Her pale cheeks suddenly became one flame of fire; and she covered her face with her hands. When she took them away, her palms were wet with scalding tears.
"Oh how low I am fallen that they should say that of me! I could not have been so brave for any one else, just because he was so utterly indifferent to me--if, indeed, I do not positively dislike him. It made me the more anxious that there should be fair play on each side; and I could see what fair play was. It was not fair," said she vehemently, "that he should stand there--sheltered, awaiting the soldiers, who might catch those poor maddened creatures as in a trap--without an effort on his part, to bring them to reason. And it was worse than unfair for them to set on him as they threatened. I would do it again, let who will say what they like of me. If I saved one blow, one cruel, angry action that might otherwise have been committed, I did a woman's work. Let them insult my maiden pride as they will--I walk pure before God!"

Her pale cheeks suddenly became one flame of fire; and she covered her face with her hands. When she took them away, her palms were wet with tears.
'Oh, how low I am fallen that they should say that of me! I could be so brave for him, just because he was so utterly indifferent to me - if, indeed, I do not positively dislike him. It made me anxious that there should be fair play on each side; and it was not fair,' said she, vehemently, 'that he should stand there awaiting the soldiers, who might catch those poor maddened creatures as in a trap - without any effort on his part to bring them to reason. And it was worse than unfair for them to attack him. I would do it again. If I saved one blow, one cruel, angry action, I did a woman's work. Let them insult me as they will - I walk pure before God!'


She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to descend and calm her face, till it was "stiller than chiselled marble."
Dixon came in:
"If you please, Miss Margaret, here's the water-bed from Mrs. Thornton's. It's too late for to-night, I'm afraid, for missus is nearly asleep: but it will do nicely for to-morrow."
"Very," said Margaret. "You must send our best thanks."
Dixon left the room for a moment.
"If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he's to ask particular how you are. I think he must mean missus; but he says his last words were, to ask how Miss Hale was."

She looked up, and a noble peace seemed to calm her face.
Dixon came in. 'If you please, Miss Margaret, here's the water-bed from Mrs. Thornton's. It's too late for tonight, I'm afraid, for missus is nearly asleep: but it will do nicely for tomorrow.'
'You must send our best thanks.'
'If you please, Miss Margaret, he says he's to ask particular how you are. I think he must mean missus; but he says to ask how Miss Hale was.'


"Me!" said Margaret, drawing herself up. "I am quite well. Tell him I am perfectly well." But her complexion was as deadly white as her handkerchief; and her head ached intensely.
Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleeping wife; and wanted, as Margaret saw, to be amused and interested by something that she was to tell him. With sweet patience did she bear her pain, without a word of complaint; and rummaged up numberless small subjects for conversation--all except the riot, and that she never named once. It turned her sick to think of it.

'Me!' said Margaret, drawing herself up. 'Tell him I am perfectly well.' But her complexion was as white as her handkerchief; and her head ached intensely.
Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his sleeping wife; and wanted, as Margaret saw, to be amused. With sweet patience she bore her pain, without a word of complaint, and rummaged up numberless small subjects for conversation - all except the riot, for it turned her sick to think of it.


"Good-night, Margaret. I have every chance of a good night myself, and you are looking very pale with your watching. I shall call Dixon if your mother needs anything. Do you go to bed and sleep like a top; for I'm sure you need it, poor child!"
"Good-night, papa!"
She let her colour go--the false smile fade away--the eyes grow dull with heavy pain. She released her strong will from its laborious task. Till morning she might feel ill and weary.

'Good-night, Margaret. You are looking very pale. Do go to bed and sleep like a top; for I'm sure you need it, poor child!'
'Good-night, papa.'
She let the forced smile fade away, releasing her strong will from its laborious task.


She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as one finger, would have been beyond the powers of either volition or motion. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the boundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable identity. She could not be alone, prostrate, powerless as she was,--a cloud of faces looked up at her, giving her no idea of fierce vivid anger, or of personal danger, but a deep sense of shame that she should thus be the object of universal regard--a sense of shame so acute that it seemed as if she would fain have burrowed into the earth to hide herself, and yet she could not escape out of that unwinking glare of many eyes.

She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even one finger, would have been beyond her power. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the boundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable identity. A cloud of faces looked up at her, giving her a deep sense of shame - a sense so acute that she would fain have burrowed into the earth to hide herself, and yet she could not escape that unwinking glare of many eyes.


"That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, And anguish, all, are shadows vain, That death itself shall not remain;
That weary deserts we may tread, A dreary labyrinth may thread. Thro' dark ways underground be led;
Yet, if we will one Guide obey, The dreariest path, the darkest way Shall issue out in heavenly day;
And we, on divers shores now cast, Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, All in our Father's house at last!" R. C. TRENCH.
Margaret flew up stairs as soon as their visitors were gone, and put on her bonnet and shawl, to run and inquire how Betsy Higgins was, and sit with her as long as she could before dinner. As she went along the crowded narrow streets, she felt how much of interest they had gained by the simple fact of her having learnt to care for a dweller in them.

Margaret flew upstairs as soon as the visitors were gone, and put on her bonnet and shawl, to go and sit with Bessy Higgins before dinner. As she went along the crowded narrow streets, she felt how much more interesting they seemed now that she cared for a dweller in them.

Chapter 13: A SOFT BREEZE IN A SULTRY PLACE


Mary Higgins, the slatternly younger sister, had endeavoured as well as she could to tidy up the house for the expected visit. There had been rough-stoning done in the middle of the floor, while the flags under the chairs and table and round the walls retained their dark unwashed appearance. Although the day was hot, there burnt a large fire in the grate, making the whole place feel like an oven; Margaret did not understand that the lavishness of coals was a sign of hospitable welcome to her on Mary's part, and thought that perhaps the oppressive heat was necessary for Bessy. Bessy herself lay on a squab, or short sofa, placed under the window. She was very much more feeble than on the previous day, and tired with raising herself at every step to look out and see if it was Margaret coming. And now that Margaret was there, and had taken a chair by her, Bessy lay back silent, and content to look at Margaret's face, and touch her articles of dress, with a childish admiration of their fineness of texture.

Mary Higgins, the slatternly younger sister, had tried to tidy up the house for the expected visit. The middle of the floor had been scoured, while the flagstones under the chairs and table remained unwashed. Although the day was hot, a large fire burnt in the grate, making the place feel like an oven. Margaret did not understand that the lavishness of coals was a sign of welcome to her, and thought that perhaps the heat was necessary for Bessy.
Bessy herself lay on a sofa under the window. She was very much more feeble than on the previous day, and tired with getting up to look for Margaret coming. Now that Margaret was there, and had taken a chair by her, Bessy lay back silent, content to look at Margaret's face, and touch her dress with childish admiration.


"I never knew why folk in the Bible cared for soft raiment afore. But it must be nice to go dressed as yo' do. It's different fro' common. Most fine folk tire my eyes out wi' their colours; but some how yours rest me. Where did ye get this frock?"
"In London," said Margaret, much amused.
"London! Have yo' been in London?"

'I never knew why folk in the Bible cared for soft raiment before. But it must be nice to go dressed as yo' do. Most fine folk tire my eyes out wi' their colours; but somehow yours rest me. Where did yo' get this frock?'
'In London,' said Margaret, much amused.
'London! Have yo' been in London?'


"Yes! I lived there for some years. But my home was in a forest; in the country."
"Tell me about it," said Bessy. "I like to hear speak of the country, and trees, and such like things." She leant back, and shut her eyes, and crossed her hands over her breast, lying at perfect rest, as if to receive all the ideas Margaret could suggest.

'Yes! I lived there for some years. But my home was in a forest; in the country.'
'Tell me about it,' said Bessy. 'I like to hear speak of the country and trees.' She leant back, and shut her eyes.


Margaret had never spoken of Helstone since she left it, except just naming the place incidentally. She saw it in dreams more vivid than life, and as she fell away to slumber at nights her memory wandered in all its pleasant places. But her heart was opened to this girl: "Oh, Bessy, I loved the home we have left so dearly! I wish you could see it. I cannot tell you half its beauty. There are great trees standing all about it, with their branches stretching long and level, and making a deep shade of rest even at noonday. And yet, though every leaf may seem still, there is a continual rushing sound of movement all around--not close at hand. Then sometimes the turf is as soft and fine as velvet; and sometimes quite lush with the perpetual moisture of a little, hidden, tinkling brook near at hand. And then in other parts there are billowy ferns--whole stretches of fern; some in the green shadow; some with long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them--just like the sea."

Margaret had barely spoken of Helstone since she left it, although she saw it in vivid dreams at night, when her memory wandered in its pleasant places. But her heart was opened to this girl.
'Oh, Bessy, I loved my home! I wish you could see it. I cannot tell you half its beauty. There are great trees standing all about, with their branches stretching long and level, and making a deep shade of rest even at noonday. And though every leaf may seem still, there is a continual rushing sound of movement. Then sometimes the turf is as soft and fine as velvet; and sometimes quite lush with the moisture of a little, hidden, tinkling brook. In other parts there are stretches of billowy ferns, some in the green shadow, some with long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them - just like the sea.'


"I have never seen the sea," murmured Bessy. "But go on."
"Then here and there, there are wide commons, high up as if above the very tops of the trees--"
"I am glad of that. I felt smothered like down below. When I have gone for an out, I've always wanted to get high up and see far away, and take a deep breath o' fulness in that air. I get smothered enough in Milton, and I think the sound yo' speak of among the trees, going on for ever and ever, would send me dazed; it's that made my head ache so in the mill. Now on these commons, I reckon, there is but little noise?"
"No," said Margaret; "nothing but here and there a lark high in the air. Sometimes I used to hear a farmer speaking sharp and loud to his servants; but it was so far away that it only reminded me pleasantly that other people were hard at work in some distant place, while I just sat on the heather and did nothing."

'I have never seen the sea,' murmured Bessy. 'But go on.'
'Then, here and there, there are wide commons, high up as if above the very tops of the trees-'
'I'm glad of that. I felt smothered like down below. When I have gone for an outing, I've always wanted to get high up and see far away. I get smothered enough in Milton, and I think the sound of the trees would send me dazed; it's that made my head ache so in the mill. Now on these commons I reckon there is little noise?'
'No,' said Margaret; 'nothing but larks high in the air. Sometimes I used to hear a farmer speaking sharp and loud; but so far away that it only reminded me pleasantly that other people were hard at work in some distant place, while I sat on the heather and did nothing.'


"I used to think once that if I could have a day of doing nothing, to rest me--a day in some quiet place like that yo' speak on--it would maybe set me up. But now I've had many days o' idleness, and I'm just as weary 'o them as I was o' my work. Sometimes I'm so tired out I think I cannot enjoy heaven without a piece of rest first. I'm rather afeard o' going straight there without getting a good sleep in the grave to set me up."
"Don't be afraid, Bessy," said Margaret, laying her hand on the girl's hand; "God can give you more perfect rest than even idleness on earth, or the dead sleep of the grave can do."
Bessy moved uneasily; then she said:

'I used to think once that if I could have a day of doing nothing, to rest me, it would maybe set me up. But now I've had many days o' idleness, and I'm just as weary o' them as I was o' my work. Sometimes I'm so tired I think I cannot enjoy heaven without a piece of rest first. I'm rather afeard o' going straight there without getting a good sleep in the grave to set me up.'
'Don't be afraid, Bessy,' said Margaret, laying her hand on the girl's; 'God can give you more perfect rest than any other.'
Bessy moved uneasily; then she said:


"I wish father would not speak to me as he does. He means well, as I telled yo' yesterday, and tell yo' again and again. But yo' see, though I don't believe him a bit by day, yet by night--when I'm in a fever, half asleep and half awake--it comes back upon me--oh! so bad! And I think, if this should be th' end of all, and if all I've been born for is just to work my heart and my life away, and to sicken i' this dree place, wi' them mill-noises in my ears for ever, until I could scream out for them to stop, and let me have a little piece o' quiet--and wi' the fluff filling my lungs, until I thirst to death for one long deep breath o' the clear air yo' speak on--and my mother gone, and I never able to tell her again how I loved her, and o' all my troubles--I think if this life is th' end, and there's no God to wipe away all tears from all eyes--yo' wench, yo'!" said she, sitting up, and clutching violently, almost fiercely, at Margaret's hand, "I could go mad, and kill yo, I could." She fell back completely worn out with her passion. Margaret knelt down by her.
"Bessy--we have a Father in Heaven."

'I wish father would not speak as he does. He means well. But yo' see, though I don't believe him by day, yet by night - when I'm in a fever, half-asleep - it comes back upon me - oh! so bad! And I think, if this should be th' end of everything, and if all I've been born for is just to work my heart and my life away i' this dreary place, wi' them mill-noises in my ears for ever, until I could scream out for them to stop and let me have a little quiet - and wi' the fluff filling my lungs, until I long for one deep breath o' clear air - and my mother gone, and I never able to tell her again how I loved her - I think if this life is th' end, and that there's no God to wipe away all tears from all eyes-' She sat up, clutching violently at Margaret's hand. 'I could go mad, and kill yo', I could.' She fell back, worn out with her passion.
Margaret knelt down by her.
'Bessy - we have a Father in Heaven.'


"I know it! I know it," moaned she, turning her head uneasily from side to side. "I'm very wicked. I've spoken very wickedly. Oh! don't be frightened by me and never come again. I would not harm a hair of your head. And," opening her eyes, and looking earnestly at Margaret, "I believe, perhaps, more than yo' do o' what's to come. I read the book o' Revelations until I know it off by heart, and I never doubt when I'm waking, and in my senses, of all the glory I'm to come to."

'I know it!' moaned she. 'I've spoken very wickedly. Oh! don't be frightened by me and never come again. I wouldn't harm a hair of your head. And I believe, perhaps, more than yo' do what's to come. I know the book o' Revelations off by heart, and I never doubt, when I'm in my senses, of all the glory I'm to come to.'


"Don't let us talk of what fancies come into your head when you are feverish. I would rather hear something about what you used to do when you were well."
"I think I was well when mother died, but I have never been rightly strong sin' somewhere about that time. I began to work in a carding-room soon after, and the fluff got into my lungs, and poisoned me."
"Fluff?" said Margaret, inquiringly.
"Fluff," repeated Bessy. "Little bits, as fly off fro' the cotton, when they're carding it, and fill the air till it looks all fine white dust. They say it winds rounds the lungs, and tightens them up. Anyhow, there's many a one as works in a carding-room, that falls into a waste, coughing and spitting blood, because they're just poisoned by the fluff."

'Don't let us talk about when you are feverish. I would rather hear something about what you used to do when you were well.'
'I think I was well when mother died, but I have never been rightly strong since then. I began to work in a carding-room soon after, and the fluff got into my lungs and poisoned me.'
'Fluff?' said Margaret.
'Little bits, as fly off fro' the cotton when they're carding it, and fill the air with fine white dust. They say it winds round the lungs. There's many a one as works in a carding-room, that falls into a waste, coughing and spitting blood, because they're poisoned by the fluff.'


"But can't it be helped?" asked Margaret.
"I dunno. Some folk have a great wheel at one end o' their carding-rooms to make a draught, and carry off th' dust; but that wheel costs a deal of money--five or six hundred pounds, maybe, and brings in no profit; so it's but a few of th' masters as will put 'em up; and I've heard tell o' men who didn't like working in places where there was a wheel, because they said as how it made 'em hungry, at after they'd been long used to swallowing fluff, to go without it, and that their wages ought to be raised if they were to work in such places. So between masters and men th' wheels fall through. I know I wish there'd been a wheel in our place, though."
"Did not your father know about it?" asked Margaret.

'But can't it be helped?' asked Margaret.
'I dunno. Some folk have a great wheel at one end o' their carding-rooms to make a draught, and carry off th' dust; but that wheel costs a deal o' money - five or six hundred pound, maybe, and brings in no profit; so only a few of th' masters will put 'em up. And I've heard o' men who didn't like working where there was a wheel, because they said it made 'em hungry, after they'd been long used to swallowing fluff, to go without it, and that their wage ought to be raised if they were to work in such places. So between masters and men th' wheels fall through. I wish there'd been a wheel in our place, though.'
'Did your father know about it?' asked Margaret.


"Yes! And he was sorry. But our factory were a good one on the whole; and a steady likely set o' people; and father was afeard of letting me go to a strange place, for though yo' would na think it now, many a one then used to call me a gradely lass enough. And I did na like to be reckoned nesh and soft, and Mary's schooling were to be kept up, mother said, and father he were always liking to buy books, and go to lectures o' one kind and another--all which took money--so I just worked on till I shall ne'er get the whirr out o' my ears, or the fluff out o' my throat i' this world. That's all."
"How old are you?" asked Margaret.
"Nineteen, come July."

'Yes! And he were sorry. But our factory were a good one on the whole; and a steady set o' people; and father was afeard of letting me go to a strange place. And I did na like to be reckoned nesh and weak, and Mary's schooling were to be kept up, mother said, and father he were always liking to buy books and go to lectures - all which took money - so I just worked on. That's all.'
'How old are you?'
'Nineteen, come July.'


"And I too am nineteen." She thought more sorrowfully than Bessy did, of the contrast between them. She could not speak for a moment or two for the emotion she was trying to keep down.
"About Mary," said Bessy. "I wanted to ask yo' to be a friend to her. She's seventeen, but she's th' last on us. And I don't want her to go to th' mill, and yet I dunno what she's fit for."
"She could not do"--Margaret glanced unconsciously at the uncleaned corners of the room--"She could hardly undertake a servant's place, could she? We have an old faithful servant, almost a friend, who wants help, but who is very particular; and it would not be right to plague her with giving her any assistance that would really be an annoyance and an irritation."

'I too am nineteen.' Margaret thought sorrowfully of the contrast between them, and could not speak for a moment or two.
'About Mary,' said Bessy. 'I wanted to ask yo' to be a friend to her. She's seventeen, and I don't want her to go to th' mill, and yet I dunno what she's fit for.'
Margaret glanced at the uncleaned corners of the room. 'She could hardly fill a servant's place, could she? We have an old faithful servant who wants help, but who is very particular; and it would not be right to plague her with giving her any assistance that would really be an annoyance.'


"No, I see. I reckon yo're right. Our Mary's a good wench; but who has she had to teach her what to do about a house? No mother, and me at the mill till I was good for nothing but scolding her for doing badly what I didn't know how to do a bit. But I wish she could ha' lived wi' yo', for all that."
"But even though she may not be exactly fitted to come and live with us as a servant--and I don't know about that--I will always try to be a friend to her for your sake, Bessy. And now I must go. I will come again as soon as I can; but if it should not be to-morrow, or the next day, or even a week or a fortnight hence, don't think I've forgotten you. I may be busy."

'No, I see. I reckon yo're right. Our Mary's a good wench; but she's had no one to teach her what to do about a house. But I wish she could ha' lived wi' yo', for all that.'
'Even though she may not be exactly fitted to live with us as a servant, I will always try and be a friend to her, Bessy. And now I must go. I will come again as soon as I can; but if it should not be tomorrow, or the next day, or even a week or a fortnight hence, don't think I've forgotten you. I may be busy.'


"I'll know yo' won't forget me again. I'll not mistrust yo' no more. But remember, in a week or a fortnight I may be dead and buried!"
"I'll come again as soon as I can, Bessy," said Margaret, squeezing her hand tight. "But you'll let me know if you get worse."
"Ay, that will I," said Bessy, returning the pressure.

'I'll know yo' won't forget me again. I'll not mistrust yo' no more. But remember, in a week or a fortnight I may be dead and buried!'
'I'll come as soon as I can, Bessy,' said Margaret, squeezing her hand tight. 'Let me know if you are worse.'
'Ay, that will I.'


From that day forwards Mrs. Hale became more and more of a suffering invalid. It was now drawing near to the anniversary of Edith's marriage, and looking back upon the year's accumulated heap of troubles, Margaret wondered how they had been borne. If she could have anticipated them, how she would have shrunk away and hid herself from the coming time! And yet day by day had, of itself, and by itself, been very endurable--small, keen, bright little spots of positive enjoyment having come sparkling into the very middle of sorrows. A year ago, or when she first went to Helstone, and first became silently conscious of the querulousness in her mother's temper, she would have groaned bitterly over the idea of a long illness to be borne in a strange, desolate, noisy, busy place, with diminished comforts on every side of the home life. But with the increase of serious and just ground of complaint, a new kind of patience had sprung up in her mother's mind. She was gentle and quiet in intense bodily suffering, almost in proportion as she had been restless and depressed when there had been no real cause for grief. Mr. Hale was in exactly that stage of apprehension which, in men of his stamp, takes the shape of wilful blindness. He was more irritated than Margaret had ever known him at his daughter's expressed anxiety.

From that day forwards Mrs. Hale became more and more of a suffering invalid. It was now drawing near to the anniversary of Edith's marriage; and, looking back upon the year's troubles, Margaret wondered how they had been borne. And yet day by day had, of itself, been very endurable - small, bright spots of enjoyment having come sparkling into the middle of sorrows.
When she first went to Helstone, and became conscious of her mother's querulous temper, she would have groaned at the idea of a long illness to be borne in a strange place. But a new patience had sprung up in her mother. She was gentle and quiet in her intense pain, just as much as she had been restless and depressed when there was no real cause for grief.
Mr. Hale's apprehension took the shape of wilful blindness. When Margaret expressed her anxiety, he was more irritated than she had ever known him.


"Indeed, Margaret, you are growing fanciful! God knows I should be the first to take the alarm if your mother were really ill; we always saw when she had her headaches at Helstone, even without her telling us. She looks quite pale and white when she is ill; and now she has a bright healthy colour in her cheeks, just as she used to have when I first knew her."
"But papa," said Margaret, with hesitation, "do you know I think that is the flush of pain."
"Nonsense, Margaret. I tell you, you are too fanciful. You are the person not well, I think. Send for the doctor to-morrow for yourself; and then, if it will make your mind easier, he can see your mother."

'Indeed, Margaret, you are growing fanciful! God knows I should be the first to take alarm if your mother were really ill. But she looks quite pale when she is ill; and now she has a bright healthy colour in her cheeks.'
'But, papa,' said Margaret, with hesitation, 'I think that is the flush of pain.'
'Nonsense, Margaret. You are the person not well, I think. Send for the doctor tomorrow for yourself; and then, if it will make your mind easier, he can see your mother.'


"Thank you, dear papa. It will make me happier, indeed." And she went up to him to kiss him. But he pushed her away--gently enough, but still as if she had suggested unpleasant ideas, which he should be glad to get rid of as readily as he could of her presence. He walked uneasily up and down the room.
"Poor Maria!" said he, half soliloquising, "I wish one could do right without sacrificing others. I shall hate this town, and myself too, if she----. Pray, Margaret, does your mother often talk to you of the old places: of Helstone, I mean."
"No, papa," said Margaret, sadly.

'Thank you, dear papa. It will make me happier, indeed.' And she went up to kiss him. But he pushed her away - gently enough, but still as if she had suggested unpleasant ideas. He walked uneasily up and down the room.
'Poor Maria!' said he, half to himself. 'I wish one could do right without sacrificing others. I shall hate this town, and myself too, if she- Pray, Margaret, does your mother often talk to you of Helstone?'
'No, papa,' said Margaret sadly.


"Then, you see, she can't be fretting after them, eh? It has always been a comfort to me to think that your mother was so simple and open that I knew every little grievance she had. She never would conceal anything seriously affecting her health from me: would she, eh, Margaret? I am quite sure she would not. So don't let me hear of these foolish morbid ideas. Come, give me a kiss, and run off to bed."
But she heard him pacing about (racooning, as she and Edith used to call it) long after her slow and languid undressing was finished--long after as she began to listen as she lay in bed.

'Then, you see, she can't be fretting after it, eh? Your mother would never conceal anything seriously affecting her health from me: would she, Margaret? So don't let me hear these foolish morbid ideas. Come, give me a kiss, and run off to bed.'
But as she lay in bed, she heard him pacing about long afterwards.


"I have no wrong, where I can claim no right, Naught ta'en me fro, where I have nothing had, Yet of my woe I cannot so be quite; Namely, since that another may be glad With that, that thus in sorrow makes me sad." WYATT.
Margaret had not expected much pleasure to herself from Mr. Bell's visit--she had only looked forward to it on her father's account, but when her godfather came, she at once fell into the most natural position of friendship in the world. He said she had no merit in being what she was, a girl so entirely after his own heart: it was an hereditary power which she had, to walk in and take possession of his regard; while she, in reply, gave him much credit for being so fresh and young under his Fellow's cap and gown.
"Fresh and young in warmth and kindness, I mean. I'm afraid I must own, that I think your opinions are the oldest and mustiest I have met with this long time."
"Hear this daughter of yours, Hale! Her residence in Milton has quite corrupted her. She's a democrat, a red republican, a member of the Peace Society, a socialist--"

Margaret had not expected much pleasure to herself from Mr. Bell's visit; but when her godfather came, they fell naturally into friendship. He seemed fresh and young under his Fellow's cap and gown, as she told him:
'Fresh and young in warmth and kindness, I mean. I'm afraid I think your opinions are the oldest and mustiest I have met with this long time.'
'Hear this daughter of yours, Hale. Her residence in Milton has quite corrupted her. She's a democrat, a red republican, a socialist-'


"Papa, it's all because I'm standing up for the progress of commerce. Mr. Bell would have had it keep still at exchanging wild-beast skins for acorns."
"No, no. I'd dig the ground and grow potatoes. And I'd shave the wild-beast skin and make the wool into broadcloth. Don't exaggerate, missy. But I'm tired of this bustle. Everybody rushing over everybody, in their hurry to get rich."
"It is not everyone who can sit comfortably in a set of college rooms and let his riches grow without any exertion of his own. No doubt there is many a man here who would be thankful if his property would increase as yours has done, without his taking any trouble about it," said Mr. Hale.

'Papa, it's all because I'm standing up for the progress of commerce. Mr. Bell would have us still exchanging wild-beast skins for acorns.'
'No, no. I'd dig the ground and grow potatoes. Don't exaggerate, missy. But I'm tired of this bustle. Everybody rushing to get rich.'
'It is not everyone who can sit comfortably in a set of college rooms, and let his riches grow without any exertion,' said Mr. Hale.


"I don't believe they would. It's the bustle and the struggle they like. As for sitting still, and learning from the past, or shaping out the future by faithful work done in a prophetic spirit--Why! Pooh! I don't believe there's a man in Milton who knows how to sit still; and it is a great art."
"Milton people, I suspect, think Oxford men don't know how to move. It would be a very good thing if they mixed a little more."
"It might be good for the Miltoners. Many things might be good for them which would be very disagreeable for other people."

'The men here like the bustle and the struggle. As for sitting still - Why! Pooh! I don't believe there's a man in Milton who knows how to sit still; and it is a great art.'
'Milton people, I suspect, think Oxford men don't know how to move. It would be a very good thing if they mixed a little more.'


"Are you not a Milton man yourself?" asked Margaret. "I should have thought you would have been proud of your town."
"I confess, I don't see what there is to be proud of. If you'll only come to Oxford, Margaret, I will show you a place to glory in."
"Well!" said Mr. Hale, "Mr. Thornton is coming to drink tea with us to-night, and he is as proud of Milton as you of Oxford. You two must try and make each other a little more liberal-minded."
"I don't want to be more liberal-minded, thank you," said Mr. Bell.

'Are you not a Milton man yourself?' Margaret asked Mr. Bell. 'I should have thought you would have been proud of your town.'
'I confess, I don't see what there is to be proud of. If you'll only come to Oxford, Margaret, I will show you a place to glory in.'
'Well!' said Mr. Hale, 'Mr. Thornton is coming to see us tonight, and he is as proud of Milton as you of Oxford. You two must try and make each other a little more liberal-minded.'
'I don't want to be more liberal-minded, thank you,' said Mr. Bell.


"Is Mr. Thornton coming to tea, papa!" asked Margaret in a low voice.
"Either to tea or soon after. He could not tell. He told us not to wait."


Mr. Thornton had determined that he would make no inquiry of his mother as to how far she had put her project into execution of speaking to Margaret about the impropriety of her conduct. He felt pretty sure that, if this interview took place, his mother's account of what passed at it would only annoy and chagrin him, though he would all the time be aware of the colouring which it received by passing through her mind. He shrank from hearing Margaret's very name mentioned; he, while he blamed her--while he was jealous of her--while he renounced her--he loved her sorely, in spite of himself. He dreamt of her; he dreamt she came dancing towards him with outspread arms, and with a lightness and gaiety which made him loathe her, even while it allured him. But the impression of this figure of Margaret--with all Margaret's character taken out of it, as completely as if some evil spirit had got possession of her form--was so deeply stamped upon his imagination, that when he wakened he felt hardly able to separate the Una from the Duessa; and the dislike he had to the latter seemed to envelop and disfigure the former. Yet he was too proud to acknowledge his weakness by avoiding the sight of her. He would neither seek an opportunity of being in her company nor avoid it. To convince himself of his power of self-control, he lingered over every piece of business this afternoon; he forced every movement into unnatural slowness and deliberation; and it was consequently past eight o'clock before he reached Mr. Hale's. Then there were business arrangements to be transacted in the study with Mr. Bell; and the latter kept on, sitting over the fire, and talking wearily, long after all business was transacted, and when they might just as well have gone upstairs. But Mr. Thornton would not say a word about moving their quarters; he chafed and chafed, and thought Mr. Bell a most prosy companion; while Mr. Bell returned the compliment in secret, by considering Mr. Thornton about as brusque and curt a fellow as he had ever met with, and terribly gone off both in intelligence and manner.

Mr. Thornton had determined not to ask his mother about her interview with Margaret. He felt pretty sure that his mother's account would only annoy him. He shrank from hearing Margaret's name mentioned. While he blamed her - was jealous of her - renounced her - he loved her sorely, in spite of himself. He dreamt of her; he dreamt she came dancing towards him with outspread arms, and with a lightness and gaiety which made him loathe her, even while it allured him. The impression of this figure of Margaret, with all her character taken out of it, was deeply stamped upon his imagination when he wakened.
Yet he was too proud to acknowledge his weakness by avoiding the sight of her. He would neither seek to be in her company nor avoid it. To convince himself of his power of self-control, he lingered over every piece of business that afternoon; so it was past eight o'clock before he reached Mr. Hale's. Then there was business to be discussed in the study with Mr. Bell, who kept talking long after it was done, when they might just as well have gone upstairs. Mr. Thornton chafed, and thought Mr. Bell a most prosy companion; while Mr. Bell considered Mr. Thornton as brusque a fellow as he had ever met with.


At last some slight noise in the room above suggested the desirableness of moving there. They found Margaret with a letter open before her, eagerly discussing its contents with her father. On the entrance of the gentlemen, it was immediately put aside; but Mr. Thornton's eager senses caught some few words of Mr. Hale's to Mr. Bell.
"A letter from Henry Lennox. It makes Margaret very hopeful."
Mr. Bell nodded. Margaret was red as a rose when Mr. Thornton looked at her. He had the greatest mind in the world to get up and go out of the room that very instant, and never set foot in the house again.
"We were thinking," said Mr. Hale, "that you and Mr. Thornton had taken Margaret's advice, and were each trying to convert the other, you were so long in the study."

At last they went upstairs, and found Margaret with a letter open before her, eagerly discussing its contents with her father. It was immediately put aside; but Mr. Thornton's keen senses caught some words of Mr. Hale's to Mr. Bell.
'A letter from Henry Lennox. It makes Margaret very hopeful.'
Mr. Bell nodded. Margaret was red as a rose when Mr. Thornton looked at her. He had the greatest mind in the world to get up and go out of the room that very instant, and never set foot in the house again.
'We were thinking,' said Mr. Hale, 'that you and Mr. Thornton were each trying to convert the other, you were so long in the study.


"And you thought there would be nothing left of us but an opinion, like the Kilkenny cat's tail. Pray whose opinion did you think would have the most obstinate vitality?"
Mr. Thornton had not a notion what they were talking about, and disdained to inquire. Mr. Hale politely enlightened him.
"Mr. Thornton, we were accusing Mr. Bell this morning of a kind of Oxonian medival bigotry against his native town; and we--Margaret, I believe--suggested that it would do him good to associate a little with Milton manufacturers."
"I beg your pardon. Margaret thought it would do the Milton manufacturers good to associate a little more with Oxford men. Now wasn't it so, Margaret?"
"I believe I thought it would do both good to see a little more of the other,--I did not know it was my idea any more than papa's."

Mr. Thornton, we were accusing Mr. Bell this morning of bigotry against his native town; and we - Margaret, I believe - suggested that it would do him good to associate with Milton manufacturers.'
'I beg your pardon. Margaret thought it would do the Milton manufacturers good to associate a little more with Oxford men. Now wasn't it so, Margaret?'
'I believe we thought it would do both good to see a little more of the other.'


"And so you see, Mr. Thornton, we ought to have been improving each other down-stairs, instead of talking over vanished families of Smith's and Harrison's. However, I am willing to do my part now. I wonder when you Milton men intend to live. All your lives seem to be spent in gathering together the materials for life."
"By living, I suppose you mean enjoyment."
"Yes, enjoyment,--I don't specify of what, because I trust we should both consider mere pleasure as very poor enjoyment."
"I would rather have the nature of the enjoyment defined."

'So you see, Mr. Thornton, we ought to have been improving each other downstairs. However, I am willing to do my part now. I wonder when you Milton men intend to live. All your lives seem to be spent in gathering together the materials for life.'
'By living, I suppose you mean enjoyment.'


"Well! enjoyment or leisure--enjoyment of the power and influence which money gives. You are all striving for money. What do you want it for?"
Mr. Thornton was silent. Then he said, "I really don't know. But money is not what _I_ strive for."
"What then?"
"It is a home question. I shall have to lay myself open to such a catechist, and I am not sure that I am prepared to do it."

'Yes, enjoyment of the power and influence which money gives. You are all striving for money. What do you want it for?'
Mr. Thornton was silent. Then he said, 'I really don't know. But money is not what I strive for.'
'What then?'
'It is a personal question. I am not sure I am prepared to lay myself open to such a catechism.'


"No!" said Mr. Hale; "don't let us be personal in our catechism. You are neither of you representative men; you are each of you too individual for that."
"I am not sure whether to consider that as a compliment or not. I should like to be the representative of Oxford, with its beauty and its learning, and its proud old history. What do you say, Margaret; ought I to be flattered?"
"I don't know Oxford. But there is a difference between being the representative of a city and the representative man of its inhabitants."
"Very true, Miss Margaret. Now I remember, you were against me this morning, and were quite Miltonian and manufacturing in your preferences."

'No!' said Mr. Hale; 'don't let us be personal in our catechism. You are each of you too individual to represent a city.'
'I am not sure whether to consider that as a compliment or not,' said Mr. Bell. 'I should like to be the representative of Oxford, with its beauty and its learning, and its proud history. What do you say, Margaret; ought I to be flattered?'
'I don't know Oxford. But there is a difference between being the representative of a city and the representative man of its inhabitants.'
'Very true, Miss Margaret. Now I remember, you were against me this morning, and were quite Miltonian in your preferences.'


Margaret saw the quick glance of surprise that Mr. Thornton gave her, and she was annoyed at the construction which he might put on this speech of Mr. Bell's. Mr. Bell went on--
"Ah! I wish I could show you our High Street--our Radcliffe Square. I am leaving out our colleges, just as I give Mr. Thornton leave to omit his factories in speaking of the charms of Milton. I have a right to abuse my birth-place. Remember I am a Milton man."
Mr. Thornton was annoyed more than he ought to have been at all that Mr. Bell was saying. He was not in a mood for joking. At another time, he could have enjoyed Mr. Bell's half testy condemnation of a town where the life was so at variance with every habit he had formed; but now, he was galled enough to attempt to defend what was never meant to be seriously attacked.

Margaret saw the quick glance of surprise that Mr. Thornton gave her. Mr. Bell went on-
'Ah! I wish I could show you our High Street - our Radcliffe Square. I am leaving out our colleges, just as I give Mr. Thornton leave to omit his factories in speaking of the charms of Milton. I have a right to abuse my birth-place. Remember I am a Milton man.'
Mr. Thornton was not in a mood for joking. He was annoyed enough to attempt to defend what was never meant to be seriously attacked.


"I don't set up Milton as a model of a town."
"Not in architecture?" slyly asked Mr. Bell.
"No! We've been too busy to attend to mere outward appearances."
"Don't say _mere_ outward appearances," said Mr. Hale, gently. "They impress us all, from childhood upward--every day of our life."

'I don't set up Milton as a model of a town.'
'Not in architecture?' slyly asked Mr. Bell.
'No! We've been too busy to attend to mere outward appearances.


"Wait a little while," said Mr. Thornton. "Remember we are of a different race from the Greeks, to whom beauty was everything, and to whom Mr. Bell might speak of a life of leisure and serene enjoyment, much of which entered in through their outward senses. I don't mean to despise them, any more than I would ape them. But I belong to Teutonic blood; it is little mingled in this part of England to what it is in others; we retain much of their language; we retain more of their spirit; we do not look upon life as a time for enjoyment, but as a time for action and exertion. Our glory and our beauty arise out of our outward strength, which makes us victorious over material resistance, and over greater difficulties still. We are Teutonic up here in Darkshire in another way. We hate to have laws made for us at a distance. We wish people would allow us to right ourselves, instead of continually meddling, with their imperfect legislation. We stand up for self-government, and oppose centralisation."

Remember, we are of a different race from the Greeks, to whom beauty was everything,' said Mr. Thornton. 'I belong to Teutonic blood; it is little mingled in this part of England. We retain much of their language, and more of their spirit; we do not look upon life as a time for enjoyment, but for action and exertion. Our glory and our beauty arise out of inward strength, which makes us victorious over difficulties. And in Darkshire, we hate to have laws made for us at a distance. We wish people would allow us to right ourselves, instead of continually meddling, with their imperfect legislation. We stand up for self-government, and oppose centralisation.'


"In short, you would like the Heptarchy back again. Well, at any rate, I revoke what I said this morning--that you Milton people did not reverence the past. You are regular worshippers of Thor."
"If we do not reverence the past as you do in Oxford, it is because we want something which can apply to the present more directly. It is fine when the study of the past leads to a prophecy of the future. But to men groping in new circumstances, it would be finer if the words of experience could direct us how to act in what concerns us most intimately and immediately; which is full of difficulties to be encountered; and upon the mode in which they are met and conquered--not merely pushed aside for the time--depends our future. But no! People can speak of Utopia much more easily than of the next day's duty; and yet when that duty is all done by others, who so ready to cry, 'Fie, for shame!'"

'Well, at any rate, I revoke what I said this morning - that you Milton people did not reverence the past. You are regular worshippers of Thor.'
'If we do not reverence the past as you do in Oxford, it is because we want something which can apply to the present. It would be finer if the words of experience could direct us how to act in the difficulties that must be encountered. The way in which they are met and conquered - not merely pushed aside for the time - decides our future. Some people can speak of Utopia much more easily than of the next day's duty; and yet when that duty is all done by others, they are ready to cry, "Fie, for shame!"'


"And all this time I don't see what you are talking about. Would you Milton men condescend to send up your to-day's difficulty to Oxford? You have not tried us yet."
Mr. Thornton laughed outright at this. "I believe I was talking with reference to a good deal that has been troubling us of late; I was thinking of the strikes we have gone through, which are troublesome and injurious things enough, as I am finding to my cost. And yet this last strike, under which I am smarting, has been respectable."
"A respectable strike!" said Mr. Bell. "That sounds as if you were far gone in the worship of Thor."

'Would you Milton men condescend to send up your today's difficulty to Oxford? You have not tried us yet.'
Mr. Thornton laughed outright. 'I was thinking of the strikes we have gone through, which are troublesome enough, as I am finding to my cost. And yet this last strike, under which I am smarting, has been respectable.'
'A respectable strike!' said Mr. Bell. 'That sounds as if you were far gone in the worship of Thor.'


Margaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr. Thornton was chagrined by the repeated turning into jest of what he was feeling as very serious. She tried to change the conversation from a subject about which one party cared little, while, to the other, it was deeply, because personally, interesting. She forced herself to say something.
"Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better and cheaper than in London."
"Does she?" said her father, "I think that must be one of Edith's exaggerations. Are you sure of it, Margaret?"
"I am sure she says so, papa."

Margaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr. Thornton was chagrined by the repeated turning into jest of what he was feeling as very serious. She tried to change the conversation, and forced herself to say something.
'Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better and cheaper than in London.'
'Does she?' said her father. 'I think that must be one of Edith's exaggerations.'


"Then I am sure of the fact," said Mr. Bell. "Margaret, I go so far in my idea of your truthfulness, that it shall cover your cousin's character. I don't believe a cousin of yours could exaggerate."

'I don't believe a cousin of Margaret's could exaggerate,' said Mr. Bell.


"Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?" said Mr. Thornton, bitterly. The moment he had done so, he could have bitten his tongue out. What was he? And why should he stab her with her shame in this way? How evil he was to-night: possessed by ill-humour at being detained so long from her; irritated by the mention of some name, because he thought it belonged to a more successful lover; now ill-tempered because he had been unable to cope, with a light heart, against one who was trying, by gay and careless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly away,--the kind old friend to all parties, whose manner by this time might be well known to Mr. Thornton, who had been acquainted with him for many years. And then to speak to Margaret as he had done! She did not get up and leave the room, as she had done in former days, when his abruptness or his temper had annoyed her. She sat quite still, after the first momentary glance of grieved surprise, that made her eyes look like some child's who has met with an unexpected rebuff; they slowly dilated into mournful, reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she bent over her work, and did not speak again. But he could not help looking at her, and he saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered in some unwonted chill.

'Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?' said Mr. Thornton, bitterly. The moment he had done so, he could have bitten his tongue out. Why should he stab her with her shame in this way? How evil he was tonight; possessed by ill-humour, unable to cope light-heartedly with one who was trying, by gay and careless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly. And to speak to Margaret as he had done!
She did not get up and leave the room, as she had done formerly, when his abruptness had annoyed her. She sat quite still, after the first momentary glance of grieved surprise. Her eyes looked like some child's who has met with a rebuff, full of reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she bent over her work, and did not speak again. But he saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered in some unwonted chill.


He felt as the mother would have done, in the midst of "her rocking it, and rating it," had she been called away before her slow confiding smile, implying perfect trust in mother's love, had proved the renewing of its love. He gave short sharp answers; he was uneasy and cross, unable to discern between jest and earnest; anxious only for a look, a word of hers, before which to prostrate himself in penitent humility. But she neither looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew in and out of her sewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the business of her life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else the passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise those eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance in his. He could have struck her before he left, in order that by some strange overt act of rudeness, he might earn the privilege of telling her the remorse that gnawed at his heart. It was well that the long walk in the open air wound up this evening for him. It sobered him back into grave resolution that henceforth he would see as little of her as possible,--since the very sight of that face and form, the very sounds of that voice (like the soft winds of pure melody) had such power to move him from his balance. Well! He had known what love was--a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling!

He gave short sharp answers to the others; he was uneasy and cross, unable to discern between jest and earnest; anxious only for a look, a word of hers. But she neither looked nor spoke. Her tapered fingers flew in and out of her sewing as if that were the business of her life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else the passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise those eyes, to read the repentance in his. He could have struck her before he left, in order that by some strange act of rudeness, he might earn the privilege of telling her the remorse that gnawed at his heart.
The long walk in the open air sobered him. He gravely resolved that henceforth he would see as little of her as possible, since the sight and sound of her threw him so off-balance. Well! He had known what love was - a sharp, fierce pang, a fire through which he was struggling!


but, through the furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity of middle age,--all the richer and more human for having known this great passion.
When he had somewhat abruptly left the room, Margaret rose from her seat, and began silently to fold up her work. The long seams were heavy, and had an unusual weight for her languid arms. The round lines in her face took a lengthened, straighter form, and her whole appearance was that of one who had gone through a day of great fatigue. As the three prepared for bed, Mr. Bell muttered a little condemnation of Mr. Thornton.
"I never saw a fellow so spoiled by success. He can't bear a word; a jest of any kind. Everything seems to touch on the soreness of his high dignity. Formerly, he was as simple and noble as the open day; you could not offend him, because he had no vanity."

but through that furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity of middle age, all the richer and more human for having known this great passion.
When he had left, Margaret rose from her seat, and began silently to fold up her work. She looked like one who had gone through a day of great fatigue. As the three prepared for bed, Mr. Bell muttered a little condemnation of Mr. Thornton.
'I never saw a fellow so spoiled by success. He can't bear a jest of any kind. Everything seems to touch on his high dignity. Formerly, he was as simple as the day; you could not offend him, because he had no vanity.'


"He is not vain now," said Margaret, turning round from the table, and speaking with quiet distinctness. "To-night he has not been like himself. Something must have annoyed him before he came here."
Mr. Bell gave her one of his sharp glances from above his spectacles. She stood it quite calmly; but, after she had left the room, he suddenly asked,--
"Hale! did it ever strike you that Thornton and your daughter have what the French call a tendresse for each other?"

'He is not vain now,' said Margaret, turning round. 'Tonight he has not been like himself. Something must have annoyed him before he came here.'
Mr. Bell gave her a sharp glance. After she had left the room, he asked,
'Hale! did it ever strike you that Thornton and your daughter have a tendresse for each other?'


"Never!" said Mr. Hale, first startled and then flurried by the new idea. "No, I am sure you are wrong, I am almost certain you are mistaken. If there is anything, it is all on Mr. Thornton's side. Poor fellow! I hope and trust he is not thinking of her, for I am sure she would not have him."
"Well! I'm a bachelor, and have steered clear of love affairs all my life; so perhaps my opinion is not worth having. Or else I should say there were very pretty symptoms about her!"

'Never!' said Mr. Hale, startled. 'No, I am sure you are mistaken. If there is anything, it is on Mr. Thornton's side. Poor fellow! I hope he is not thinking of her, for I am sure she would not have him.'
'Well! I'm a bachelor, so perhaps my opinion is not worth having. Or else I should say she showed some pretty symptoms!'


"Then I am sure you are wrong," said Mr. Hale. "He may care for her, though she really has been almost rude to him at times. But she!--why, Margaret would never think of him, I'm sure. Such a thing has never entered her head."
"Entering her heart would do. But I merely threw out a suggestion of what might be. I dare say I was wrong. And whether I was wrong or right, I'm very sleepy; so, having disturbed your night's rest (as I can see) with my untimely fancies, I'll betake myself with an easy mind to my own."
But Mr. Hale resolved that he would not be disturbed by any such nonsensical idea; so he lay awake, determining not to think about it.

'Margaret would never think of him, I'm sure! Such a thing has never entered her head.'
'Entering her heart would do. But I merely threw out a suggestion. I dare say I was wrong. And I'm very sleepy; so I'll take myself off to bed.'
But Mr. Hale resolved that he would not be disturbed by any such nonsensical idea; so he lay awake, determining not to think about it.


Mr. Bell took his leave the next day, bidding Margaret look to him as one who had a right to help and protect her in all her troubles, of whatever nature they might be. To Mr. Hale he said,--
"That Margaret of yours has gone deep into my heart. Take care of her, for she is a very precious creature,--a great deal too good for Milton--only fit for Oxford, in fact. The town, I mean; not the men. I can't match her yet. When I can, I shall bring my young man to stand side by side with your young woman, just as the genii in the Arabian Nights brought Prince Caralmazan to match with the fairy's Princess Badoura."
"I beg you'll do no such thing. Remember the misfortunes that ensued; and besides, I can't spare Margaret."

Mr. Bell left the next day, telling Margaret to look on him as one who had a right to help her in all her troubles. To Mr. Hale he said:
'That Margaret of yours has gone deep into my heart. Take care of her, for she is very precious - a great deal too good for Milton - only fit for Oxford, in fact. The town, I mean; not the men.


"No; on second thoughts, we'll have her to nurse us ten years hence, when we shall be two cross old invalids. Seriously, Hale! I wish you'd leave Milton; which is a most unsuitable place for you, though it was my recommendation in the first instance. If you would, I'd swallow my shadows of doubts, and take a college living; and you and Margaret should come and live at the parsonage--you to be a sort of lay curate, and take the unwashed off my hands; and she to be our housekeeper--the village Lady Bountiful--by day; and read us to sleep in the evenings. I could be very happy in such a life. What do you think of it?"
"Never," said Mr. Hale, decidedly. "My one great change has been made and my price of suffering paid. Here I stay out my life; and here will I be buried, and lost in the crowd."

Seriously, Hale! I wish you'd leave Milton, which is a most unsuitable place for you, though it was my recommendation. If you could swallow your doubts, you could take a college living; and you and Margaret should come and live at the parsonage - you as a sort of lay curate, and she to be our housekeeper - the village Lady Bountiful. I could be very happy in such a life. What do you think?'
'Never!' said Mr. Hale, decidedly. 'My one great change has been made, and my price paid. Here I stay out my life.'


"I don't give up my plan yet. Only I won't bait you with it any more just now. Where's the Pearl. Come, Margaret, give me a farewell kiss; and remember, my dear, where you may find a true friend, as far as his capability goes. You are my child, Margaret. Remember that, and God bless you!"

'I don't give up my plan. Only I won't bait you with it any more just now. Where's the Pearl? Come, Margaret, give me a farewell kiss; and remember, my dear, where you may find a true friend. You are my child, Margaret. Remember that, and God bless you!'


So they fell back into the monotony of the quiet life they would henceforth lead. There was no invalid to hope and fear about; even the Higginses--so long a vivid interest--seemed to have receded from any need of immediate thought. The Boucher children, left motherless orphans, claimed what of Margaret's care she could bestow; and she went pretty often to see Mary Higgins, who had charge of them. The two families were living in one house: the elder children were at humble schools, the younger ones were tended, in Mary's absence at her work, by the kind neighbour whose good sense had struck Margaret at the time of Boucher's death. Of course she was paid for her trouble; and, indeed, in all his little plans and arrangements for these orphan children, Nicholas showed a sober judgment, and regulated method of thinking, which were at variance with his former more eccentric jerks of action. He was so steady at his work, that Margaret did not often see him during these winter months; but when she did, she saw that he winced away from any reference to the father of those children, whom he had so fully and heartily taken under his care. He did not speak easily of Mr. Thornton.

So they fell back into the monotony of their quiet life. There was no invalid to care for; even the Higginses seemed to have receded from any need of immediate thought. The Boucher children claimed Margaret's care; and she went pretty often to see Mary Higgins, who had charge of them. The two families were living in one house: the elder children were at humble schools, while the younger ones were tended, in Mary's absence at work, by the kind neighbour. She was paid for her trouble. Indeed, in all his arrangements for these orphan children, Nicholas showed a sober judgment at variance with his former more eccentric jerks of action. He was so steady at his work, that Margaret did not often see him during these winter months; but when she did, he winced away from any reference to Boucher. He did not speak easily of Mr. Thornton.


"To tell the truth," said he, "he fairly bamboozles me. He's two chaps. One chap I knowed of old as were measter all o'er. T'other chap hasn't an ounce of measter's flesh about him. How them two chaps is bound up in one body, is a craddy for me to find out. I'll not be beat by it, though. Meanwhile he comes here pretty often; that's how I know the chap that's a man, not a measter. And I reckon he's taken aback by me pretty much as I am by him; for he sits and listens and stares, as if I were some strange beast newly caught in some of the zones. But I'm none daunted. It would take a deal to daunt me in my own house, as he sees.

'To tell the truth,' said he, 'he fairly bamboozles me. He's two chaps. One chap I knowed of old as measter all o'er. T'other chap hasn't an ounce of measter about him. How them two chaps is bound up in one body, is a craddy for me to find out. He comes here pretty often; that's how I know the chap that's a man, not a measter. And I reckon he's taken aback by me pretty much as I am by him; for he sits and listens and stares, as if I were some strange beast. But I'm none daunted.


And I tell him some of my mind that I reckon he'd ha' been the better of hearing when he were a younger man."
"And does he not answer you," asked Mr. Hale.
"Well! I'll not say th' advantage is all on his side, for all I take credit for improving him above a bit. Sometimes he says a rough thing or two, which is not agreeable to look at at first, but has a queer smack o' truth in it when yo' come to chew it. He'll be coming to-night, I reckon, about them childer's schooling. He's not satisfied wi' the make of it, and wants for t' examine 'em."
"What are they"--began Mr. Hale; but Margaret, touching his arm, showed him her watch.

And I tell him some of my mind that I reckon he'd ha' been the better of hearing when he were a younger man.'
'And does he answer you?' asked Mr. Hale.
'Well! I'll not say th' advantage is all on his side, for all I take credit for improving him. Sometimes he says a rough thing or two, which has a queer smack o' truth in it when yo' come to chew it. He'll be coming tonight, I reckon, about them childer's schooling. He's not satisfied wi' it, and wants for t' examine 'em.'
'What are they-' began Mr. Hale; but Margaret, touching his arm, showed him her watch.


"It is nearly seven," she said. "The evenings are getting longer now. Come, papa." She did not breathe freely till they were some distance from the house. Then, as she became more calm, she wished that she had not been in so great a hurry; for, somehow, they saw Mr. Thornton but very seldom now; and he might have come to see Higgins, and for the old friendship's sake she should like to have seen him to-night.

'It is nearly seven,' she said. 'Come, papa.' She did not breathe freely till they were away from the house. Then, as she became calmer, she wished that she had not been in so great a hurry; for they saw Mr. Thornton very seldom now; and for the old friendship's sake she should like to have seen him tonight.


Yes! he came very seldom, even for the dull cold purpose of lessons. Mr. Hale was disappointed in his pupil's lukewarmness about Greek literature, which had but a short time ago so great an interest for him. And now it often happened that a hurried note from Mr. Thornton would arrive, just at the last moment, saying that he was so much engaged that he could not come to read with Mr. Hale that evening. And though other pupils had taken more than his place as to time, no one was like his first scholar in Mr. Hale's heart. He was depressed and sad at this partial cessation of an intercourse which had become dear to him; and he used to sit pondering over the reason that could have occasioned this change.
He startled Margaret, one evening as she sate at her work, by suddenly asking:
"Margaret! had you ever any reason for thinking that Mr. Thornton cared for you?"
He almost blushed as he put this question; but Mr. Bell's scouted idea recurred to him, and the words were out of his mouth before he well knew what he was about.

Yes! he came very seldom. Mr. Hale was disappointed in his pupil's sudden lukewarmness about Greek literature. And often a hurried note from Mr. Thornton would arrive at the last moment, saying that he could not come to read with Mr. Hale that evening. Though other pupils had taken his place, no one was like his first scholar in Mr. Hale's heart. He was saddened, and used to sit pondering the reasons for this change.
He startled Margaret one evening by suddenly asking:
'Margaret! had you ever any reason for thinking that Mr. Thornton cared for you?'


Margaret did not answer immediately; but by the bent drooping of her head, he guessed what her reply would be.
"Yes; I believe--oh, papa, I should have told you." And she dropped her work, and hid her face in her hands.
"No, dear; don't think that I am impertinently curious. I am sure you would have told me if you had felt that you could return his regard. Did he speak to you about it?"
No answer at first; but by-and-by a little gentle reluctant "Yes."
"And you refused him?"
A long sigh: a more helpless, nerveless attitude, and another "Yes." But before her father could speak, Margaret lifted up her face, rosy with some beautiful shame, and, fixing her eyes upon him, said:

Margaret did not answer immediately; but by the drooping of her head, he guessed what her reply would be.
'Yes; I believe - oh papa, I should have told you.' And she dropped her work, and hid her face in her hands.
'No, dear; I am sure you would have told me if you had felt that you could return his regard. Did he speak to you about it?'
A little gentle, reluctant 'Yes.'
'And you refused him?'
A long sigh; and another 'Yes.' But before her father could speak, Margaret lifted up her face, rosy with beautiful shame, and said:


"Now, papa, I have told you all this, and I cannot tell you more; and then the whole thing is so painful to me; every word and action connected with it is so unspeakably bitter, that I cannot bear to think of it. Oh, papa, I am sorry to have lost you this friend, but I could not help it--but oh! I am very sorry." She sate down on the ground, and laid her head on his knees.
"I, too, am sorry, my dear. Mr. Bell quite startled me when he said, some idea of the kind--"
"Mr. Bell! Oh did Mr. Bell see it?"

'Now, papa, I cannot tell you more; and the whole thing is so painful to me that I cannot bear to think of it. Oh, papa, I am sorry to have lost you this friend, but I could not help it. Oh! I am very sorry.' She sat down on the floor, and laid her head on his knees.
'I too, am sorry, my dear. Mr. Bell quite startled me when he said some idea of the kind-'
'Oh, did Mr. Bell see it?'


"A little; but he took it into his head that you--how shall I say it?--that you were not ungraciously disposed towards Mr. Thornton. I knew that could never be. I hoped the whole thing was but an imagination; but I knew too well what your real feelings were to suppose that you could ever like Mr. Thornton in that way. But I am very sorry."
They were very quiet and still for some minutes. But, on stroking her cheek in a caressing way soon after, he was almost shocked to find her face wet with tears. As he touched her, she sprang up, and smiling with forced brightness, began to talk of the Lennoxes with such a vehement desire to turn the conversation, that Mr. Hale was too tender-hearted to try to force it back into the old channel.

'He took it into his head that you were not ungraciously disposed towards Mr. Thornton. I knew that could never be. I knew your real feelings; you could never like Mr. Thornton in that way. But I am very sorry.'
They were very quiet for some minutes. But, on stroking her cheek caressingly, he was shocked to find her face wet with tears. As he touched her, she sprang up, and smiling brightly, began to talk of the Lennoxes with such a vehement desire to turn the conversation, that Mr. Hale was too tender-hearted to force it back into the old channel.


"To-morrow--yes, to-morrow they will be back in Harley Street. Oh, how strange it will be! I wonder what room they will make into the nursery? Aunt Shaw will be happy with the baby. Fancy Edith a mamma! And Captain Lennox--I wonder what he will do with himself now he has sold out!"
"I'll tell you what," said her father, anxious to indulge her in this fresh subject of interest, "I think I must spare you for a fortnight just to run up to town and see the travellers. You could learn more by half an hour's conversation with Mr. Henry Lennox about Frederick's chances, than in a dozen of these letters of his; so it would, in fact, be uniting business with pleasure."

'Tomorrow they will be back in Harley Street. I wonder what room they will make into the nursery? Aunt Shaw will be happy with the baby. Fancy Edith a mamma! And Captain Lennox - I wonder what he will do with himself now he has sold out!'
'I'll tell you what,' said her father, anxious to indulge her in this fresh subject of interest, 'I think you should run up to town and see the travellers. You could learn more about Frederick's chances in half an hour's conversation with Mr. Henry Lennox than in a dozen of these letters of his. It would be uniting business with pleasure.'


"No, papa, you cannot spare me, and what's more, I won't be spared." Then after a pause, she added: "I am losing hope sadly about Frederick; he is letting us down gently, but I can see that Mr. Lennox himself has no hope of hunting up the witnesses under years and years of time. No," said she, "that bubble was very pretty, and very dear to our hearts; but it has burst like many another; and we must console ourselves with being glad that Frederick is so happy, and with being a great deal to each other. So don't offend me by talking of being able to spare me, papa, for I assure you you can't."

'No, papa, you cannot spare me.' After a pause, she added, 'I am losing hope about Frederick; he is letting us down gently, but I can see that Mr. Lennox has no hope of hunting up the witnesses after so many years. We must console ourselves with being glad that Frederick is so happy, and with being a great deal to each other. So don't offend me by talking of being able to spare me, papa, for I assure you, you can't.'


But the idea of a change took root and germinated in Margaret's heart, although not in the way in which her father proposed it at first. She began to consider how desirable something of the kind would be to her father, whose spirits, always feeble, now became too frequently depressed, and whose health, though he never complained, had been seriously affected by his wife's illness and death. There were the regular hours of reading with his pupils, but that all giving and no receiving could no longer be called companionship, as in the old days when Mr. Thornton came to study under him. Margaret was conscious of the want under which he was suffering, unknown to himself; the want of a man's intercourse with men. At Helstone there had been perpetual occasion for an interchange of visits with neighbouring clergymen; and the poor labourers in the fields, or leisurely tramping home at eve, or tending their cattle in the forest, were always at liberty to speak or be spoken to. But in Milton every one was too busy for quiet speech, or any ripened intercourse of thought; what they said was about business, very present and actual; and when the tension of mind relating to their daily affairs was over, they sunk into fallow rest until next morning. The workman was not to be found after the day's work was done; he had gone away to some lecture, or some club, or some beershop, according to his degree of character. Mr. Hale thought of trying to deliver a course of lectures at some of the institutions, but he contemplated doing this so much as an effort of duty, and with so little of the genial impulse of love towards his work and its end, that Margaret was sure that it would not be well done until he could look upon it with some kind of zest.

