When her father had driven off on his way to the railroad, Margaret felt how great and long had been the pressure on her time and her spirits. It was astonishing, almost stunning, to feel herself so much at liberty; no one depending on her for cheering care, if not for positive happiness; no invalid to plan and think for; she might be idle, and silent and forgetful,--and what seemed worth more than all the other privileges--she might be unhappy if she liked. For months past, all her own personal cares and troubles had had to be stuffed away into a dark cupboard; but now she had leisure to take them out, and mourn over them, and study their nature, and seek the true method of subduing them into the elements of peace. All these weeks she had been conscious of their existence in a dull kind of way, though they were hidden out of sight. Now, once for all she would consider them and appoint to each of them its right work in her life. So she sat almost motionless for hours in the drawing-room, going over the bitterness of every remembrance with an unwincing resolution. Only once she cried aloud, at the stinging thought of the faithlessness which gave birth to that abasing falsehood.
She now would not even acknowledge the force of the temptation; her plans for Frederick had all failed, and the temptation lay there a dead mockery,--a mockery which had never had life in it; the lie had been so despicably foolish, seen by the light of the ensuing events, and faith in the power of truth so infinitely the greater wisdom!
In her nervous agitation, she unconsciously opened a book of her father's that lay upon the table,--the words that caught her eye in it, seemed almost made for her present state of acute self-abasement:--

When her father had gone, Margaret felt how great had been the pressure on her time and spirits. It was almost stunning to feel herself so much at liberty; no one depending on her for cheering care; no invalid to plan for; she might be idle, and silent - and she might be unhappy if she liked. For months, all her own personal troubles had had to be stuffed away into a dark cupboard; but now she had leisure to take them out, and mourn over them, and seek the true method of subduing them into the elements of peace.
So she sat almost motionless for hours in the drawing-room, going over the bitterness of every remembrance with an unwincing resolution. Only once she cried aloud, at the stinging thought of the faithlessness which led to that falsehood. Her plans for Frederick had all failed, and the temptation to lie seemed now a dead mockery. The lie had been so despicably foolish, and faith in the power of truth would have been so infinitely wiser!
In her nervous agitation, she unconsciously opened a book of her father's that lay upon the table. The words that caught her eye seemed made for her state:
