"It is six or seven years ago--would they still prosecute him, mother. If he came and stood his trial, what would be the punishment? Surely, he might bring evidence of his great provocation."

'It is six or seven years ago - would they still prosecute him, mother? If he stood trial, what would be the punishment? Surely he might bring evidence of his provocation.'


"It would do no good," replied Mrs. Hale. "Some of the sailors who accompanied Frederick were taken, and there was a court-martial held on them on board the Amicia; I believed all they said in their defence, poor fellows, because it just agreed with Frederick's story--but it was of no use,--" and for the first time during the conversation Mrs. Hale began to cry; yet something possessed Margaret to force the information she foresaw, yet dreaded, from her mother.

'It would do no good,' replied Mrs. Hale. 'Some of the sailors who accompanied Frederick were taken, and court-martialled on board the Amicia; I believed all they said in their defence, poor fellows, because it agreed with Frederick's story - but it was of no use.' Mrs. Hale began to cry; yet Margaret needed to know the end.


"What happened to them, mamma?" asked she.


"They were hung at the yard-arm," said Mrs. Hale, solemnly. "And the worst was that the court, in condemning them to death, said they had suffered themselves to be led astray from their duty by their superior officers."

'They were hung at the yard-arm. And the worst was that the court said they had allowed themselves to be led astray by their superior officers.'


"And Frederick was in South America for several years, was he not?"

'And Frederick was in South America for several years, was he not?'


"Yes. And now he is in Spain. At Cadiz, or somewhere near it. If he comes to England he will be hung. I shall never see his face again--for if he comes to England he will be hung."

'Yes. And now he is in Spain, near Cadiz. If he comes to England he will be hung. I shall never see his face again.'


There was no comfort to be given. Mrs. Hale turned her face to the wall, and lay perfectly still in her mother's despair. Nothing could be said to console her. She took her hand out of Margaret's with a little impatient movement, as if she would fain be left alone with the recollection of her son. When Mr. Hale came in, Margaret went out, oppressed with gloom, and seeing no promise of brightness on any side of the horizon.

There was no comfort to be given. Mrs. Hale turned to the wall, and took her hand out of Margaret's with a little impatient movement, as if she would rather be left alone. Margaret saw no promise of brightness on any side of the horizon.


"A spade! a rake! a hoe! A pickaxe or a bill! A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, A flail or what ye will-- And here's a ready hand To ply the needful tool, And skill'd enough, by lessons rough, In Labour's rugged school." HOOD.


Higgins's door was locked the next day, when they went to pay their call on the widow Boucher: but they learnt this time from an officious neighbour, that he was really from home. He had, however, been in to see Mrs. Boucher, before starting on his day's business, whatever that was. It was but an unsatisfactory visit to Mrs. Boucher; she considered herself an ill-used woman by her poor husband's suicide; and there was quite germ of truth enough in this idea to make it a very difficult one to refute. Still, it was unsatisfactory to see how completely her thoughts were turned upon herself and her own position, and this selfishness extended even to her relations with her children, whom she considered as incumbrances, even in the very midst of her somewhat animal affection for them. Margaret tried to make acquaintances with one or two of them, while her father strove to raise the widow's thoughts into some higher channel than that of mere helpless querulousness. She found that the children were truer and simpler mourners than the widow. Daddy had been a kind daddy to them; each could tell, in their eager stammering way, of some tenderness shown, some indulgence granted by the lost father.

Higgins's door was locked the next day: but they learnt from a neighbour that he was really away from home. He had, however, been in to see Mrs. Boucher, whom Margaret and her father visited next.
It was an unsatisfactory visit: Mrs. Boucher considered herself ill-used by her poor husband's suicide; and there was truth enough in this idea to make it difficult to refute. Her thoughts were turned upon herself and her own position, and this selfishness extended even to her children, whom she considered as incumbrances, in the very midst of her affection for them. While Mr. Hale spoke to her, Margaret talked to one or two of the children, and found that they were truer and simpler mourners than the widow. Daddy had been kind to them; each could tell, in their eager stammering way, of some tenderness shown by the lost father.


"Is yon thing upstairs really him? it doesna look like him. I'm feared on it, and I never was feared o' daddy."