But the idea of a change took root in Margaret's heart, although not in the way her father proposed. She began to consider how good a change would be for her father, whose spirits now became too frequently depressed, and whose health had been seriously affected by his wife's death. His pupils did not provide the companionship that Mr. Thornton had. Margaret was conscious that her father needed to converse with men. At Helstone there had been perpetual exchanging of visits with neighbouring clergymen; and the poor labourers in the fields, or tending their cattle in the forest, were always at liberty to talk.
But in Milton everyone was too busy; they spoke only about business, and then sank into fallow until next morning. The workman went away to some lecture, or club, or beer-shop, according to his character. Mr. Hale thought of trying to deliver a course of lectures, but he contemplated doing this so much as an effort of duty that Margaret was sure that it would not be well done until he could look upon it with zest.


The future sometimes seems to sob a low warning of the events it is bringing us, like some gathering though yet remote storm, which, in tones of the wind, in flushings of the firmament, in clouds strangely torn, announces a blast strong to strew the sea with wrecks; or commissioned to bring in fog the yellow taint of pestilence covering white Western isles with the poisoned exhalations of the East, dimming the lattices of English homes with the breath of Indian plague. At other times this future bursts suddenly, as if a rock had rent, and in it a grave had opened, whence issues the body of one that slept. Ere you are aware you stand face to face with a shrouded and unthought-of calamity--a new Lazarus.
Caroline Helstone went home from Hollow's Cottage in good health, as she imagined. On waking the next morning she felt oppressed with unwonted languor. At breakfast, at each meal of the following day, she missed all sense of appetite. Palatable food was as ashes and sawdust to her.

The future sometimes seems to sob a low warning of coming events, like some remote gathering storm. At other times this future bursts suddenly, as if a rock had rent, and in it a grave had opened. Before you are aware, you stand face to face with a shrouded and unthought-of calamity - a new Lazarus.
Caroline Helstone went home from Hollow's Cottage in good health, as she imagined. On waking the next morning she felt oppressed with unwonted languor. She had no appetite. Food was as ashes and sawdust to her.

Chapter 24: THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH


"Am I ill?" she asked, and looked at herself in the glass. Her eyes were bright, their pupils dilated, her cheeks seemed rosier, and fuller than usual. "I look well; why can I not eat?"
She felt a pulse beat fast in her temples; she felt, too, her brain in strange activity. Her spirits were raised; hundreds of busy and broken but brilliant thoughts engaged her mind. A glow rested on them, such as tinged her complexion.
Now followed a hot, parched, thirsty, restless night. Towards morning one terrible dream seized her like a tiger; when she woke, she felt and knew she was ill.

"Am I ill?" she asked, and looked at herself in the glass. Her eyes were bright, their pupils dilated; her cheeks seemed rosier than usual. "I look well; why can I not eat?"
She felt a pulse beat fast in her temples; she felt, too, her brain in strange activity. Hundreds of busy and broken but brilliant thoughts engaged her mind.
Now followed a hot, parched, restless night. Towards morning a terrible dream seized her like a tiger; when she woke, she knew she was ill.


How she had caught the fever (fever it was) she could not tell. Probably in her late walk home, some sweet, poisoned breeze, redolent of honey-dew and miasma, had passed into her lungs and veins, and finding there already a fever of mental excitement, and a languor of long conflict and habitual sadness, had fanned the spark to flame, and left a well-lit fire behind it.
It seemed, however, but a gentle fire. After two hot days and worried nights, there was no violence in the symptoms, and neither her uncle, nor Fanny, nor the doctor, nor Miss Keeldar, when she called, had any fear for her. A few days would restore her, every one believed.

How she had caught the fever (fever it was) she could not tell. But her long languor and habitual sadness had fanned the spark to flame, and left a well-lit fire behind it.
It seemed, however, a gentle fire. After two hot days and worried nights, there was no violence in the symptoms, and neither her uncle, nor Fanny, nor the doctor, nor Miss Keeldar, when she called, had any fear for her. A few days would restore her, everyone believed.


The few days passed, and--though it was still thought it could not long delay--the revival had not begun. Mrs. Pryor, who had visited her daily--being present in her chamber one morning when she had been ill a fortnight--watched her very narrowly for some minutes. She took her hand and placed her finger on her wrist; then, quietly leaving the chamber, she went to Mr. Helstone's study. With him she remained closeted a long time--half the morning. On returning to her sick young friend, she laid aside shawl and bonnet. She stood awhile at the bedside, one hand placed in the other, gently rocking herself to and fro, in an attitude and with a movement habitual to her. At last she said, "I have sent Fanny to Fieldhead to fetch a few things for me, such as I shall want during a short stay here. It is my wish to remain with you till you are better. Your uncle kindly permits my attendance. Will it to yourself be acceptable, Caroline?"

The few days passed, and the revival had not begun. When she had been ill a fortnight, Mrs. Pryor, who had visited her daily, was present in her chamber one morning, watching her narrowly. She took her hand and placed her finger on her wrist; then, quietly leaving the chamber, she went to Mr. Helstone's study. With him she remained closeted a long time - half the morning. On returning to her sick young friend, she stood awhile at the bedside, gently rocking herself to and fro, with a movement habitual to her.
At last she said, "I have sent Fanny to Fieldhead to fetch a few things for me, for a short stay here. I wish to remain with you till you are better, and your uncle kindly permits it. Is that acceptable to you, Caroline?"


"I am sorry you should take such needless trouble. I do not feel very ill, but I cannot refuse resolutely. It will be such comfort to know you are in the house, to see you sometimes in the room; but don't confine yourself on my account, dear Mrs. Pryor. Fanny nurses me very well."
Mrs. Pryor, bending over the pale little sufferer, was now smoothing the hair under her cap, and gently raising her pillow. As she performed these offices, Caroline, smiling, lifted her face to kiss her.
"Are you free from pain? Are you tolerably at ease?" was inquired in a low, earnest voice, as the self-elected nurse yielded to the caress.
"I think I am almost happy."

"I am sorry you should have such trouble. I do not feel very ill, but it will be such comfort to know you are in the house, to see you sometimes in the room; but don't confine yourself on my account, dear Mrs. Pryor."
Mrs. Pryor, bending over the pale little sufferer, was smoothing the hair under her cap, and gently raising her pillow. Caroline, smiling, lifted her face to kiss her.
"Are you free from pain? Are you at ease?" asked Mrs. Pryor earnestly.
"I think I am almost happy."


"You wish to drink? Your lips are parched."
She held a glass filled with some cooling beverage to her mouth.
"Have you eaten anything to-day, Caroline?"
"I cannot eat."
"But soon your appetite will return; it _must_ return--that is, I pray God it may."
In laying her again on the couch, she encircled her in her arms; and while so doing, by a movement which seemed scarcely voluntary, she drew her to her heart, and held her close gathered an instant.
"I shall hardly wish to get well, that I may keep you always," said Caroline.
Mrs. Pryor did not smile at this speech. Over her features ran a tremor, which for some minutes she was absorbed in repressing.

"You wish to drink? Your lips are parched." She held a glass to her mouth. "Have you eaten anything today, Caroline?"
"I cannot eat."
"But soon your appetite will return; I pray God it may."
In laying her down again, she encircled her in her arms; and with a movement which seemed scarcely voluntary, she drew her to her heart, and held her close an instant.
"I shall hardly wish to get well, so that I may keep you always," said Caroline.
Mrs. Pryor did not smile. A tremor ran over her features.


"You are more used to Fanny than to me," she remarked ere long. "I should think my attendance must seem strange, officious?"
"No; quite natural, and very soothing. You must have been accustomed to wait on sick people, ma'am. You move about the room so softly, and you speak so quietly, and touch me so gently."
"I am dexterous in nothing, my dear. You will often find me awkward, but never negligent."

"You are more used to Fanny than to me," she remarked. "I should think my attendance must seem strange?"
"No; quite natural, and very soothing. You must be used to waiting on sick people, ma'am. You move so softly and gently."
"I am dexterous in nothing, my dear. You will often find me awkward, but never negligent."


Negligent, indeed, she was not. From that hour Fanny and Eliza became ciphers in the sick-room. Mrs. Pryor made it her domain; she performed all its duties; she lived in it day and night. The patient remonstrated--faintly, however, from the first, and not at all ere long. Loneliness and gloom were now banished from her bedside; protection and solace sat there instead. She and her nurse coalesced in wondrous union. Caroline was usually pained to require or receive much attendance. Mrs. Pryor, under ordinary circumstances, had neither the habit nor the art of performing little offices of service; but all now passed with such ease, so naturally, that the patient was as willing to be cherished as the nurse was bent on cherishing; no sign of weariness in the latter ever reminded the former that she ought to be anxious. There was, in fact, no very hard duty to perform; but a hireling might have found it hard.

Negligent, indeed, she was not. Mrs. Pryor made the sick-room her domain; she performed all its duties; she lived in it day and night. The patient remonstrated, but only faintly, and not for long. Loneliness and gloom were now banished from her bedside; protection and solace sat there instead. The patient was as willing to be cherished as the nurse was bent on cherishing.


With all this care it seemed strange the sick girl did not get well; yet such was the case. She wasted like any snow-wreath in thaw; she faded like any flower in drought. Miss Keeldar, on whose thoughts danger or death seldom intruded, had at first entertained no fears at all for her friend; but seeing her change and sink from time to time when she paid her visits, alarm clutched her heart. She went to Mr. Helstone and expressed herself with so much energy that that gentleman was at last obliged, however unwillingly, to admit the idea that his niece was ill of something more than a migraine; and when Mrs. Pryor came and quietly demanded a physician, he said she might send for two if she liked. One came, but that one was an oracle. He delivered a dark saying of which the future was to solve the mystery, wrote some prescriptions, gave some directions--the whole with an air of crushing authority--pocketed his fee, and went. Probably he knew well enough he could do no good, but didn't like to say so.
Still, no rumour of serious illness got wind in the neighbourhood. At Hollow's Cottage it was thought that Caroline had only a severe cold, she having written a note to Hortense to that effect; and mademoiselle contented herself with sending two pots of currant jam, a recipe for a tisane, and a note of advice.
Mrs. Yorke being told that a physician had been summoned, sneered at the hypochondriac fancies of the rich and idle, who, she said, having nothing but themselves to think about, must needs send for a doctor if only so much as their little finger ached.

