton's hand, for why would he send her a letter, she went to her father's study to compare it with a previous note. Papa was currently at the Lyceum Hall giving a lecture and wouldn't be home for an hour or so.

Her father was a bit of a pack rat and seemed to keep everything. She riffled through his desk until she found an old note of Mr. Thornton's, one sent to cancel a lesson most likely. She compared the direction on both letters. Sure enough, hers was also from the tall, handsome, mill master. Margaret's heart began to beat faster. She pressed the letter to her bosom and ran swiftly up the stairs to her room.

Margaret sat on her bed staring at the note in her hands. Could it be a Valentine? No, impossible, he was far too staid and busy to take note of such frivolity, let alone participate in it. She ran her finger over the letters of her name – written in his hand! What could it be? There was only one way to find out. She broke the seal and opened the letter.

She was totally shocked to see the pretty paper and note the strong steady hand that had taken its time to write out the lovely verses. Margaret read it over and over again until she was certain she could say it off by heart. She had a book of Fowler around somewhere. She would have to look it up later. Right now she wished to contemplate the meaning of the words.

Ship broken men, whom stormy seas do tosses,

Protests with oaths not to adventure more,

Yet all their perils, promises and losses

They quite forget when they come to the shore:

Even so, fair dame, whilst sadly I deplore

The shipwreck of my wits, procured by you,

Your looks rekindleth love as of before,

And does revive which I did disavow;

So all my former vows I disallow

And buries in oblivion's grave my groans,

Yea, I forgive hereafter even as now

My fears, my tears, my cares, my sobs and moans

In hope, if I again on rocks be driven,

Ye will me endure to anchor in your heaven.

-William Fowler

So he was heartbroken – by herself, of course. He tried not to love her anymore – but couldn't . He does still love where he vowed he did not (oh my goodness!). And would throw himself on her rocky shores again with the hope that she would, this time, accept him.

Margaret was still reeling at this revelation when there was a knock at the front door. Thinking it might be John she flew down the stairs and threw the door open. With her head tilted upward expecting the tall mill owner, she saw only sky. She had to lower her head to see the delivery boy with the enormous bouquet of yellow roses.

"Is this the 'ale residence?" the boy asked.

"Yes, it is," Margaret replied, staggered by the sight of so many brightly colored roses.

"Then these are fo' you, Miss," said the boy as he held out the flowers.

"Just a minute," said Margaret as she grabbed her purse from the entryway table.

"No need," said the boy, "The gentleman took care o' all that. 'e didn't want to trouble you, 'e said."

Margaret was stunned again. She took the flowers and thanked the boy.

She returned to her room and put the flowers in a vase to admire them. Yellow roses were her favorite, but how many people actually knew that? And of those that did, who could afford to send her a dozen of them? The only name that came to mind was - Henry Lennox. At that thought Margaret recoiled a step or two from the flowers. From this wider perspective however, she was now able to see the note tucked in amongst the leaves.

Stepping back to the vase, her hands trembled as she pulled the note out. 'Miss Hale,' was written on it in that same, now familiar, script she had been looking at only moments ago. The flowers were also from John.

But how would he know she liked yellow roses? She tried to remember if she had ever worn yellow roses around him or mentioned her preference in his presence but she could not think of either such occasion.

Could there be another reason for the yellow roses? Margaret remembered that the different colors of roses held different meanings. Edith had taught her this when the two of them came 'out'. If a suitor gave you a rose, the color was significant: red for love, white for innocence, etc. Yellow roses, she recalled, were for forgiveness. She blinked at that thought. Was John asking for forgiveness?

This puzzled Margaret greatly. She was the one who needed his forgiveness. She had rejected him. She had hurt him. She had lied and he knew it. Him, need forgiveness?! He was kindness itself. When he could have struck out at her with vengeance he gallantly rescued her instead, although he had told her he did it for her father's sake. She remembered his exact words:

"I'm only concerned as your father's friend. I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over. I'm looking to the future."

'Oh!' thought Margaret, 'He lied! If the poem was any indication, 'And does revive which I did disavow.' That's what he asks forgiveness for. He led me to believe he didn't love me anymore.'

Margaret felt that this was all happening so fast she couldn't process it. Her head began to spin. She stumbled back to her bed to sit down before she could faint.

After she had calmed herself and taken a drink of water she turned back to the poem John had sent her, the note from the flowers still unopened in her hand. She read the poem a few more times. Once she felt more certain of its meaning, or at least thought she had explored all possible meanings, she set it down and lifted the new note.

She opened it to find a single line:

"There are still 'So many things we could be.'"

Her eyes flew over the words again and again. He had quoted her poem! He had read her Valentine! He knew it was from her! He still loved her! And now he knew she loved him!

It was fortunate that she was seated on her bed because now she did faint.

….oOo….

Margaret was roused a little while later at the sound of her father calling her name from downstairs, "Margaret! Are you there?"

"Y-Yes," she called out, "I'll be there in just a minute Papa!"

She took her two notes, still clutched in her hands, caressed them lovingly and placed them in the drawer of her bedside table. Smoothing her dress, she got up and went to check her hair in the mirror, making it again presentable. She smiled and inhaled the aroma of her beautiful roses once more and then went to greet her father.

After entering his study and giving him a peck on the cheek Margaret was informed that Mr. Thornton would be expected for his lesson that evening. Apparently he had sent a note to his tutor at the Lyceum Hall requesting the appointment and apologizing for the short notice. Mr. Hale had likewise replied, confirming the time.

Her father concluded the explanation by saying, "So, he'll be here in about an hour."

Margaret's eyes went wide and she began to tremble.

"Are you alright, my dear?" her father asked concernedly, "You look pale. You don't need to attend. Go to bed early if you wish. Are you ill?"

"No, no," Margaret snapped out of her nervous stupor, "I'm fine. I will be here." There was no way she was going miss out on this opportunity.

First she bustled about, tidying up the room. Next she ran down to the kitchen to inform Dixon about the expected guest and ensure that preparations for tea were underway. Finally she returned to her room to prepare herself for the evening. She washed and put on her best day dress, a light-coloured muslin gown, which had a good deal of pink about it, and redid her hair in a more becoming fashion.

She sat down and read over her letters a few more times. She closed her eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm her nerves. She really had no clue how she would navigate this evening. She was comforted by the thought however, that it was he who had asked to come. Surely he must know what he was about and all she would have to do is follow his lead.

Drawing upon this realization for courage, she rose, grabbed her vase of flowers and went to the study. She placed the yellow roses prominently in the middle of the tea table and bent over to smell them once more.