'Is yon thing upstairs really him? It doesna look like him. I'm feared on it, and I never was feared o' daddy.'


Margaret's heart bled to hear that the mother, in her selfish requirement of sympathy, had taken her children upstairs to see their dead disfigured father. It was intermingling the coarseness of horror with the profoundness of natural grief. She tried to turn their thoughts in some other direction; on what they could do for mother; on what--for this was a more efficacious way of putting it--what father would have wished them to do. Margaret was more successful than Mr. Hale in her efforts. The children seeing their little duties lie in action close around them, began to try each one to do something that she suggested towards redding up the slatternly room. But her father set too high a standard, and too abstract a view, before the indolent invalid. She could not rouse her torpid mind into any vivid imagination of what her husband's misery might have been, before he had resorted to the last terrible step; she could only look upon it as it affected herself; she could not enter into the enduring mercy of the God who had not specially interposed to prevent the water from drowning her prostrate husband; and although she was secretly blaming her husband for having fallen into such drear despair, and denying that he had any excuse for his last rash act, she was inveterate in her abuse of all who could by any possibility be supposed to have driven him to such desperation. The masters--Mr. Thornton in particular, whose mill had been attacked by Boucher, and who, after the warrant had been issued for his apprehension on the charge of rioting, had caused it to be withdrawn,--the Union, of which Higgins was a representative to the poor woman,--the children so numerous, so hungry, and so noisy--all made up one great army of personal enemies, whose fault it was that she was now a helpless widow.

Margaret's heart bled to hear that the mother had taken her children upstairs to see their disfigured father. She tried to turn their thoughts in some other direction; on what they could do for mother; on what father would have wished. The children began to do as she suggested towards tidying up the slatternly room.
But her father, trying to raise the widow's thoughts, set too high a standard, and too abstract a view. She could not rouse her torpid mind to imagine what her husband's misery might have been; she could only look upon it as it affected herself. Although she was secretly blaming her husband for having fallen into such despair, and denying that he had any excuse for his last rash act, she abused all who could be supposed to have driven him to such desperation. The masters - Mr. Thornton in particular, whose mill had been attacked by Boucher - the Union, represented by Higgins - the children so numerous, so hungry, and so noisy - all made up one great army of personal enemies, whose fault it was that she was now a helpless widow.


Margaret heard enough of this unreasonableness to dishearten her; and when they came away she found it impossible to cheer her father.

Margaret was disheartened; and when they came away she found it impossible to cheer her father.


"It is the town life," said she. "Their nerves are quickened by the haste and bustle and speed of everything around them, to say nothing of the confinement in these pent-up houses, which of itself is enough to induce depression and worry of spirits. Now in the country, people live so much more out of doors, even children, and even in the winter."

'It is the town life,' said she. 'The haste and bustle of everything around them, to say nothing of the confinement in these pent-up houses, is enough to induce depression and worry. In the country, people live so much more out of doors, even in the winter.'


"But people must live in towns. And in the country some get such stagnant habits of mind that they are almost fatalists."

'But people must live in towns. And in the country some get such stagnant habits of mind that they are almost fatalists.'


"Yes; I acknowledge that. I suppose each mode of life produces its own trials and its own temptations. The dweller in towns must find it as difficult to be patient, as the country-bred man must find it to be active, and equal to unwonted emergencies. Both must find it hard to realise a future of any kind; the one because the present is so living and hurrying and close around him; the other because his life tempts him to revel in the mere sense of animal existence, not knowing of, and consequently not caring for any pungency of pleasure, for the attainment of which he can plan, and deny himself and look forward."

'Yes; I acknowledge that. I suppose each mode of life produces its own trials. The town-dweller must find it as difficult to be patient and calm, as the country-bred man to be active. Both must find it hard to realise a future of any kind; the one because the present is so hurrying and close around him; the other because his slow life tempts him to revel in the mere sense of animal existence, rather than looking forward.'


"And thus both the necessity for engrossment, and the stupid content in the present, produce the same effects. But this poor Mrs. Boucher! how little we can do for her."

'But this poor Mrs. Boucher! how little we can do for her.'


"And yet we dare not leave her without our efforts, although they may seem so useless. Oh papa! it's a hard world to live in!"

'And yet we must try. Oh papa! it's a hard world to live in!'


"So it is, my child. We feel it so just now, at any rate; but we have been very happy, even in the midst of our sorrow. What a pleasure Frederick's visit was!"

'So it is, my child. Yet we have been very happy, even in the midst of our sorrow. What a pleasure Frederick's visit was!'


"Yes, that it was," said Margaret, brightly. "It was such a charming, snatched, forbidden thing." But she suddenly stopped speaking. She had spoiled the remembrance of Frederick's visit to herself by her own cowardice. Of all faults the one she most despised in others was the want of bravery; the meanness of heart which leads to untruth. And here had she been guilty of it! Then came the thought of Mr. Thornton's cognisance of her falsehood. She wondered if she should have minded detection half so much from any one else. She tried herself in imagination with her Aunt Shaw and Edith; with her father; with Captain and Mr. Lennox; with Frederick. The thought of the last knowing what she had done, even in his own behalf, was the most painful, for the brother and sister were in the first flush of their mutual regard and love; but even any fall in Frederick's opinion was as nothing to the shame, the shrinking shame she felt at the thought of meeting Mr. Thornton again. And yet she longed to see him, to get it over; to understand where she stood in his opinion. Her cheeks burnt as she recollected how proudly she had implied an objection to trade (in the early days of their acquaintance), because it too often led to the deceit of passing off inferior for superior goods, in the one branch; of assuming credit for wealth and resources not possessed, in the other. She remembered Mr. Thornton's look of calm disdain, as in few words he gave her to understand that, in the great scheme of commerce, all dishonourable ways of acting were sure to prove injurious in the long run, and that, testing such actions simply according to the poor standard of success, there was folly and not wisdom in all such, and every kind of deceit in trade, as well as in other things. She remembered--she, then strong in her own untempted truth--asking him, if he did not think that buying in the cheapest and selling in the dearest market proved some want of the transparent justice which is so intimately connected with the idea of truth: and she had used the word chivalric--and her father had corrected her with the higher word, Christian; and so drawn the argument upon himself, while she sate silent by with a slight feeling of contempt.

'Yes, that it was,' said Margaret. 'It was such a charming, snatched thing.' But she suddenly stopped speaking as she remembered her own cowardice. Of all faults, the one she most despised in others was the want of bravery and truth. And she had been guilty of it! Then came the thought of Mr. Thornton's knowledge of her falsehood. She wondered if she should have minded detection half so much from anyone else. She did not think so. Even a fall in Frederick's opinion would be as nothing to the shrinking shame she felt at the thought of meeting Mr. Thornton again.
And yet she longed to see him, to get it over; to understand where she stood in his opinion. Her cheeks burnt as she recollected how proudly she had implied an objection to trade in the early days of their acquaintance, because it led to a passing off of inferior as superior goods. She remembered Mr. Thornton's look of calm disdain, as in a few words he gave her to understand that there was folly and deceit in every walk of life, and that all dishonourable ways of acting were sure to prove injurious in the long run. She remembered how she - strong in her own untempted truth - had asked him if buying in the cheapest and selling in the dearest market did not show a lack of justice. She had used the word chivalric; her father had corrected her with the word, Christian; and so drawn the argument upon himself, while she sat silent with a slight feeling of contempt.


No more contempt for her!--no more talk about the chivalric! Henceforward she must feel humiliated and disgraced in his sight. But when should she see him? Her heart leaped up in apprehension at every ring of the door-bell; and yet, when it fell down to calmness, she felt strangely saddened and sick at heart at each disappointment. It was very evident that her father expected to see him, and was surprised that he did not come. The truth was, that there were points in their conversation the other night on which they had no time then to enlarge; but it had been understood that if possible on the succeeding evening--if not then, at least the very first evening that Mr. Thornton could command,--they should meet for further discussion. Mr. Hale had looked forward to this meeting ever since they had parted. He had not yet resumed the instruction to his pupils, which he had relinquished at the commencement of his wife's more serious illness, so he had fewer occupations than usual; and the great interest of the last day or so (Boucher's suicide) had driven him back with more eagerness than ever upon his speculations. He was restless all the evening. He kept saying, "I quite expected to have seen Mr. Thornton. I think the messenger who brought the book last night must have had some note, and forgot to deliver it. Do you think there has been any message left to-day?"