With all this care it seemed strange the sick girl did not get well; yet such was the case. She faded like a flower in drought. Miss Keeldar, on whose thoughts danger or death seldom intruded, at first had no fears for her friend; but seeing her change and sink, alarm clutched her heart. She went to Mr. Helstone and expressed herself with so much energy that he was obliged, however unwillingly, to admit the idea that his niece was ill with something more than a migraine; and when Mrs. Pryor came and quietly demanded a doctor, he said she might send for two if she liked.
One came; he said darkly that the future would solve the mystery, wrote some prescriptions, gave some directions - all with an air of crushing authority - pocketed his fee, and went. Probably he knew well enough he could do no good, but did not like to say so.
Still, no rumour of serious illness travelled through the neighbourhood. At Hollow's Cottage it was thought that Caroline had only a severe cold, she having written a note to Hortense to that effect. Mrs. Yorke, on being told that a doctor had been summoned, sneered at the hypochondriac fancies of the rich and idle, who, she said, having nothing but themselves to think about, must needs send for a doctor if their little finger ached.


The "rich and idle," represented in the person of Caroline, were meantime falling fast into a condition of prostration, whose quickly consummated debility puzzled all who witnessed it except one; for that one alone reflected how liable is the undermined structure to sink in sudden ruin.
Sick people often have fancies inscrutable to ordinary attendants, and Caroline had one which even her tender nurse could not at first explain. On a certain day in the week, at a certain hour, she would--whether worse or better--entreat to be taken up and dressed, and suffered to sit in her chair near the window. This station she would retain till noon was past. Whatever degree of exhaustion or debility her wan aspect betrayed, she still softly put off all persuasion to seek repose until the church clock had duly tolled midday. The twelve strokes sounded, she grew docile, and would meekly lie down. Returned to the couch, she usually buried her face deep in the pillow, and drew the coverlets close round her, as if to shut out the world and sun, of which she was tired. More than once, as she thus lay, a slight convulsion shook the sick-bed, and a faint sob broke the silence round it. These things were not unnoted by Mrs. Pryor.

The "rich and idle" Caroline, meantime, was falling fast into a condition of debility which puzzled all except Mrs. Pryor; for she alone reflected how liable is the undermined structure to sink in sudden ruin.
Sick people often have fancies, and Caroline had one which even her tender nurse could not at first explain. On a certain day in the week, at a certain hour, she would entreat to be taken up and dressed, and to sit in her chair near the window. Here she would stay till noon was past. No matter how exhausted she appeared, she would not lie down again until the church clock had tolled midday.
Then, back in bed, she usually buried her face deep in the pillow, and drew the coverlets close round her, as if to shut out the world. More than once, as she thus lay, Mrs. Pryor noted that a slight convulsion shook the sick-bed, and a faint sob broke the silence.


One Tuesday morning, as usual, she had asked leave to rise, and now she sat wrapped in her white dressing-gown, leaning forward in the easy-chair, gazing steadily and patiently from the lattice. Mrs. Pryor was seated a little behind, knitting as it seemed, but, in truth, watching her. A change crossed her pale, mournful brow, animating its languor; a light shot into her faded eyes, reviving their lustre; she half rose and looked earnestly out. Mrs. Pryor, drawing softly near, glanced over her shoulder. From this window was visible the churchyard, beyond it the road; and there, riding sharply by, appeared a horseman. The figure was not yet too remote for recognition. Mrs. Pryor had long sight; she knew Mr. Moore. Just as an intercepting rising ground concealed him from view, the clock struck twelve.
"May I lie down again?" asked Caroline.

One Tuesday morning, as usual, Caroline had asked to rise, and now she sat wrapped in her white dressing-gown, leaning forward in the easy-chair, gazing steadily through the window. Mrs. Pryor was seated behind, knitting and watching her. A change crossed her pale, mournful brow; she half rose and looked earnestly out.
Mrs. Pryor glanced over her shoulder. From here the churchyard was visible, beyond it the road; and there, riding sharply by, appeared a horseman. Mrs. Pryor recognised Mr. Moore. Just as the rising ground concealed him from view, the clock struck twelve.
"May I lie down again?" asked Caroline.


Her nurse assisted her to bed. Having laid her down and drawn the curtain, she stood listening near. The little couch trembled, the suppressed sob stirred the air. A contraction as of anguish altered Mrs. Pryor's features; she wrung her hands; half a groan escaped her lips. She now remembered that Tuesday was Whinbury market day. Mr. Moore must always pass the rectory on his way thither, just ere noon of that day.

Her nurse assisted her to bed. Having laid her down and drawn the curtain round her, she stood listening near. The little couch trembled, the suppressed sob stirred the air. A contraction as of anguish altered Mrs. Pryor's features; half a groan escaped her lips. She now remembered that Tuesday was Whinbury market day, when Mr. Moore must pass by just before noon.


Caroline wore continually round her neck a slender braid of silk, attached to which was some trinket. Mrs. Pryor had seen the bit of gold glisten, but had not yet obtained a fair view of it. Her patient never parted with it. When dressed it was hidden in her bosom; as she lay in bed she always held it in her hand. That Tuesday afternoon the transient doze--more like lethargy than sleep--which sometimes abridged the long days, had stolen over her. The weather was hot. While turning in febrile restlessness, she had pushed the coverlets a little aside. Mrs. Pryor bent to replace them. The small, wasted hand, lying nerveless on the sick girl's breast, clasped as usual her jealously-guarded treasure. Those fingers whose attenuation it gave pain to see were now relaxed in sleep.

Caroline always wore round her neck a slender braid of silk, attached to which was some trinket. When dressed it was hidden; as she lay in bed she held it in her hand. That Tuesday afternoon, as she dozed in feverish restlessness, she had pushed the coverlets a little aside. Mrs. Pryor bent to replace them. The small, wasted hand clasped as usual her jealously-guarded treasure; but its fingers were now relaxed in sleep.


Mrs. Pryor gently disengaged the braid, drawing out a tiny locket--a slight thing it was, such as it suited her small purse to purchase. Under its crystal face appeared a curl of black hair, too short and crisp to have been severed from a female head.
Some agitated movement occasioned a twitch of the silken chain. The sleeper started and woke. Her thoughts were usually now somewhat scattered on waking, her look generally wandering. Half rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed, "Don't take it from me, Robert! Don't! It is my last comfort; let me keep it. I never tell any one whose hair it is; I never show it."

Mrs. Pryor gently freed the braid, drawing out a tiny locket. Under its crystal face appeared a curl of short black hair.
With an agitated movement, the sleeper started and woke. Half rising, as if in terror, she exclaimed, "Don't take it from me, Robert! It is my last comfort; let me keep it. I never tell anyone whose hair it is; I never show it."


Mrs. Pryor had already disappeared behind the curtain. Reclining far back in a deep arm-chair by the bedside, she was withdrawn from view. Caroline looked abroad into the chamber; she thought it empty. As her stray ideas returned slowly, each folding its weak wings on the mind's sad shore, like birds exhausted, beholding void, and perceiving silence round her, she believed herself alone. Collected she was not yet; perhaps healthy self-possession and self-control were to be hers no more; perhaps that world the strong and prosperous live in had already rolled from beneath her feet for ever. So, at least, it often seemed to herself. In health she had never been accustomed to think aloud, but now words escaped her lips unawares.

Mrs. Pryor had already disappeared behind the curtain. Caroline looked around the chamber; she thought it empty. Believing herself alone, she let words escape her lips unawares.


"Oh, I _should_ see him once more before all is over! Heaven _might_ favour me thus far!" she cried. "God grant me a little comfort before I die!" was her humble petition.
"But he will not know I am ill till I am gone, and he will come when they have laid me out, and I am senseless, cold, and stiff.

"Oh, I should see him once more before all is over!" she cried. "God grant me a little comfort before I die!
"But he will not know I am ill till I am gone, and he will come when they have laid me out, and I am cold and stiff.


"What can my departed soul feel then? Can it see or know what happens to the clay? Can spirits, through any medium, communicate with living flesh? Can the dead at all revisit those they leave? Can they come in the elements? Will wind, water, fire, lend me a path to Moore?
"Is it for nothing the wind sounds almost articulately sometimes--sings as I have lately heard it sing at night--or passes the casement sobbing, as if for sorrow to come? Does nothing, then, haunt it, nothing inspire it?
"Why, it suggested to me words one night; it poured a strain which I could have written down, only I was appalled, and dared not rise to seek pencil and paper by the dim watch-light.

"What can my departed soul feel then? Can it see or know what happens to the clay? Can the dead revisit those they leave? Can they come in the elements? Will wind, water, fire, lend me a path to Moore?
"Is it for nothing the wind sings at night - or sobs, as if for sorrow to come? Does nothing haunt it, nothing inspire it?
"Why, it suggested to me words one night; I would have written them down, only they appalled me.


"What is that electricity they speak of, whose changes make us well or ill, whose lack or excess blasts, whose even balance revives? What are all those influences that are about us in the atmosphere, that keep playing over our nerves like fingers on stringed instruments, and call forth now a sweet note, and now a wail--now an exultant swell, and anon the saddest cadence?

"What are those influences in the atmosphere, that play over our nerves like fingers on stringed instruments, and call forth now a sweet, exultant note, and now the saddest wail?


"_Where is_ the other world? In _what_ will another life consist? Why do I ask? Have I not cause to think that the hour is hasting but too fast when the veil must be rent for me? Do I not know the Grand Mystery is likely to burst prematurely on me? Great Spirit, in whose goodness I confide, whom, as my Father, I have petitioned night and morning from early infancy, help the weak creation of Thy hands! Sustain me through the ordeal I dread and must undergo! Give me strength! Give me patience! Give me--oh, _give me_ FAITH!"

"Where is the other world? In what will another life consist? Is not the hour hastening when the veil must be rent for me? Great Spirit, to whom, as my Father, I have prayed from my childhood, help me! Sustain me through the ordeal I dread and must undergo! Give me strength! Give me patience! Give me - oh, give me faith!"