"But then you knew that London itself, and friends lay behind it. Here--well! we are desolate. Oh Dixon, what a place this is!"
"Indeed, ma'am, I'm sure it will be your death before long, and then I know who'll--stay! Miss Hale, that's far too heavy for you to lift."
"Not at all, thank you, Dixon," replied Margaret coldly. "The best thing we can do for mamma is to get her room quite ready for her to go to bed, while I go and bring her a cup of coffee."
Mr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and equally came upon Margaret for sympathy.

'But in London you knew that friends lay behind it. Here, we are desolate. Oh Dixon, what a place this is!'
'Indeed, ma'am, I'm sure it will be your death before long! Miss Hale, that's far too heavy for you to lift.'
'Not at all, thank you, Dixon,' replied Margaret coldly. 'The best thing we can do for mamma is to get her room ready for her to go to bed, while I bring her a cup of coffee.'
Mr. Hale was equally out of spirits, and equally came to Margaret for sympathy.


"Margaret, I do believe this is an unhealthy place. Only suppose that your mother's health or yours should suffer. I wish I had gone into some country place in Wales; this is really terrible," said he, going up to the window.
There was no comfort to be given. They were settled in Milton, and must endure smoke and fogs for a season; indeed, all other life seemed shut out from them by as thick a fog of circumstance. Only the day before, Mr. Hale had been reckoning up with dismay how much their removal and fortnight at Heston had cost, and he found it had absorbed nearly all his little stock of ready money. No! here they were, and here they must remain.

'Margaret, I do believe this is an unhealthy place. I wish I had gone to Wales; this is really terrible,' said he.
There was no comfort to be given. They were settled in Milton, and must endure smoke and fogs; indeed, all other life seemed shut out from them by as thick a fog of circumstance. Only the day before, Mr. Hale had been reckoning up with dismay how much their removal and fortnight at Heston had cost, and he found it had absorbed nearly all his ready money. No! here they were, and here they must remain.


At night when Margaret realised this, she felt inclined to sit down in a stupor of despair. The heavy smoky air hung about her bedroom, which occupied the long narrow projection at the back of the house. The window, placed at the side of the oblong, looked at the blank wall of a similar projection, not above ten feet distant. It loomed through the fog like a great barrier to hope. Inside the room everything was in confusion. All their efforts had been directed to make her mother's room comfortable. Margaret sat down on a box, the direction card upon which struck her as having been written at Helstone--beautiful, beloved Helstone! She lost herself in dismal thought: but at last she determined to take her mind away from the present; and suddenly remembered that she had a letter from Edith which she had only half read in the bustle of the morning. It was to tell of their arrival at Corfu; their voyage along the Mediterranean--their music, and dancing on board ship; the gay new life opening upon her; her house with its trellised balcony, and its views over white cliffs and deep blue sea.

At night, Margaret felt inclined to sit down in a stupor of despair. The heavy smoky air hung about her bedroom, which occupied a long narrow projection at the back of the house. The window looked onto the blank wall of a similar projection, only ten feet distant. It loomed through the fog like a great barrier to hope.
Inside the room everything was in confusion. All their efforts had been directed to make her mother's room comfortable. Margaret sat down on a box which had been labelled at Helstone - beautiful Helstone! She lost herself in dismal thought: but at last she remembered that she had a letter from Edith which she had only half read in the bustle.
It told of their arrival at Corfu; their voyage along the Mediterranean - the music and dancing on board ship; her gay new life; her house with its trellised balcony, and its views over white cliffs and deep blue sea.


Edith wrote fluently and well, if not graphically. She could not only seize the salient and characteristic points of a scene, but she could enumerate enough of indiscriminate particular for Margaret to make it out for herself. Captain Lennox and another lately married officer shared a villa, high up on the beautiful precipitous rocks overhanging the sea. Their days, late as it was in the year, seemed spent in boating or land-picnics; all out-of-doors, pleasure-seeking and glad, Edith's life seemed like the deep vault of blue sky above her, free--utterly free from fleck or cloud. Her husband had to attend drill, and she, the most musical officer's wife there, had to copy the new and popular tunes out of the most recent English music, for the benefit of the bandmaster; those seemed their most severe and arduous duties. She expressed an affectionate hope that, if the regiment stopped another year at Corfu, Margaret might come out and pay her a long visit. She asked Margaret if she remembered the day twelve-month on which she, Edith, wrote--how it rained all day long in Harley Street; and how she would not put on her new gown to go to a stupid dinner, and get it all wet and splashed in going to the carriage; and how at that very dinner they had first met Captain Lennox.

Edith wrote fluently and well. Captain Lennox and another lately married officer shared a villa, high up on the beautiful cliffs. Their days seemed spent in boating and picnics, utterly free from any cloud. Edith's husband had to attend drill, and she had to copy out the newest English tunes for the benefit of the bandmaster; those were their most arduous duties. She expressed an affectionate hope that Margaret might come out and pay her a long visit. She asked if Margaret remembered the day a year ago when it rained in Harley Street; and how Edith would not put on her new gown to go to a stupid dinner, and get it all wet; and how at that very dinner they had first met Captain Lennox.


Yes! Margaret remembered it well. Edith and Mrs. Shaw had gone to dinner. Margaret had joined the party in the evening. The recollection of the plentiful luxury of all arrangements, the stately handsomeness of the furniture, the size of the house, the peaceful, untroubled ease of the visitors--all came vividly before her, in strange contrast to the present time. The smooth sea of that old life closed up, without a mark left to tell where they had all been. The habitual dinners, the calls, the dancing evenings, were all going on, going on for ever, though her Aunt Shaw and Edith were no longer there; and she, of course, was even less missed. She doubted if any one of that old set ever thought of her, except Henry Lennox. He too, she knew, would strive to forget her, because of the pain she had caused him. She had heard him often boast of his power of putting any disagreeable thought far away from him.

Yes! Margaret remembered it well. The recollection of the handsome luxury of the house, the peaceful, untroubled ease there, came vividly before her, in strange contrast to the present. The smooth sea of that old life closed up, without a mark left to tell where it had been. The dinners, the shopping, the dancing, were all going on for ever, though her Aunt Shaw and Edith were no longer there; and she, of course, was even less missed. She doubted if any of that old set ever thought of her, except Henry Lennox. He too would strive to forget her, because of the pain she had caused him.


Then she penetrated farther into what might have been. If she had cared for him as a lover, and had accepted him, and this change in her father's opinions and consequent station had taken place, she could not doubt but that it would have been impatiently received by Mr. Lennox. It was a bitter mortification to her in one sense; but she could bear it patiently, because she knew her father's purity of purpose, and that strengthened her to endure his errors, grave and serious though in her estimation they were. But the fact of the world esteeming her father degraded, in its rough wholesale judgment, would have oppressed and irritated Mr. Lennox. As she realised what might have been, she grew to be thankful for what was. They were at the lowest now; they could not be worse. Edith's astonishment and her Aunt Shaw's dismay would have to be met bravely, when their letters came. So Margaret rose up and began slowly to undress herself, feeling the full luxury of acting leisurely, late as it was, after all the past hurry of the day. She fell asleep, hoping for some brightness, either internal or external. But if she had known how long it would be before the brightness came, her heart would have sunk low down.

Then she penetrated farther into what might have been. If she had accepted him, and this change in her father's opinions and station had taken place, she knew it would have been impatiently received by Mr. Lennox. She could bear the change, because she knew her father's purity of purpose, and that strengthened her to endure his errors, grave and serious though she thought they were. But it would have oppressed and irritated Mr. Lennox.
As she realised what might have been, she grew thankful for what was. They were at the lowest now; they could not be worse. Edith's astonishment and her aunt Shaw's dismay would have to be met bravely, when their letters came. So Margaret rose up and began slowly to undress herself. She fell asleep hoping for some brightness, either internal or external.
But if she had known how long it would be before the brightness came, her heart would have sunk low.


The time of the year was most unpropitious to health as well as to spirits. Her mother caught a severe cold, and Dixon herself was evidently not well, although Margaret could not insult her more than by trying to save her, or by taking any care of her. They could hear of no girl to assist her; all were at work in the factories; at least, those who applied were well scolded by Dixon, for thinking that such as they could ever be trusted to work in a gentleman's house. So they had to keep a charwoman in almost constant employ. Margaret longed to send for Charlotte; but besides the objection of her being a better servant than they now could afford to keep, the distance was too great.

The time of year was harmful to health as well as spirits. Her mother caught a severe cold, and Dixon was not well, although she would not allow Margaret to try and take care of her. They could find no servant girl to assist her; all were at work in the factories; or at least, Dixon did not approve of any who applied. So they had to keep a charwoman in almost constant employ.


Mr. Hale met with several pupils, recommended to him by Mr. Bell, or by the more immediate influence of Mr. Thornton. They were mostly of the age when many boys would be still at school, but, according to the prevalent, and, apparently well-founded notions of Milton, to make a lad into a good tradesman he must be caught young, and acclimated to the life of the mill, or office, or warehouse. If he were sent to even the Scotch Universities, he came back unsettled for commercial pursuits: how much more so if he went to Oxford or Cambridge, where he could not be entered till he was eighteen? So most of the manufacturers placed their sons in situations at from fourteen or fifteen years of age, unsparingly cutting away all off-shoots in the direction of literature or high mental cultivation, in hopes of throwing the whole strength and vigour of the plant into commerce. Still there were some wiser parents; and some who had sense enough to perceive their own deficiencies, and strive to remedy them. Nay, there were a few no longer youths, but men in the prime of life, who had the stern wisdom to acknowledge their own ignorance, and to learn late what they should have learnt early. Mr. Thornton was perhaps the oldest of Mr. Hale's pupils. He was certainly the favourite. Mr. Hale got into the habit of quoting his opinions so frequently, and with such regard, that it became a little domestic joke to wonder what time, during the hour appointed for instruction, could be given to absolute learning, so much of it appeared to have been spent in conversation.

Mr. Hale met with several pupils, recommended to him by Mr. Bell or Mr. Thornton. They were mostly of the age when many boys would be still at school; but according to the prevalent notions of Milton, to make a lad into a good tradesman he must be caught young, and acclimatised to the life of the mill, or office, or warehouse. If he were sent to even the Scotch Universities, he came back unsettled for commerce; how much more so if he went to Oxford or Cambridge, where he could not be entered till he was eighteen? So most of the manufacturers placed their sons in work at fourteen or fifteen, unsparingly cutting away all off-shoots in the direction of literature or mental cultivation, in hopes of throwing the whole vigour of the plant into commerce.
Still there were some wiser parents; and some young men who saw their own deficiencies, and tried to remedy them. There were even some men in the prime of life, who had the stern wisdom to acknowledge their own ignorance, and to learn late what they should have learnt early. Mr. Thornton was perhaps the oldest of Mr. Hale's pupils. He was certainly the favourite. Mr. Hale got into the habit of quoting his opinions so frequently that it became a little domestic joke to wonder how much time in his lessons could have been be devoted to learning, so much of it appeared to have been spent in conversation.


Margaret rather encouraged this light, merry way of viewing her father's acquaintance with Mr. Thornton, because she felt that her mother was inclined to look upon this new friendship of her husband's with jealous eyes. As long as his time had been solely occupied with his books and his parishioners, as at Helstone, she had appeared to care little whether she saw much of him or not; but now that he looked eagerly forward to each renewal of his intercourse with Mr. Thornton, she seemed hurt and annoyed, as if he were slighting her companionship for the first time. Mr. Hale's over-praise had the usual effect of over-praise upon his auditors; they were a little inclined to rebel against Aristides being always called the Just.
After a quiet life in a country parsonage for more than twenty years, there was something dazzling to Mr. Hale in the energy which conquered immense difficulties with ease; the power of the machinery of Milton, the power of the men of Milton, impressed him with a sense of grandeur, which he yielded to without caring to inquire into the details of its exercise. But Margaret went less abroad, among machinery and men; saw less of power in its public effect, and, as it happened, she was thrown with one or two of those who, in all measures affecting masses of people, must be acute sufferers for the good of many. The question always is, has everything been done to make the sufferings of these exceptions as small as possible? or, in the triumph of the crowded procession, have the helpless been trampled on, instead of being gently lifted aside out of the roadway of the conqueror, whom they have no power to accompany on his march?

Margaret encouraged this merry way of viewing her father's acquaintance with Mr. Thornton, because she felt that her mother was inclined to be jealous of it. When his time had been solely occupied with his books and his parishioners, she had appeared to care little whether she saw much of him or not; but now that he looked eagerly forward to meeting Mr. Thornton, she seemed hurt and annoyed.
After his quiet life in a country parsonage, Mr. Hale was somewhat dazzled by the energy which conquered immense difficulties with ease; the power of Milton's machinery, and the power of its men, impressed him with a sense of grandeur. But Margaret went less abroad among machinery and men; saw less of power in its public effect, and, as it happened, she was thrown together with one or two of those who must be acute sufferers for the good of many. The question always is, has everything been done to make the sufferings of these exceptions as small as possible? Or, in the triumph of the procession, have the helpless been trampled on, instead of being gently lifted aside out of the way of the conqueror, whom they have no power to accompany on his march?


It fell to Margaret's share to have to look out for a servant to assist Dixon, who had at first undertaken to find just the person she wanted to do all the rough work of the house. But Dixon's ideas of helpful girls were founded on the recollection of tidy elder scholars at Helstone school, who were only too proud to be allowed to come to the parsonage on a busy day, and treated Mrs. Dixon with all the respect, and a good deal more of fright, which they paid to Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Dixon was not unconscious of this awed reverence which was given to her; nor did she dislike it: it flattered her much as Louis the Fourteenth was flattered by his courtiers shading their eyes from the dazzling light of his presence. But nothing short of her faithful love for Mrs. Hale could have made her endure the rough independent way in which all the Milton girls, who made application for the servant's place, replied to her inquiries respecting their qualifications. They even went the length of questioning her back again; having doubts and fears of their own, as to the solvency of a family who lived in a house of thirty pounds a-year, and yet gave themselves airs, and kept two servants, one of them so very high and mighty. Mr. Hale was no longer looked upon as Vicar of Helstone, but as a man who only spent at a certain rate. Margaret was weary and impatient of the accounts which Dixon perpetually brought to Mrs. Hale of the behaviour of these would-be servants. Not but what Margaret was repelled by the rough uncourteous manners of these people; not but what she shrunk with fastidious pride from their hail-fellow accost, and severely resented their unconcealed curiosity as to the means and position of any family who lived in Milton, and yet were not engaged in trade of some kind. But the more Margaret felt impertinence, the more likely she was to be silent on the subject; and, at any rate, if she took upon herself to make inquiry for a servant, she could spare her mother the recital of all her disappointments and fancied or real insults.

Margaret had to look for a servant to help Dixon, who had at first undertaken to find one herself. But Dixon's ideas of helpful girls were founded on the recollection of tidy elder scholars at Helstone school, who treated her with respect, and even fright. Dixon could not endure the rough independent way in which the Milton girls who applied for the servant's place answered her inquiries. They even questioned her back again; having doubts of their own about the solvency of a family who lived in a house at thirty pounds a-year, and yet gave themselves airs, and kept such a high and mighty ladies' maid.
Margaret was weary of Dixon's accounts of the behaviour of these would-be servants. True, she herself was repelled by the rough uncourteous manners of these people; she shrunk with fastidious pride from their hail-fellow accost, and resented their unconcealed curiosity as to the income of any family who lived in Milton without being engaged in trade. But if Margaret took it on herself to find a servant, she could spare her mother the recital of Dixon's disappointments and insults.


Margaret accordingly went up and down to butchers and grocers, seeking for a nonpareil of a girl; and lowering her hopes and expectations every week, as she found the difficulty of meeting with any one in a manufacturing town who did not prefer the better wages and greater independence of working in a mill. It was something of a trial to Margaret to go out by herself in this busy bustling place. Mrs. Shaw's ideas of propriety and her own helpless dependence on others, had always made her insist that a footman should accompany Edith and Margaret, if they went beyond Harley Street or the immediate neighbourhood. The limits by which this rule of her aunt's had circumscribed Margaret's independence had been silently rebelled against at the time: and she had doubly enjoyed the free walks and rambles of her forest life from the contrast which they presented. She went along there with a boundless fearless step, that occasionally broke out into a run, if she were in a hurry, and occasionally was stilled into perfect repose, as she stood listening to, or watching any of the wild creatures who sang in the leafy courts, or glanced out with their keen bright eyes from the low brushwood or tangled furze. It was a trial to come down from such motion or such stillness, only guided by her own sweet will, to the even and decorous pace necessary in streets. But she could have laughed at herself for minding this change, if it had not been accompanied by what was a more serious annoyance.

So Margaret went to butchers and grocers, seeking for a suitable girl; and lowered her hopes every week, with the difficulty of finding anyone who did not prefer the better wages and greater independence of working in a mill. It was something of a trial to Margaret to go out by herself in this busy bustling place. Mrs. Shaw had always insisted that a footman should accompany her, if she went beyond Harley Street, and Margaret had silently rebelled: she had doubly enjoyed the free rambles of her forest life, from the contrast. There, she walked with a bounding fearless step, and occasionally broke out into a run, or halted, listening to and watching the wild creatures who sang in the leafy courts, or glanced out with keen eyes from the low brushwood or tangled furze. It was a trial to come down from this to the decorous pace necessary in the streets.
But there was a more serious annoyance.


The side of the town on which Crampton lay was especially a thoroughfare for the factory people. In the back streets around them there were many mills, out of which poured streams of men and women two or three times a day. Until Margaret had learnt the times of their ingress and egress, she was very unfortunate in constantly falling in with them. They came rushing along, with bold, fearless faces, and loud laughs and jests, particularly aimed at all those who appeared to be above them in rank or station. The tones of their unrestrained voices, and their carelessness of all common rules of street politeness, frightened Margaret a little at first. The girls, with their rough, but not unfriendly freedom, would comment on her dress, even touch her shawl or gown to ascertain the exact material; nay, once or twice she was asked questions relative to some article which they particularly admired. There was such a simple reliance on her womanly sympathy with their love of dress, and on her kindliness, that she gladly replied to these inquiries, as soon as she understood them; and half smiled back at their remarks. She did not mind meeting any number of girls, loud spoken and boisterous though they might be. But she alternately dreaded and fired up against the workmen, who commented not on her dress, but on her looks, in the same open, fearless manner. She, who had hitherto felt that even the most refined remark on her personal appearance was an impertinence, had to endure undisguised admiration from these outspoken men.

In the streets around Crampton there were many mills, out of which poured streams of men and women two or three times a day. They came rushing along, with bold, fearless faces, and loud laughs and jests, aimed at all those above them in rank. Their unrestrained voices, and their carelessness of all common rules of politeness, frightened Margaret a little at first. The girls, with their rough, but not unfriendly freedom, would comment on her dress, and even touch her shawl or gown to check the exact material; once or twice they asked her about some article which they admired. There was such a simple reliance on her womanly sympathy with their love of dress, that she gladly replied to these inquiries, as soon as she understood them; and half-smiled back.
She did not mind meeting any number of girls, loud spoken and boisterous though they might be. But she dreaded and fired up against the workmen, who commented not on her dress, but on her looks, in the same open fearless manner. She had always felt that any remark on her personal appearance was an impertinence; now she had to endure undisguised admiration from these outspoken men.


But the very outspokenness marked their innocence of any intention to hurt her delicacy, as she would have perceived if she had been less frightened by the disorderly tumult. Out of her fright came a flash of indignation which made her face scarlet, and her dark eyes gather flame, as she heard some of their speeches. Yet there were other sayings of theirs, which, when she reached the quiet safety of home, amused her even while they irritated her.
For instance, one day, after she had passed a number of men, several of whom had paid her the not unusual compliment of wishing she was their sweetheart, one of the lingerers added, "Your bonny face, my lass, makes the day look brighter." And another day, as she was unconsciously smiling at some passing thought, she was addressed by a poorly-dressed, middle-aged workman, with, "You may well smile, my lass; many a one would smile to have such a bonny face." This man looked so careworn that Margaret could not help giving him an answering smile, glad to think that her looks, such as they were, should have had the power to call up a pleasant thought. He seemed to understand her acknowledging glance, and a silent recognition was established between them whenever the chances of the day brought them across each other's paths. They had never exchanged a word; nothing had been said but that first compliment; yet somehow Margaret looked upon this man with more interest than upon any one else in Milton. Once or twice, on Sundays, she saw him walking with a girl, evidently his daughter, and, if possible, still more unhealthy than he was himself.

Their very out-spokenness showed their innocence of any intention to hurt her, as she would have perceived if she had been less frightened. Out of her fright came a flash of indignation which made her face scarlet, and her dark eyes gather flame, as she heard some of their speeches. Yet there were other sayings of theirs, which, once back home, amused her.
For instance, one day she passed several men who paid her the not unusual compliment of wishing she was their sweetheart. One of them added, 'Your bonny face, my lass, makes the day look brighter.' And another day, as she was unconsciously smiling at some thought, she was addressed by a poorly-dressed, middle-aged workman, with: 'You may well smile, my lass; many a one would smile to have such a bonny face.'
This man looked so careworn that Margaret could not help giving him an answering smile, glad to think that her looks, such as they were, should have had the power to call up a pleasant thought. He seemed to understand her acknowledging glance, and a silent recognition was established between them whenever their paths crossed. They never exchanged a word beyond that first compliment; yet somehow Margaret looked upon this man with more interest than upon anyone else in Milton. Once or twice, on Sundays, she saw him walking with a girl, evidently his daughter, and, if possible, still more unhealthy than he was himself.


One day Margaret and her father had been as far as the fields that lay around the town; it was early spring, and she had gathered some of the hedge and ditch flowers, dog-violets, lesser celandines, and the like, with an unspoken lament in her heart for the sweet profusion of the South. Her father had left her to go into Milton upon some business; and on the road home she met her humble friends. The girl looked wistfully at the flowers, and, acting on a sudden impulse, Margaret offered them to her. Her pale blue eyes lightened up as she took them, and her father spoke for her.
"Thank yo, Miss. Bessy'll think a deal o' them flowers; that hoo will; and I shall think a deal o' yor kindness. Yo're not of this country, I reckon?"
"No!" said Margaret, half sighing. "I come from the South--from Hampshire," she continued, a little afraid of wounding his consciousness of ignorance, if she used a name which he did not understand.

One day Margaret and her father had been as far as the fields that lay around the town. It was now early spring, and she had gathered some of the hedge flowers, dog-violets, celandines, and the like, with an unspoken lament in her heart for the sweet profusion of the South. Her father left her to go into Milton upon business; and on the road home she met her humble friends. The girl looked wistfully at the flowers, and, acting on a sudden impulse, Margaret offered them to her. Her pale blue eyes lightened up as she took them, and her father spoke.
'Thank yo, Miss. Bessy'll think a deal o' them flowers; that hoo will; and I shall think a deal o' your kindness. Yo're not of this country, I reckon?'
'No!' said Margaret, half sighing. 'I come from the South - from Hampshire,' she continued, a little afraid of using a name which he did not understand.


"That's beyond London, I reckon? And I come fro' Burnleyways, and forty miles to th' North. And yet, yo see, North and South has both met and made kind o' friends in this big smoky place."
Margaret had slackened her pace to a walk alongside of the man and his daughter, whose steps were regulated by the feebleness of the latter. She now spoke to the girl, and there was a sound of tender pity in the tone of her voice as she did so that went right to the heart of the father.
"I'm afraid you are not very strong."
"No," said the girl, "nor never will be."
"Spring is coming," said Margaret, as if to suggest pleasant, hopeful thoughts.
"Spring nor summer will do me good," said the girl quietly.

'That's beyond London, I reckon? And I come fro' Burnley-ways, forty mile to th' North. And yet, yo see, North and South has both met and made kind o' friends in this big smoky place.'
Margaret had slackened her pace to walk alongside the man, whose steps were slowed by the feebleness of his daughter. She now spoke to the girl, with a tender pity that went right to the father's heart.
'I'm afraid you are not very strong.'
'No,' said the girl, 'nor never will be.'
'Spring is coming,' said Margaret, as if to suggest hopeful thoughts.
'Spring nor summer will do me good,' said the girl quietly.


Margaret looked up at the man, almost expecting some contradiction from him, or at least some remark that would modify his daughter's utter hopelessness. But instead, he added--
"I'm afeared hoo speaks the truth. I'm afeared hoo's too far gone in a waste."
"I shall have a spring where I am boun' to, and flowers, and amaranths, and shining robes besides."
"Poor lass, poor lass!" said her father in a low tone. "I'm none so sure o' that; but it's a comfort to thee, poor lass, poor lass. Poor father! it'll be soon."

Margaret looked up at the man, expecting some contradiction from him. But he said, 'I'm afeared hoo speaks truth. I'm afeared hoo's too far gone.'
'I shall have a spring where I'm bound to, and flowers, and amaranths, and shining robes besides,' said his daughter.
'Poor lass, poor lass!' said her father in a low tone. 'I'm none so sure o' that; but it's a comfort to thee, poor lass - it'll be soon.'


Margaret was shocked by his words--shocked but not repelled; rather attracted and interested.
"Where do you live? I think we must be neighbours, we meet so often on this road."
"We put up at nine Frances Street, second turn to th' left at after yo've past th' Goulden Dragon."
"And your name? I must not forget that."
"I'm none ashamed o' my name. It's Nicholas Higgins. Hoo's called Bessy Higgins. Whatten yo' asking for?"

Margaret was shocked, but not repelled; rather, interested.
'Where do you live? I think we must be neighbours, we meet so often.'
'We're at nine Frances Street, second to th' left after yo've past th' Goulden Dragon.'
'And your name?'
'It's Nicholas Higgins. Hoo's called Bessy Higgins. Whatten yo' asking for?'


Margaret was surprised at this last question, for at Helstone it would have been an understood thing, after the enquiries she had made, that she intended to come and call upon any poor neighbour whose name and habitation she had asked for.
"I thought--I meant to come and see you." She suddenly felt rather shy of offering the visit, without having any reason to give for her wish to make it, beyond a kindly interest in a stranger. It seemed all at once to take the shape of an impertinence on her part; she read this meaning too in the man's eyes.
"I'm none so fond of having strange folk in my house." But then relenting, as he saw her heightened colour, he added "Yo're a foreigner, as one may say, and maybe don't know many folk here, and yo've given my wench here flowers out of yo'r own hand;--yo may come if yo like."
Margaret was half amused, half-nettled at this answer. She was not sure if she would go where permission was given so like a favour conferred. But when they came to the turn into Frances Street, the girl stopped a minute, and said,
"Yo'll not forget yo're to come and see us."

Margaret was surprised at this last question, for at Helstone it would have been an understood thing that she intended to call upon any poor neighbour whose name and address she had asked for.
'I thought - I meant to come and see you.' She suddenly felt rather shy of offering the visit, without having any reason for it beyond kindly interest. It seemed to be an impertinence; she read this too in the man's eyes.
'I'm none so fond of having strange folk in my house.' But then, as he saw her heightened colour, he added, 'Yo're a foreigner, and maybe don't know many folk here, and yo've given my wench here flowers; - yo may come if yo like.'
Margaret was half-amused, half-nettled at this answer. She was not sure if she would go after all. But when they came to Frances Street, the girl stopped, and said,
'Yo'll not forget yo're to come and see us.'


"Aye, aye," said the father, impatiently, "hoo'll come. Hoo's a bit set up now, because hoo thinks I might ha' spoken more civilly; but hoo'll think better on it, and come. I can read her proud bonny face like a book. Come along, Bess; there's the mill bell ringing."
Margaret went home, wondering at her new friends, and smiling at the man's insight into what had been passing in her mind. From that day Milton became a brighter place to her. It was not the long, bleak sunny days of spring, nor yet was it that time was reconciling her to the town of her habitation. It was that in it she had found a human interest.

'Aye, aye,' said the father, impatiently, 'hoo'll come. Hoo's a bit set up now, because hoo thinks I might ha' spoken more civilly; but hoo'll think better on it, and come. I can read her proud bonny face like a book. Come along, Bess; there's the mill bell ringing.'
Margaret went home, wondering at her new friends, and smiling at the man's insight into what had been passing in her mind. From that day Milton became a brighter place to her. It was not the long, bleak sunny days of spring that reconciled her to the town. It was that in it she had found a human interest.


"For joy or grief, for hope or fear, For all hereafter, as for here, In peace or strife, in storm or shine." ANON.
Edith went about on tip-toe, and checked Sholto in all loud speaking that next morning, as if any sudden noise would interrupt the conference that was taking place in the drawing-room. Two o'clock came; and they still sate there with closed doors. Then there was a man's footstep running down stairs; and Edith peeped out of the drawing-room.
"Well, Henry?" said she, with a look of interrogation.
"Well!" said he, rather shortly.
"Come in to lunch!"

Edith went about on tip-toe, and quietened Sholto that next morning, as if any sudden noise would interrupt the conference that was taking place in the drawing-room. Two o'clock came; and they still sat there with closed doors. Then there was a man's footstep running downstairs; and Edith peeped out of her room.
'Well, Henry?' said she.
'Well!' said he, rather shortly.
'Come in to lunch!'


"No, thank you, I can't. I've lost too much time here already."
"Then it's not all settled?" said Edith, despondingly.
"No! not at all. It never will be settled, if the 'it' is what I conjecture you mean. That will never be, Edith, so give up thinking about it."

'No, thank you, I can't. I've lost too much time here already.'
'Then it's not all settled,' said Edith despondingly.
'No! It never will be settled, if the "it" is what I think you mean. That will never be, Edith, so give up thinking about it.'


"But it would be so nice for us all," pleaded Edith. "I should always feel comfortable about the children, if I had Margaret settled down near to me. As it is, I am always afraid of her going off to Cadiz."
"I will try, when I marry, to look out for a young lady who has a knowledge of the management of children. That is all I can do. Miss Hale will not have me. And I shall not ask her."
"Then what have you been talking about?"
"A thousand things you would not understand: Investments, and leases, and value of land."

'But it would be so nice for us all,' pleaded Edith. 'I should always feel comfortable about the children, if I had Margaret settled near me. I am afraid of her going off to Cadiz.'
'I will try, when I marry, to look out for a young lady who has knowledge of the management of children. That is all I can do. Miss Hale would not have me. And I shall not ask her.'
'Then what have you been talking about?'
'A thousand things you would not understand: investments, and leases, and value of land.'


"Oh, go away if that's all. You and she will be unbearably stupid, if you've been talking all this time about such weary things."
"Very well. I'm coming again to-morrow, and bringing Mr. Thornton with me, to have some more talk with Miss Hale."
"Mr. Thornton! What has he to do with it?"
"He is Miss Hale's tenant," said Mr. Lennox, turning away. "And he wishes to give up his lease."

'Oh, go away, if that's all - such weary things.'
'Very well. I'm coming again tomorrow, and bringing Mr. Thornton with me, to have some more talk with Miss Hale.'
'Mr. Thornton! What has he to do with it?'
'He is Miss Hale's tenant,' said Mr. Lennox, turning away. 'And he wishes to give up his lease.'


"Oh! very well. I can't understand details, so don't give them me."
"The only detail I want you to understand is, to let us have the back drawing-room undisturbed, as it was to-day. In general, the children and servants are so in and out, that I can never get any business satisfactorily explained; and the arrangements we have to make to-morrow are of importance."
No one ever knew why Mr. Lennox did not keep to his appointment on the following day. Mr. Thornton came true to his time; and after keeping him waiting for nearly an hour, Margaret came in looking very white and anxious.
She began hurriedly:
"I am so sorry Mr. Lennox is not here,--he could have done it so much better than I can. He is my adviser in this"----

'Oh! very well. I can't understand details, so don't give them me.'
'The only detail I want you to understand is, to let us have the back drawing-room undisturbed, as it was today, with nobody coming in or out. The arrangements we have to make tomorrow are important.'
No one ever knew why Mr. Lennox did not keep his appointment on the following day. Mr. Thornton came true to his time; and, after keeping him waiting for nearly an hour, Margaret came in looking very white and anxious.
She began hurriedly:
'I am so sorry Mr. Lennox is not here - he could have done it so much better than I can. He is my adviser in this.'


"I am sorry that I came, if it troubles you. Shall I go to Mr. Lennox's chambers and try and find him?"
"No, thank you. I wanted to tell you, how grieved I was to find that I am to lose you as a tenant. But, Mr. Lennox says, things are sure to brighten"----
"Mr. Lennox knows little about it," said Mr. Thornton quietly. "Happy and fortunate in all a man cares for, he does not understand what it is to find oneself no longer young--yet thrown back to the starting-point which requires the hopeful energy of youth--to feel one half of life gone, and nothing done--nothing remaining of wasted opportunity, but the bitter recollection that it has been. Miss Hale, would rather not hear Mr. Lennox's opinion of my affairs. Those who are happy and successful themselves are too apt to make light of the misfortunes of others."

'I am sorry that I came, if it troubles you. Shall I go to Mr. Lennox's chambers and try and find him?'
'No, thank you. I wanted to tell you how grieved I was to find that I am to lose you as a tenant. But, Mr. Lennox says, things are sure to brighten-'
'Mr. Lennox knows little about it,' said Mr. Thornton quietly. 'Happy and fortunate as he is, he does not understand what it is to find oneself no longer young - yet thrown back to the starting-point which requires the hopeful energy of youth; to feel half of life gone, and nothing done - nothing remaining of wasted opportunity, but the bitter recollection that it has passed. Miss Hale, I would rather not hear Mr. Lennox's opinion of my affairs. Those who are happy and successful themselves are too apt to make light of the misfortunes of others.'


"You are unjust," said Margaret, gently. "Mr. Lennox has only spoken of the great probability which he believes there to be of your redeeming--your more than redeeming what you have lost--don't speak till I have ended--pray don't." And collecting herself once more, she went on rapidly turning over some law papers, and statement of accounts in a trembling hurried manner. "Oh! here it is! and--he drew me out a proposal--I wish he was here to explain it--showing that if you would take some money of mine, eighteen hundred and fifty-seven pounds, lying just at this moment unused in the bank, and bringing me in only two and a half per cent.--you could pay me much better interest, and might go on working Marlborough Mills." Her voice had cleared itself and become more steady. Mr. Thornton did not speak, and she went on looking for some paper on which were written down the proposals for security; for she was most anxious to have it all looked upon in the light of a mere business arrangement, in which the principal advantage would be on her side. While she sought for this paper, her very heart-pulse was arrested by the tone in which Mr. Thornton spoke. His voice was hoarse, and trembling with tender passion, as he said:--

'You are unjust,' said Margaret, gently. 'Mr. Lennox has only spoken of the great probability which he believes there to be of your redeeming - your more than redeeming what you have lost - pray don't speak till I have ended!'
Collecting herself, she went on rapidly turning over some law papers and accounts in a trembling hurried manner. 'Oh! here it is! He drew me out a proposal - I wish he was here to explain it - showing that if you would take some money of mine, eighteen thousand and fifty-seven pounds, lying just at this moment unused in the bank, and bringing me in only two and a half per cent - you could pay me much better interest, and might go on working Marlborough Mills.' Her voice had cleared itself and become more steady.
Mr. Thornton did not speak, and she went on looking for a paper on which were written down the proposals for security; for she was most anxious to have it all looked upon in the light of a mere business arrangement, in which the principal advantage would be on her side.
While she sought for this paper, her very heart-pulse was arrested by the tone in which Mr. Thornton spoke. His voice was hoarse, and trembling with tender passion, as he said-


"Margaret!"
For an instant she looked up; and then sought to veil her luminous eyes by dropping her forehead on her hands. Again, stepping nearer, he besought her with another tremulous eager call upon her name.
"Margaret!"
Still lower went the head; more closely hidden was the face, almost resting on the table before her. He came close to her. He knelt by her side, to bring his face to a level with her ear; and whispered--panted out the words:--
"Take care.--If you do not speak--I shall claim you as my own in some strange presumptuous way.--Send me away at once, if I must go;--Margaret!--"

'Margaret!'
For an instant she looked up; and then sought to veil her luminous eyes by dropping her forehead on her hands. Again, stepping nearer, he besought her with another tremulous eager call.
'Margaret!'
Still lower went the head; more closely hidden was the face, bending almost to the table. He knelt by her side, to bring his face to a level with her ear; and whispered:
'Take care. - If you do not speak - I shall claim you as my own in some strange presumptuous way. - Send me away at once, if I must go. - Margaret!'


At that third call she turned her face, still covered with her small white hands, towards him, and laid it on his shoulder, even hiding it there; and it was too delicious to feel her soft cheek against his, for him to wish to see either deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her close. But they both kept silence. At length she murmured in a broken voice:
"Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough!"
"Not good enough! Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness."
After a minute or two he gently disengaged her hands from her face, and laid her arms as they had once before been placed to protect him from the rioters.

At that third call she turned her face, still covered with her small white hands, towards him, and laid it on his shoulder, hiding it even there; and it was too delicious to feel her soft cheek against his, for him to wish to see either deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her close. But they both kept silence. At length she murmured in a broken voice:
'Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough!'
'Not good enough! Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.'
After a minute or two, he gently disengaged her hands from her face, and laid her arms as they had once before been placed to protect him from the rioters.


"Do you remember, love?" he murmured. "And how I requited you with my insolence the next day?"
"I remember how wrongly I spoke to you,--that is all."
"Look here! Lift up your head. I have something to show you!" She slowly faced him, glowing with beautiful shame.
"Do you know these roses?" he said, drawing out his pocket-book, in which were treasured up some dead flowers.

'Do you remember, love?' he murmured. 'And how I requited you with my insolence the next day?'
'I remember how wrongly I spoke to you - that is all.'
'Look here! Lift up your head. I have something to show you!' She slowly faced him, glowing with beautiful shame.
'Do you know these roses?' he said, drawing out his pocket-book, in which were treasured up some dead flowers.


"No!" she replied, with innocent curiosity. "Did I give them to you?"
"No! Vanity; you did not. You may have worn sister roses very probably."
She looked at them, wondering for a minute, then she smiled a little as she said--

'Did I give them to you?'
'No! Vanity; you did not. You may have worn sister roses very probably.'
She looked at them, wondering; then smiled as she said,


"They are from Helstone, are they not? I know the deep indentations round the leaves. Oh! have you been there? When were you there?"
"I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what she is, even at the worst time of all, when I had no hope of ever calling her mine. I went there on my return from Havre."
"You must give them to me," she said, trying to take them out of his hand with gentle violence.
"Very well. Only you must pay me for them!"

 'They are from Helstone, are they not? I know the deep indentations round the leaves. Oh! have you been there?'
'I wanted to see the place where Margaret grew to what she is, even at the worst time of all, when I had no hope of ever calling her mine. I went there on my return from Havre.'
'You must give them to me,' she said, trying to take them out of his hand with gentle violence.
'Very well. Only you must pay me for them!'


"How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw?" she whispered, after some time of delicious silence.
"Let me speak to her."
"Oh, no! I owe to her,--but what will she say?"
"I can guess. Her first exclamation will be, 'That man!'"
"Hush!" said Margaret, "or I shall try and show you your mother's indignant tones as she says, 'That woman!'"

'How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw?' she whispered, after some time of delicious silence.
'Let me speak to her.'
'Oh, no! I owe it to her - but what will she say?'
'I can guess. Her first exclamation will be, "That man!"'
'Hush!' said Margaret, 'or I shall try and show you your mother's indignant tones as she says, "That woman!"'


"My own, my father's friend! I cannot part with thee! I ne'er have shown, thou ne'er hast known, How dear thou art to me." ANON.
The elements of the dinner-parties which Mrs. Lennox gave, were these; her friends contributed the beauty, Captain Lennox the easy knowledge of the subjects of the day; and Mr. Henry Lennox, and the sprinkling of rising men who were received as his friends, brought the wit, the cleverness, the keen and extensive knowledge of which they knew well enough how to avail themselves without seeming pedantic, or burdening the rapid flow of conversation.
These dinners were delightful; but even here Margaret's dissatisfaction found her out. Every talent, every feeling, every acquirement; nay, even every tendency towards virtue, was used up as materials for fireworks; the hidden, sacred fire, exhausted itself in sparkle and crackle. They talked about art in a merely sensuous way, dwelling on outside effects, instead of allowing themselves to learn what it has to teach. They lashed themselves up into an enthusiasm about high subjects in company, and never thought about them when they were alone; they squandered their capabilities of appreciation into a mere flow of appropriate words. One day, after the gentlemen had come up into the drawing-room, Mr. Lennox drew near to Margaret, and addressed her in almost the first voluntary words he had spoken to her since she had returned to live in Harley Street.

The elements of Mrs. Lennox's dinner-parties were these; her friends contributed the beauty, Captain Lennox the easy knowledge of the subjects of the day, and Mr. Henry Lennox and his friends brought the wit and cleverness to the conversation.
These dinners were delightful; but even here Margaret felt dissatisfied. Every talent, every feeling, even every tendency towards virtue was used as materials for fireworks; the hidden, sacred fire exhausted itself in sparkle and crackle. They talked about art in a merely sensuous way, dwelling on effects, instead of allowing themselves to learn what it has to teach. They lashed themselves up into enthusiasm about high subjects in company, and never thought about them when they were alone; they squandered their capabilities of appreciation into a mere flow of appropriate words.
One day, after the gentlemen had come into the drawing-room, Mr. Lennox drew near to Margaret.


"You did not look pleased at what Shirley was saying at dinner."
"Didn't I? My face must be very expressive," replied Margaret.
"It always was. It has not lost the trick of being eloquent."
"I did not like," said Margaret, hastily, "his way of advocating what he knew to be wrong--so glaringly wrong--even in jest."
"But it was very clever. How every word told! Did you remember the happy epithets?"
"Yes."

'You did not look pleased at what Shirley was saying at dinner.'
'Didn't I? My face must be very expressive,' replied Margaret.
'It always was.'
'I did not like,' said Margaret, hastily, 'his way of advocating what he knew to be wrong, even in jest.'
'But it was very clever. Do you remember the happy epithets?'
'Yes.'


"And despise them, you would like to add. Pray don't scruple, though he is my friend."
"There! that is the exact tone in you, that"--she stopped short.
He listened for a moment to see if she would finish her sentence; but she only reddened, and turned away; before she did so, however, she heard him say, in a very low, clear voice,--
"If my tones, or modes of thought, are what you dislike, will you do me the justice to tell me so, and so give me the chance of learning to please you."

'And you despise them, you would like to add. Pray don't scruple, though he is my friend.'
'There! that is the exact tone in you, that-' She stopped short.
He waited to see if she would finish her sentence; but she only reddened, and turned away. He said in a very low, clear voice:
'If my tones, or modes of thought, are what you dislike, will you tell me so, and give me the chance of learning to please you?'


All these weeks there was no intelligence of Mr. Bell's going to Milton. He had spoken of it at Helstone as of a journey which he might have to take in a very short time from then; but he must have transacted his business by writing. Margaret thought, ere now, and she knew that if he could, he would avoid going to a place which he disliked, and moreover would little understand the secret importance which she affixed to the explanation that could only be given by word of mouth. She knew that he would feel that it was necessary that it should be done; but whether in summer, autumn, or winter, it would signify very little. It was now August, and there had been no mention of the Spanish journey to which he had alluded to Edith, and Margaret tried to reconcile herself to the fading away of this illusion.
But one morning she received a letter, saying that next week he meant to come up to town; he wanted to see her about a plan which he had in his head; and, moreover, he intended to treat himself to a little doctoring, as he had begun to come round to her opinion, that it would be pleasanter to think that his health was more in fault than he, when he found himself irritable and cross. There was altogether a tone of forced cheerfulness in the letter, as Margaret noticed afterwards; but at the time her attention was taken up by Edith's exclamations.

All these weeks there was no news of Mr. Bell's going to Milton. He must have transacted his business there by writing, Margaret thought. She knew that if he could, he would avoid going to a place which he disliked, and would not understand the secret importance which she affixed to the explanation being given by word of mouth. It was now August, and he had not mentioned the Spanish journey; so Margaret tried to reconcile herself to the fading away of this illusion.
But one morning she received a letter, saying that next week he meant to come up to town; he wanted to see her about a plan which he had; and to treat himself to a little doctoring, as he had begun to think that perhaps his health was more in fault than he, when he found himself irritable and cross. There was a tone of forced cheerfulness in the letter, as Margaret noticed afterwards; but at the time her attention was taken up by Edith's exclamations.


"Coming up to town! Oh dear! and I am so worn out by the heat that I don't believe I have strength enough in me for another dinner. Besides, everybody has left but our dear stupid selves, who can't settle where to go to. There would be nobody to meet him."
"I'm sure he would much rather come and dine with us quite alone than with the most agreeable strangers you could pick up. Besides, if he is not well he won't wish for invitations. I am glad he has owned it at last. I was sure he was ill from the whole tone of his letters, and yet he would not answer me when I asked him, and I had no third person to whom I could apply for news."

'Coming up to town! Oh, dear! and I am so worn out by the heat that I don't believe I have strength for another dinner. Besides, everybody has left town.'
'I'm sure Mr. Bell would much rather dine with us alone than with the most agreeable strangers, especially if he is not well. I am glad he has owned it at last. I was sure he was ill, and yet he would not answer me when I asked him.'


"Oh! he is not very ill, or he would not think of Spain."
"He never mentions Spain."
"No! but his plan that is to be proposed evidently relates to that. But would you really go in such weather as this?"
"Oh, it will get cooler every day. Yes! Think of it. I am only afraid I have thought and wished too much--in that absorbing wilful way which is sure to be disappointed--or else gratified, to the letter, while in the spirit it gives no pleasure."

'Oh! he is not very ill, or he would not think of Spain.'
'He never mentions Spain.'
'No! but his plan must relate to that.


"But that's superstitious, I'm sure, Margaret."
"No, I don't think it is. Only it ought to warn me, and check me from giving way to such passionate wishes. It is a sort of 'Give me children, or else I die.' I'm afraid my cry is, 'Let me go to Cadiz, or else I die.'"
"My dear Margaret! You'll be persuaded to stay there; and then what shall I do? Oh! I wish I could find somebody for you to marry here, that I could be sure of you!"
"I shall never marry."

Dear Margaret! You'll be persuaded to stay there; and then what shall I do? Oh! I wish I could find somebody for you to marry here!'
'I shall never marry.'


"Nonsense, and double nonsense! Why, as Sholto says, you're such an attraction to the house, that he knows ever so many men who will be glad to visit here next year for your sake."
Margaret drew herself up haughtily. "Do you know, Edith, I sometimes think your Corfu life has taught you----"
"Well!"
"Just a shade or two of coarseness."
Edith began to sob so bitterly, and to declare so vehemently that Margaret had lost all love for her, and no longer looked upon her as a friend, that Margaret came to think that she had expressed too harsh an opinion for the relief of her own wounded pride, and ended by being Edith's slave for the rest of the day; while that little lady, overcome by wounded feeling, lay like a victim on the sofa, heaving occasionally a profound sigh, till at last she fell asleep.
Mr. Bell did not make his appearance even on the day to which he had for a second time deferred his visit. The next morning there came a letter from Wallis, his servant, stating that his master had not been feeling well for some time, which had been the true reason of his putting off his journey; and that at the very time when he should have set out for London, he had been seized with an apoplectic fit; it was, indeed, Wallis added, the opinion of the medical men--that he could not survive the night; and more than probable, that by the time Miss Hale received this letter his poor master would be no more.
Margaret received this letter at breakfast-time, and turned very pale as she read it; then, silently putting into Edith's hands, she left the room.

'Nonsense! Why, Cosmo says that he knows ever so many men who will be glad to visit here for your sake.'
Margaret drew herself up haughtily. 'Do you know, Edith, I sometimes think your Corfu life has taught you just a shade of coarseness.'
Edith began to sob so bitterly, and to declare so vehemently that Margaret had lost all love for her, that Margaret came to think that she had been too harsh in relieving her own wounded pride; and ended by being Edith's slave for the rest of the day, while that little lady lay like a victim on the sofa.
Mr. Bell did not appear. There came a letter from Wallis, his servant, stating that his master had not been feeling well for some time, so had put off his journey; and that at the very time when he should have set out for London, he had been seized with an apoplectic fit. Wallis added the opinion of the medical men - that Mr. Bell could not survive the night; and that probably by the time Miss Hale received this letter his poor master would be no more.
Margaret received the letter at breakfast-time, and turned very pale as she read it. Silently putting it into Edith's hands, she left the room.


Edith was terribly shocked as she read it, and cried in a sobbing, frightened, childish way, much to her husband's distress. Mrs. Shaw was breakfasting in her own room, and upon him devolved the task of reconciling his wife to the near contact into which she seemed to be brought with death, for the first time that she could remember in her life. Here was a man who was to have dined with them to-day lying dead or dying instead! It was some time before she could think of Margaret. Then she started up, and followed her upstairs into her room. Dixon was packing up a few toilette articles, and Margaret was hastily putting on her bonnet, shedding tears all the time, and her hands trembling so that she could hardly tie the strings.

Edith was terribly shocked, and cried in a sobbing, frightened, childish way, much to her husband's distress. It was the first time his wife had been brought into near contact with death. Here was a man who was to have dined with them today, lying dead or dying! It was some time before Edith could think of Margaret. When she went up to her room, Dixon was packing, and Margaret was hastily putting on her bonnet, her hands trembling so that she could hardly tie the strings.