No more contempt! - no more talk about the chivalric! Henceforward she must feel humiliated and disgraced in his sight. But when should she see him? Her heart leaped up in apprehension at every ring of the door-bell; and yet she felt strangely saddened and sick at heart with each disappointment. Her father was surprised that he did not come. Mr. Hale had not yet resumed his tutoring, so he had fewer occupations than usual. He was restless all evening. He kept saying, 'I quite expected to have seen Mr. Thornton. Has there been any message left today?'


"I will go and inquire, papa," said Margaret, after the changes on these sentences had been rung once or twice, "Stay, there's a ring!" She sat down instantly, and bent her head attentively over her work. She heard a step on the stairs, but it was only one, and she knew it was Dixon's. She lifted up her head and sighed, and believed she felt glad.

'I will go and inquire, papa,' said Margaret.
'Wait, there's a ring!'
She sat down instantly, and bent her head attentively over her work. She heard a step on the stairs, but knew it was only Dixon's. She lifted up her head and sighed, and believed she felt glad.


"It's that Higgins, sir. He wants to see you, or else Miss Hale. Or it might be Miss Hale first, and then you, sir; for he's in a strange kind of way."

'It's that Higgins, sir. He wants to see you, or else Miss Hale. He's in a strange kind of way.'


"He had better come up here, Dixon; and then he can see us both, and choose which he likes for his listener."

'He had better come up here, Dixon; and then he can see us both.'


"Oh! very well, sir. I've no wish to hear what he's got to say, I'm sure; only, if you could see his shoes, I'm sure you'd say the kitchen was the fitter place."

'Oh! very well, sir. Only if you could see his shoes, I'm sure you'd say the kitchen was the fitter place.'


"He can wipe them, I suppose," said Mr. Hale. So Dixon flung off, to bid him walk up-stairs. She was a little mollified, however, when he looked at his feet with a hesitating air; and then, sitting down on the bottom stair, he took off the offending shoes, and without a word walked up-stairs.

'He can wipe them, I suppose,' said Mr. Hale.
So Dixon flung off, to bid him walk upstairs. She was a little mollified, however, when Higgins looked at his feet; and then, sitting down on the bottom stair, took off the offending shoes, and walked up.


"Sarvant, sir!" said he, slicking his hair down when he came into the room: "If hoo'l excuse me (looking at Margaret) for being i' my stockings; I'se been tramping a' day, and streets is none o' th' cleanest."

'If hoo'l excuse me for being i' my stockings,' he said, looking at Margaret, 'I'se been tramping all day, and streets is none o' th' cleanest.'


Margaret thought that fatigue might account for the change in his manner, for he was unusually quiet and subdued; and he had evidently some difficulty in saying what he came to say.

He was unusually subdued; and he had evidently some difficulty in saying what he came to say.


Mr. Hale's ever-ready sympathy with anything of shyness or hesitation, or want of self-possession, made him come to his aid.

Mr. Hale, ever-ready in sympathy with shyness, said:


"We shall have tea up directly, and then you'll take a cup with us, Mr. Higgins. I am sure you are tired, if you've been out much this wet relaxing day. Margaret, my dear, can't you hasten tea?"

'We shall have tea directly, and then you'll take a cup with us, Mr. Higgins. I am sure you are tired, if you've been out all day. Margaret, my dear, can't you hasten tea?'


Margaret could only hasten tea by taking the preparation of it into her own hands, and so offending Dixon, who was emerging out of her sorrow for her late mistress into a very touchy, irritable state. But Martha, like all who came in contact with Margaret--even Dixon herself, in the long run--felt it a pleasure and an honour to forward any of her wishes; and her readiness, and Margaret's sweet forbearance, soon made Dixon ashamed of herself.


"Why master and you must always be asking the lower classes up-stairs, since we came to Milton, I cannot understand. Folk at Helstone were never brought higher than the kitchen; and I've let one or two of them know before now that they might think it an honour to be even there."

