"And so he shall, mamma; don't cry, my own dear mother. I'll write here, now--you shall see me write--and it shall go by this very post; and if papa thinks fit he can write again when he comes in--it is only a day's delay. Oh, mamma, don't cry so pitifully, it cuts me to the heart."
Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears; they came hysterically; and, in truth, she made no effort to control them, but rather called up all the pictures of the happy past, and the probable future--painting the scene when she should lie a corpse, with the son she had longed to see in life weeping over her, and she unconscious of his presence--till she was melted by self-pity into a state of sobbing and exhaustion that made Margaret's heart ache. But at last she was calm, and greedily watched her daughter, as she began her letter; wrote it with swift urgent entreaty; sealed it up hurriedly, for fear her mother should ask to see it: and then to make security most sure, at Mrs. Hale's own bidding, took it herself to the post-office. She was coming home when her father overtook her.
"And where have you been, my pretty maid?" asked he.

'And so he shall; don't cry, my own dear mother. I'll write here, now - you shall see me write - and it shall go by this very post. If papa thinks fit, he can write again when he comes in; it is only a day's delay. Oh, mamma, don't cry so - it cuts me to the heart.'
In truth, Mrs. Hale made no effort to control her tears, but rather called up all the pictures of the happy past, and the sad future - when she might lie a corpse, with her son weeping over her - till she was melted by self-pity into a state of sobbing exhaustion. But at last she was calm, and greedily watched her daughter as she wrote the letter, and sealed it up hurriedly.
Margaret took it herself to the post-office. She was coming home when her father overtook her.
'And where have you been, my pretty maid?' asked he.
