Yes! Margaret remembered it well. Edith and Mrs. Shaw had gone to dinner. Margaret had joined the party in the evening. The recollection of the plentiful luxury of all arrangements, the stately handsomeness of the furniture, the size of the house, the peaceful, untroubled ease of the visitors--all came vividly before her, in strange contrast to the present time. The smooth sea of that old life closed up, without a mark left to tell where they had all been. The habitual dinners, the calls, the dancing evenings, were all going on, going on for ever, though her Aunt Shaw and Edith were no longer there; and she, of course, was even less missed. She doubted if any one of that old set ever thought of her, except Henry Lennox. He too, she knew, would strive to forget her, because of the pain she had caused him. She had heard him often boast of his power of putting any disagreeable thought far away from him. Then she penetrated farther into what might have been. If she had cared for him as a lover, and had accepted him, and this change in her father's opinions and consequent station had taken place, she could not doubt but that it would have been impatiently received by Mr. Lennox. It was a bitter mortification to her in one sense; but she could bear it patiently, because she knew her father's purity of purpose, and that strengthened her to endure his errors, grave and serious though in her estimation they were. But the fact of the world esteeming her father degraded, in its rough wholesale judgment, would have oppressed and irritated Mr. Lennox. As she realised what might have been, she grew to be thankful for what was. They were at the lowest now; they could not be worse. Edith's astonishment and her Aunt Shaw's dismay would have to be met bravely, when their letters came. So Margaret rose up and began slowly to undress herself, feeling the full luxury of acting leisurely, late as it was, after all the past hurry of the day. She fell asleep, hoping for some brightness, either internal or external. But if she had known how long it would be before the brightness came, her heart would have sunk low down. The time of the year was most unpropitious to health as well as to spirits. Her mother caught a severe cold, and Dixon herself was evidently not well, although Margaret could not insult her more than by trying to save her, or by taking any care of her. They could hear of no girl to assist her; all were at work in the factories; at least, those who applied were well scolded by Dixon, for thinking that such as they could ever be trusted to work in a gentleman's house. So they had to keep a charwoman in almost constant employ. Margaret longed to send for Charlotte; but besides the objection of her being a better servant than they now could afford to keep, the distance was too great.

Yes! Margaret remembered it well. The recollection of the handsome luxury of the house, the peaceful, untroubled ease there, came vividly before her, in strange contrast to the present. The smooth sea of that old life closed up, without a mark left to tell where it had been. The dinners, the shopping, the dancing, were all going on for ever, though her Aunt Shaw and Edith were no longer there; and she, of course, was even less missed. She doubted if any of that old set ever thought of her, except Henry Lennox. He too would strive to forget her, because of the pain she had caused him.
Then she penetrated farther into what might have been. If she had accepted him, and this change in her father's opinions and station had taken place, she knew it would have been impatiently received by Mr. Lennox. She could bear the change, because she knew her father's purity of purpose, and that strengthened her to endure his errors, grave and serious though she thought they were. But it would have oppressed and irritated Mr. Lennox.
As she realised what might have been, she grew thankful for what was. They were at the lowest now; they could not be worse. Edith's astonishment and her aunt Shaw's dismay would have to be met bravely, when their letters came. So Margaret rose up and began slowly to undress herself. She fell asleep hoping for some brightness, either internal or external.
But if she had known how long it would be before the brightness came, her heart would have sunk low. The time of year was harmful to health as well as spirits. Her mother caught a severe cold, and Dixon was not well, although she would not allow Margaret to try and take care of her. They could find no servant girl to assist her; all were at work in the factories; or at least, Dixon did not approve of any who applied. So they had to keep a charwoman in almost constant employ.