"Oh, dear Margaret! how shocking! What are you doing? Are you going out? Sholto would telegraph or do anything you like."

'Oh, dear Margaret! how shocking! Are you going out? Cosmo would telegraph or do anything you like.'


"I am going to Oxford. There is a train in half-an-hour. Dixon has offered to go with me, but I could have gone by myself. I must see him again. Besides, he may be better, and want some care. He has been like a father to me. Don't stop me, Edith."

'I am going to Oxford. There is a train in half-an-hour. Dixon has offered to go with me. I must see Mr. Bell again. Besides, he may be better, and want some care. He has been like a father to me. Don't stop me, Edith.'


"But I must. Mamma won't like it at all. Come and ask her about it, Margaret. You don't know where you're going. I should not mind if he had a house of his own; but in his Fellow's rooms! Come to mamma, and do ask her before you go. It will not take a minute."

'But Mamma won't like it. Come and ask her about it, Margaret. You don't know where you're going. In his Fellow's rooms! Come to mamma, and do ask her.'


Margaret yielded, and lost her train. In the suddenness of the event, Mrs. Shaw became bewildered and hysterical, and so the precious time slipped by. But there was another train in a couple of hours; and after various discussions on propriety and impropriety, it was decided that Captain Lennox should accompany Margaret, as the one thing to which she was constant was her resolution to go, alone or otherwise, by the next train, whatever might be said of the propriety or impropriety of the step. Her father's friend, her own friend, was lying at the point of death; and the thought of this came upon her with such vividness, that she was surprised herself at the firmness with which she asserted something of her right to independence of action; and five minutes before the time of starting, she found herself sitting in a railway carriage opposite to Captain Lennox. It was always a comfort to her to think that she had gone, though it was only to hear that he had died in the night. She saw the rooms that he had occupied, and associated them ever after most fondly in her memory with the idea of her father, and his one cherished and faithful friend.
They had promised Edith before starting, that if all had ended as they feared, they would return to dinner; so that long, lingering look around the room in which her father had died, had to be interrupted, and a quiet farewell taken of the kind old face that had so often come out with pleasant words, and merry quips and cranks.

Margaret yielded, and missed her train. Mrs. Shaw became bewildered and hysterical, and precious time slipped by. But there was another train in a couple of hours; and after various discussions on propriety, it was decided that Captain Lennox should accompany Margaret by the next train. Her father's friend, her own friend, was lying at the point of death; and this thought made her assert firmly her right to independence of action.
It was always a comfort to her to think that she had gone, though it was only to hear that he had died in the night. She saw the rooms that he had occupied, and associated them ever after most fondly in her memory with the idea of her father, and his cherished and faithful friend.
They had promised Edith that if all had ended as they feared, they would return to dinner; so that Margaret's lingering look around the room, in which her father had died, had to be interrupted, and a quiet farewell taken of the kind old face.


Captain Lennox fell asleep on their journey home; and Margaret could cry at leisure, and bethink her of this fatal year, and all the woes it had brought to her. No sooner was she fully aware of one loss than another came--not to supersede her grief for the one before, but to re-open wounds and feelings scarcely healed. But at the sound of the tender voices of her aunt and Edith, of merry little Sholto's glee at her arrival, and at the sight of the well-lighted rooms, with their mistress, pretty in her paleness and her eager sorrowful interest, Margaret roused herself from her heavy trance of almost superstitious hopelessness, and began to feel that even around her joy and gladness might gather. She had Edith's place on the sofa; Sholto was taught to carry Aunt Margaret's cup of tea very carefully to her; and by the time she went up to dress, she could thank God for having spared her dear old friend a long or a painful illness.

Captain Lennox fell asleep on their journey home; and Margaret could cry at leisure, and bethink her of this fatal year, and all its woes. One grief had come after another, re-opening wounds and feelings scarcely healed.
But at the sound of the tender voices of her aunt and Edith, and merry little Sholto's glee at her arrival, Margaret roused herself from her heavy trance. She had Edith's place on the sofa; Sholto was taught to carry aunt Margaret's cup of tea very carefully to her; and by the time she went up to dress, she could thank God for having spared her dear old friend a long or painful illness.


But when night came-solemn night, and all the house was quiet, Margaret still sate watching the beauty of a London sky at such an hour, on such a summer evening; the faint pink reflection of earthly lights on the soft clouds that float tranquilly into the white moonlight, out of the warm gloom which lies motionless around the horizon. Margaret's room had been the day nursery of her childhood, just when it merged into girlhood, and when the feelings and conscience had been first awakened into full activity. On some such night as this she remembered promising to herself to live as brave and noble a life as any heroine she ever read or heard of in romance, a life sans peur et sans reproche; it had seemed to her then that she had only to will, and such a life would be accomplished. And now she had learnt that not only to will, but also to pray, was a necessary condition in the truly heroic. Trusting to herself, she had fallen. It was a just consequence of her sin, that all excuses for it, all temptation to it, should remain for ever unknown to the person in whose opinion it had sunk her lowest. She stood face to face at last with her sin. She knew it for what it was; Mr. Bell's kindly sophistry that nearly all men were guilty of equivocal actions, and that the motive ennobled the evil, had never had much real weight with her. Her own first thought of how, if she had known all, she might have fearlessly told the truth, seemed low and poor. Nay, even now, her anxiety to have her character for truth partially excused in Mr. Thornton's eyes, as Mr. Bell had promised to do, was a very small and petty consideration, now that she was afresh taught by death what life should be.

When solemn night came, and all the house was quiet, Margaret still sat watching the beauty of a London sky on such a summer evening; the faint pink reflection of earthly lights on the soft clouds that float into the white moonlight. This room had been the nursery of her childhood, just when her feelings and conscience had been awakened into full activity. On some such night as this she remembered promising to herself to live as brave and noble a life as any heroine; it had seemed to her then that she had only to will, and such a life would be accomplished. And now she had learnt that not only to will, but also to pray, was a necessary condition in the truly heroic. Trusting to herself, she had fallen.
It was only just that all excuses for her sin should remain for ever unknown to the person in whose opinion it had sunk her lowest. She knew her sin for what it was; Mr. Bell's kindly sophistry that nearly all men were guilty of such sins had never had much weight with her. Her anxiety to have her character excused in Mr. Thornton's eyes, as Mr. Bell had promised to do, was a very small and petty consideration, now that she was afresh taught by death what life should be.


If all the world spoke, acted, or kept silence with intent to deceive,-if dearest interests were at stake, and dearest lives in peril,-if no one should ever know of her truth or her falsehood to measure out their honour or contempt for her by, straight alone where she stood, in the presence of God, she prayed that she might have strength to speak and act the truth for evermore.

She stood alone, in the presence of God, and prayed that she might have strength to speak and act the truth for evermore.


"Here we go up, up, up; And here we go down, down, downee!" NURSERY SONG.


Meanwhile at Milton the chimneys smoked, the ceaseless roar and mighty beat and dazzling whirr of machinery struggled and strove perpetually. Senseless and purposeless were wood and iron and steam in their endless labours; but the persistence of their monotonous work was rivalled in tireless endurance by the strong crowds, who, with sense and with purpose, were busy and restless in seeking after--What? In the streets there were few loiterers,--none walking for mere pleasure; every man's face was set in lines of eagerness or anxiety; news was sought for with fierce avidity; and men jostled each other aside in the Mart and in the Exchange, as they did in life, in the deep selfishness of competition. There was gloom over the town. Few came to buy, and those who did were looked at suspiciously by the sellers; for credit was insecure, and the most stable might have their fortunes affected by the sweep in the great neighbouring port among the shipping houses. Hitherto there had been no failures in Milton; but from the immense speculations that had come to light in making a bad end in America, and yet nearer home, it was known that some Milton houses of business must suffer so severely that every day men's faces asked, if their tongues did not, "What news? Who is gone? How will it affect me?" And if two or three spoke together, they dwelt rather on the names of those who were safe than dared to hint at those likely, in their opinion, to go: for idle breath may, at such times, cause the downfall of some who might otherwise weather the storm; and one going down drags many after. "Thornton is safe," say they.

Meanwhile at Milton, the chimneys smoked, the ceaseless roar and mighty beat and whirl of machinery strove perpetually. Senseless and purposeless were wood and iron and steam in their endless labours; but they were rivalled in tireless endurance by the strong crowds, who, with sense and with purpose, were restlessly seeking after - what? In the streets there were few loiterers - none walking for mere pleasure. Men sought news with fierce avidity; and jostled each other aside in the Exchange, as they did in life, in the deep selfishness of competition.
There was gloom over the town. Few came to buy, and those who did were looked at suspiciously by the sellers; for credit was insecure, and the most stable might have their fortunes affected by the sweep in the great neighbouring port among the shipping houses. Hitherto there had been no failures in Milton; but, from the immense speculations that had made a bad end in America, and nearer home, it was known that some Milton houses of business must suffer severely. When men spoke together, they dwelt rather on the names of those who were safe than those who were likely to go under; for at such times idle rumour may bring down some who might otherwise weather the storm; and one going down drags many after.
'Thornton is safe,' say they.


"His business is large--extending every year; but such a head as he has, and so prudent with all his daring!" Then one man draws another aside, and walks a little apart, and with head inclined into his neighbour's ear, he says, "Thornton's business is large; but he has spent his profits in extending it; he has no capital laid by; his machinery is new within these two years, and has cost him--we won't say what!--a word to the wise!" But that Mr. Harrison was a croaker,--a man who had succeeded to his father's trade-made fortune, which he had feared to lose by altering his mode of business to any having a larger scope; yet he grudged every penny made by others more daring and far-sighted.

'His business is large - extending every year; but he's prudent for all his daring.' Then one man draws another aside, and says quietly, 'Thornton's business is large; but he has spent his profits in extending it and buying new machinery; he has no capital laid by.'


But the truth was, Mr. Thornton was hard pressed. He felt it acutely in his vulnerable point--his pride in the commercial character which he had established for himself. Architect of his own fortunes, he attributed this to no special merit or qualities of his own, but to the power, which he believed that commerce gave to every brave, honest, and persevering man, to raise himself to a level from which he might see and read the great game of worldly success, and honestly, by such far-sightedness, command more power and influence than in any other mode of life. Far away, in the East and in the West, where his person would never be known, his name was to be regarded, and his wishes to be fulfilled, and his word pass like gold. That was the idea of merchant-life with which Mr. Thornton had started. "Her merchants be like princes," said his mother, reading the text aloud, as if it were a trumpet-call to invite her boy to the struggle. He was but like many others--men, women, and children--alive to distant, and dead to near things. He sought to possess the influence of a name in foreign countries and far-away seas,--to become the head of a firm that should be known for generations; and it had taken him long silent years to come even to a glimmering of what he might be now, to-day, here in his own town, his own factory, among his own people. He and they had led parallel lives--very close, but never touching--till the accident (or so it seemed) of his acquaintance with Higgins. Once brought face to face, man to man, with an individual of the masses around him, and (take notice) out of the character of master and workman, in the first instance, they had each begun to recognise that "we have all of us one human heart."

The truth was, Mr. Thornton was hard pressed. He felt it acutely. It wounded his pride in the commercial character which he had established for himself. He attributed this to no special merit of his own, but to the power which he believed that commerce gave to every honest and persevering man to raise himself to a position of influence. Far away, East and West, his name was to be regarded, and his wishes to be fulfilled, and his word pass like gold. That was his idea of merchant-life. He was like many others - alive to distant, and dead to near things. He sought to become the head of a firm that should be known abroad for generations; and it had taken him long silent years to come even to a glimmering of what he might be, even in his own town, among his own people. He and they had led parallel lives - close, but never touching - till his acquaintance with Higgins. Once brought face to face, master and workman had begun to recognise that 'we have all of us one human heart.'


It was the fine point of the wedge; and until now, when the apprehension of losing his connection with two or three of the workmen whom he had so lately begun to know as men,--of having a plan or two, which were experiments lying very close to his heart, roughly nipped off without trial,--gave a new poignancy to the subtle fear that came over him from time to time; until now, he had never recognised how much and how deep was the interest he had grown of late to feel in his position of manufacturer, simply because it led him into such close contact, and gave him the opportunity of so much power, among a race of people strange, shrewd, ignorant; but, above all, full of character and strong human feeling.

It was the fine point of the wedge. Now, the apprehension of losing some of the workmen whom he had so lately begun to know - and of having plans, very close to his heart, roughly nipped off without trial - gave a new poignancy to the subtle fear that came over him from time to time. Until now, he had never recognised how deep was the interest he had lately grown to feel in his position as manufacturer, simply because it led him into such close contact, and gave him so much power, among a race of people strange, shrewd, ignorant; but full of character and strong human feeling.


He reviewed his position as a Milton manufacturer. The strike a year and a half ago,--or more, for it was now untimely wintry weather, in a late spring,--that strike, when he was young, and he now was old--had prevented his completing some of the large orders he had then on hand. He had locked up a good deal of his capital in new and expensive machinery, and he had also bought cotton largely, for the fulfilment of these orders, taken under contract. That he had not been able to complete them, was owing in some degree to the utter want of skill on the part of the Irish hands whom he had imported; much of their work was damaged and unfit to be sent forth by a house which prided itself on turning out nothing but first-rate articles. For many months, the embarrassment caused by the strike had been an obstacle in Mr. Thornton's way; and often, when his eye fell on Higgins, he could have spoken angrily to him without any present cause, just from feeling how serious was the injury that had arisen from this affair in which he was implicated. But when he became conscious of this sudden, quick resentment, he resolved to curb it. It would not satisfy him to avoid Higgins; he must convince himself that he was master over his own anger, by being particularly careful to allow Higgins access to him, whenever the strict rules of business, or Mr. Thornton's leisure permitted. And by-and-bye, he lost all sense of resentment in wonder how it was, or could be, that two men like himself and Higgins, living by the same trade, working in their different ways at the same object, could look upon each other's position and duties in so strangely different a way. And thence arose that intercourse, which, though it might not have the effect of preventing all future clash of opinion and action, when the occasion arose, would, at any rate, enable both master and man to look upon each other with far more charity and sympathy, and bear with each other more patiently and kindly. Besides this improvement of feeling, both Mr. Thornton and his workmen found out their ignorance as to positive matters of fact, known heretofore to one side, but not to the other.

He reviewed his position. The strike more than a year and a half ago, when he was young, had prevented his completing some of the large orders he had then on hand. He had locked up a good deal of his capital in new and expensive machinery, and he had also bought cotton for the fulfilment of these orders. He had not been able to complete them partly due to the utter lack of skill of the imported Irish hands, whose work was unfit to be sent forth by a house which prided itself on turning out only first-rate articles. For many months, the embarrassment caused by the strike had been an obstacle in Mr. Thornton's way; and when he saw Higgins, he could have spoken angrily to him just because of this sense of injury.
But when he became conscious of this resentment, he resolved to curb it. He must convince himself that he was master over his own anger, by being particularly careful to allow Higgins access to him whenever business permitted. And by-and-bye, he lost all sense of resentment in wonder how it was that two men like himself and Higgins, living by the same trade, working at the same object, could look upon each other's position and duties in so strangely different a way. Their meetings did not prevent all future clash of opinion, but they enabled both master and man to treat each other with far more sympathy and patience. In addition, both Mr. Thornton and his workmen discovered their ignorance about facts known to one side, but not to the other.


But now had come one of those periods of bad trade, when the market falling brought down the value of all large stocks; Mr. Thornton's fell to nearly half. No orders were coming in; so he lost the interest of the capital he had locked up in machinery; indeed, it was difficult to get payment for the orders completed; yet there was the constant drain of expenses for working the business. Then the bills became due for the cotton he had purchased; and money being scarce, he could only borrow at exorbitant interest, and yet he could not realise any of his property. But he did not despair; he exerted himself day and night to foresee and to provide for all emergencies; he was as calm and gentle to the women in his home as ever; to the workmen in his mill he spoke not many words, but they knew him by this time; and many a curt, decided answer was received by them rather with sympathy for the care they saw pressing upon him, than with the suppressed antagonism which had formerly been smouldering, and ready for hard words and hard judgments on all occasions. "Th' measter's a deal to potter him," said Higgins, one day, as he heard Mr. Thornton's short, sharp inquiry, why such a command had not been obeyed; and caught the sound of the suppressed sigh which he heaved in going past the room where some of the men were working. Higgins and another man stopped over-hours that night, unknown to any one, to get the neglected piece of work done; and Mr. Thornton never knew but that the overlooker, to whom he had given the command in the first instance, had done it himself.
"Eh! I reckon I know who'd ha' been sorry for to see our measter sitting so like a piece o' grey calico! Th' oud parson would ha' fretted his woman's heart out, if he'd seen the woeful looks I have seen on our measter's face," thought Higgins, one day, as he was approaching Mr. Thornton in Marlborough Street.
"Measter," said he, stopping his employer in his quick resolved walk, and causing that gentleman to look up with a sudden annoyed start, as if his thoughts had been far away.

But now had come one of those periods of bad trade, when the falling market brought down the value of all large stocks. Mr. Thornton's fell to nearly half. No orders were coming in, so he lost the interest of the capital he had locked up in machinery; indeed, it was difficult to get payment for the orders he completed; yet there was the constant drain of expenses. Then the bills became due for the cotton he had purchased; and money being scarce, he could only borrow at exorbitant interest.
He did not despair. He exerted himself day and night to foresee and provide for all emergencies. He was as calm and gentle to the women in his home as ever; to the workmen in his mill he spoke little, but they knew him by this time; and many a curt answer was received by them with sympathy for the care they saw pressing upon him, rather than their previous antagonism.
'Th' measter's a deal to potter him,' said Higgins one day, as he heard Mr. Thornton's sharp inquiry as to why a command had not been obeyed; and caught the sound of his suppressed sigh. Higgins and another man stopped over-hours that night, unknown to anyone, to get the neglected piece of work done; and Mr. Thornton assumed that the overlooker, to whom he had given the command, had done it himself.
'Eh! I reckon I know who'd ha' been sorry for to see our measter sitting so like a piece o' grey calico! Th' oud parson would ha' fretted his heart out, if he'd seen the measter so woeful,' thought Higgins, one day, as he was approaching Mr. Thornton in Marlborough Street.
'Measter,' said he, causing that gentleman to look up with a sudden annoyed start, as if his thoughts had been far away.


"Have yo' heerd aught of Miss Marget lately?"
"Miss--who?" replied Mr. Thornton.
"Miss Marget--Miss Hale--th' oud parson's daughter--yo' known who I mean well enough--if yo'll only think a bit--" (there was nothing disrespectful in the tone in which this was said).
"Oh yes!" and suddenly the wintry frost-bound look of care had left Mr. Thornton's face, as if some soft summer gale had blown all anxiety away from his mind; and though his mouth was as much compressed as before, his eyes smiled out benignly on his questioner.

'Have yo' heerd aught of Miss Marget lately?'
'Miss who?' replied Mr. Thornton.
'Miss Hale - th' oud parson's daughter - yo' known who I mean, if yo'll only think a bit.' (There was nothing disrespectful in his tone.)
'Oh yes!' and suddenly, the wintry frost-bound look of care left Mr. Thornton's face, as if some soft summer gale had blown anxiety away from his mind.


"She's my landlord now, you know, Higgins. I hear of her through her agent here, every now and then. She's well and among friends--thank you, Higgins." That "thank you" lingered after the other words, and yet came with so much warmth of feeling, let in a new light to the acute Higgins. It might be but a will-o'-th'-wisp, but he thought he would follow it and ascertain whither it would lead him.
"And she's not getten married, measter?"
"Not yet." The face was cloudy once more. "There is some talk of it, as I understand, with a connection of the family."
"Then she'll not be for coming to Milton again, I reckon."

'She's my landlord now, you know, Higgins. I hear of her through her agent, every now and then. She's well and among friends - thank you, Higgins.' That lingering 'thank you', which came with so much warmth of feeling, let in a new light to the acute Higgins. It might be but a will-o'-th'-wisp, but he thought he would follow it and see where it led him.
'And she's not getten married, measter?'
'Not yet.' The face was cloudy once more. 'There is some talk of it, as I understand.'
'Then she'll not be coming to Milton again, I reckon.'


"No!"
"Stop a minute, measter." Then going up confidentially close, he said, "Is th' young gentleman cleared?" He enforced the depth of his intelligence by a wink of the eye, which only made things more mysterious to Mr. Thornton.
"Th' young gentleman, I mean--Master Frederick, they ca'ed him--her brother as was over here, yo' known."
"Over here."
"Ay, to be sure, at th' missus's death. Yo' need na be feared of my telling; for Mary and me, we knowed it all along, only we held our peace, for we got it through Mary working in th' house."
"And he was over. It was her brother."

'No!'
'Stop a minute, measter.' Going up confidentially close, he said, 'Is th' young gentleman cleared?' and winked his eye, which only made things more mysterious to Mr. Thornton.
'Th' young gentleman - Master Frederick - her brother as was over here, yo' known.'
'Over here?'
'Ay, to be sure, at th' missus's death. Yo' need na be feared of my telling; for Mary and me, we knowed it all along, from Mary working in th' house.'
'And he was over. It was her brother!'


"Sure enough, and I reckoned yo' knowed it, or I'd never ha' let on. Yo' knowed she had a brother?"
"Yes, I know all about him. And he was over at Mrs. Hale's death?"
"Nay! I'm not going for to tell more. I've maybe getten them into mischief already, for they kept it very close. I nobbut wanted to know if they'd getten him cleared?"

'Sure enough. I reckoned yo' knowed it or I'd never ha' let on. Yo' knowed she had a brother?'
'Yes, I know all about him. And he was over at Mrs. Hale's death?'
'Nay! I'm not going to tell more. I've maybe getten them into mischief already. I nobbut wanted to know if they'd getten him cleared?'


"Not that I know of. I know nothing. I only hear of Miss Hale, now, as my landlord, and through her lawyer."
He broke off from Higgins, to follow the business on which he had been bent when the latter first accosted him; leaving Higgins baffled in his endeavour.
"It was her brother," said Mr. Thornton to himself. "I am glad. I may never see her again; but it is a comfort--a relief--to know that much. I knew she could not be unmaidenly; and yet I yearned for conviction. Now I am glad!"

'I don't know. I only hear of Miss Hale now as my landlord, and through her lawyer.'
He broke away to go on his business, leaving Higgins baffled in his endeavour.
'It was her brother,' said Mr. Thornton to himself. 'I am glad. I may never see her again; but it is a comfort - a relief - to know that much. I knew she could not be unmaidenly; and yet I yearned for conviction. Now I am glad!'


It was a little golden thread running through the dark web of his present fortunes; which were growing ever gloomier and more gloomy. His agent had largely trusted a house in the American trade, which went down, along with several others, just at this time, like a pack of cards, the fall of one compelling other failures. What were Mr. Thornton's engagements? Could he stand?
Night after night he took books and papers into his own private room, and sate up there long after the family were gone to bed. He thought no one knew of this occupation of the hours he should have spent in sleep. One morning, when daylight was stealing in through the crevices of his shutters, and he had never been in bed, and, in hopeless indifference of mind, was thinking that he could do without the hour or two of rest, which was all that he should be able to take before the stir of daily labour began again, the door of his room opened, and his mother stood there, dressed as she had been the day before. She had never laid herself down to slumber any more than he. Their eyes met. Their faces were cold and rigid, and wan, from long watching.

It was a little golden thread running through the dark web of his present fortunes, which were growing ever gloomier. His agent had trusted a firm in the American trade, which had just gone down along with several others like a pack of cards. Could he still stand?
Night after night he took papers into his private room, and sat up long after the family were gone to bed. He thought that no one knew of this. But one morning, when daylight was stealing in through the crevices of his shutters, and he, in hopeless indifference, was thinking that he could do without the hour or two of rest which was all that was possible - the door opened, and his mother stood there, dressed as she had been the day before. She had not lain down to sleep any more than he. Their eyes met. Their faces were cold and rigid, and wan.


"Mother! why are you not in bed?"
"Son John," said she, "do you think I can sleep with an easy mind, while you keep awake full of care? You have not told me what your trouble is; but sore trouble you have had these many days past."
"Trade is bad."
"And you dread----"
"I dread nothing," replied he, drawing up his head, and holding it erect. "I know that no man will suffer by me. That was my anxiety."

'Mother! why are you not in bed?'
'Son John,' said she, 'do you think I can sleep with an easy mind, while you keep awake full of care? You have not told me what your trouble is; but sore trouble you have had these many days past.'
'Trade is bad.'
'And you dread-'
'I dread nothing,' replied he, lifting his head. 'I know now that no man will suffer by me. That was my anxiety.'


"But how do you stand? Shall you--will it be a failure?" her steady voice trembling in an unwonted manner.
"Not a failure. I must give up business, but I pay all men. I might redeem myself--I am sorely tempted--"
"How? Oh, John! keep up your name--try all risks for that. How redeem it?"

'But how do you stand? Will it be a failure?' Her steady voice trembled.
'Not a failure. I must give up business, but I can pay all men. I might redeem myself - I am sorely tempted-'
'How? Oh, John! try anything to keep up your name. How?'


"By a speculation offered to me, but full of risk; but, if successful, placing me high above water-mark, so that no one need ever know the strait I am in. Still, if it fails--"
"And if it fails," said she, advancing, and laying her hand on his arm, her eyes full of eager light. She held her breath to hear the end of his speech.
"Honest men are ruined by a rogue," said he gloomily. "As I stand now, my creditors' money is safe--every farthing of it; but I don't know where to find my own--it may be all gone, and I penniless at this moment. Therefore, it is my creditors' money that I should risk."

'By a speculation offered to me, full of risk. If successful, no one need ever know the strait I am in. If it fails-'
'If it fails?' She held her breath.
'Honest men are ruined by a rogue,' said he gloomily. 'As I stand now, my creditors' money is safe; but I don't know where to find my own - I may be penniless. Therefore, it is my creditors' money that I would be risking.'


"But if it succeeded, they need never know. Is it so desperate a speculation? I am sure it is not, or you would never have thought of it. If it succeeded--"
"I should be a rich man, and my peace of conscience would be gone!"
"Why! You would have injured no one."
"No; but I should have run the risk of ruining many for my own paltry aggrandisement. Mother, I have decided! You won't much grieve over our leaving this house, shall you, dear mother?"

'But if it succeeded, they need never know. Is it so desperate a speculation? If it succeeded, you would have injured no one.'
'No; but I should have run the risk of ruining many for my own selfish ends. Mother, I have decided! You won't much grieve over our leaving this house, shall you, dear mother?'


"No! but to have you other than what you are will break my heart. What can you do?"
"Be always the same John Thornton in whatever circumstances; endeavouring to do right, and making great blunders; and then trying to be brave in setting to afresh. But it is hard, mother. I have worked and planned. I have discovered new powers in my situation too late--and now all is over. I am too old to begin again with the same heart. It is hard, mother."
He turned away from her, and covered his face with his hands.

'No! but to have you other than what you are will break my heart. What can you do?'
'Be always the same John Thornton in whatever circumstances; endeavouring to do right, and making great blunders; and then trying to be brave in setting to afresh. But it is hard, mother. I have so worked and planned, and I have discovered new powers too late - now all is over. I am too old to begin again with the same heart. It is hard, mother.'
He turned away from her, and covered his face.


"I can't think," said she, with gloomy defiance in her tone, "how it comes about. Here is my boy--good son, just man, tender heart--and he fails in all he sets his mind upon: he finds a woman to love, and she cares no more for his affection than if he had been a common man; he labours, and his labour comes to nought. Other people grow rich, and hold their paltry names high and dry above shame."
"Shame never touched me," said he, in a low tone: but she went on.
"I sometimes have wondered where justice was gone to, and now I don't believe there is such a thing in the world--now you are come to this; you, my own John Thornton, though you and I may be beggars together--my own dear son!"
She fell upon his neck, and kissed him through her tears.
"Mother!" said he, holding her gently in his arms, "who has sent me my lot in life, both of good and evil?"
She shook her head. She would have nothing to do with religion just then.

'I can't think,' said she, with gloomy defiance in her tone, 'how it comes about. Here is a good, just, tender heart - and he fails in all he sets his mind upon: he finds a woman to love, and she cares nothing for his affection; he labours, and his labour comes to nought. Other people prosper and grow rich, and hold their paltry names high and dry above shame.'
'Shame never touched me,' said he, in a low tone: but she went on.
'I don't believe there is such a thing as justice in the world, now you are come to this; my own John Thornton, though you and I may be beggars together - my own dear son!'
She kissed him through her tears.
'Mother!' said he, holding her gently in his arms, 'who has sent me my lot in life?'
She shook her head. She would have nothing to do with religion just then.


"Mother," he went on, seeing that she would not speak. "I, too, have been rebellious; but I'm striving to be so no longer. Help me, as you helped me when I was a child. Then you said many good words--when my father died, and we were sometimes sorely short of comforts--which we shall never be now; you said brave, noble, trustful words then, mother, which I have never forgotten, though they may have lain dormant. Speak to me again in the old way, mother. Do not let us have to think that the world has too much hardened our hearts. If you would say the old good words, it would make me feel something of the pious simplicity of my childhood. I say them to myself, but they would come differently from you, remembering all the cares and trials you have had to bear."

Seeing that she would not speak, he went on. 'I, too, have been rebellious; but I am striving to be so no longer. Help me, as you helped me when I was a child. Then, when my father died, and we were sorely short of comforts, you said brave, noble, trustful words, mother, which I have never forgotten. Speak to me again in the old way. Do not let us think that the world has too much hardened our hearts. I say the old words to myself, but they would come differently from you, remembering all your cares and trials.'