'Why master and you must always be asking the lower classes upstairs, since we came to Milton, I cannot understand. Folk at Helstone were never brought higher than the kitchen.'


Higgins found it easier to unburden himself to one than to two. After Margaret left the room, he went to the door and assured himself that it was shut. Then he came and stood close to Mr. Hale.


"Master," said he, "yo'd not guess easy what I've been tramping after to-day. Special if yo'd remember my manner o' talk yesterday. I've been a seeking work. I have," said he. "I said to mysel', I'd keep a civil tongue in my head, let who would say what 'em would. I'd set my teeth into my tongue sooner nor speak i' haste. For that man's sake--yo' understand," jerking his thumb back in some unknown direction.

 said:
'Master, yo'd not guess easy what I've been tramping after today. I've been a seeking work. I said to mysel', I'd keep a civil tongue in my head, let who would say what 'em would. For that man's sake - yo' understand,' jerking his thumb back in some unknown direction.


"No, I don't," said Mr. Hale, seeing he waited for some kind of assent, and completely bewildered as to who "that man" could be.

'No, I don't,' said Mr. Hale, bewildered as to who 'that man' could be.


"That chap as lies theer," said he, with another jerk. "Him as went and drownded himself, poor chap! I did na think he'd got it in him to lie still and let the water creep o'er him till he died. Boucher, yo' know."

'Him as went and drownded himself, poor chap! Boucher, yo' know.'


"Yes, I know now," said Mr. Hale. "Go back to what you were saying: you'd not speak in haste----"

'Yes,' said Mr. Hale. 'Go on.'
'I'll not speak in haste


"For his sake. Yet not for his sake; for where'er he is, and whate'er, he'll ne'er know other clemming or cold again; but for the wife's sake, and the bits o' childer."

for his sake. Yet not for his sake; but for the wife's sake, and the childer.'


"God bless you!" said Mr. Hale, starting up; then, calming down, he said, breathlessly, "What do you mean? Tell me out."

'God bless you! What do you mean? Tell me.'


"I have telled yo'," said Higgins, a little surprised at Mr. Hale's agitation. "I would na ask for work for mysel'; but them's left as a charge on me. I reckon, I would ha guided Boucher to a better end; but I set him off o' th' road, and so I mun answer for him."

'I have telled yo',' said Higgins, a little surprised. 'I would na ask for work for mysel'; but them's left as a charge on me. I reckon I set Boucher off o' th' road, and so I mun answer for him.'


Mr. Hale got hold of Higgins's hand and shook it heartily, without speaking. Higgins looked awkward and ashamed.

Mr. Hale took Higgins's hand and shook it heartily, without speaking. Higgins looked awkward and ashamed.


"Theer, theer, master! Theer's ne'er a man, to call a man, amongst us, but what would do th' same; ay, and better too; for, belie' me, Is'e ne'er got a stroke o' work, nor yet a sight of any. For all I telled Hamper that, let alone his pledge--which I would not sign--no, I could na, not e'en for this--he'd ne'er ha' such a worker on his mill as I would be--he'd ha' none o' me--no more would none o' th' others. I'm a poor black feckless sheep--childer may clem for ought I can do, unless, parson, yo'd help me?"

'Theer, theer, master! Theer's ne'er a man amongst us, but what would do th' same. Ay, and better too; for I'se ne'er got a stroke o' work. For all I telled them that they'd ne'er ha' such a worker as I would be - they'd ha' none o' me. I'm a poor black feckless sheep - childer may clem for aught I can do, unless, parson, yo'd help me?'


"Help you! How? I would do anything,--but what can I do?"

'Help you! I would do anything - but what can I do?'


"Miss there"--for Margaret had re-entered the room, and stood silent, listening--"has often talked grand o' the South, and the ways down there. Now I dunnot know how far off it is, but I been thinking if I could get 'em down theer, where food is cheap and wages good, and all the folk, rich and poor, master and man, friendly like; yo' could, may be, help me to work. I'm not forty-five, and I've a deal o' strength in me, measter."

'Miss there' - for Margaret had re-entered the room, and stood listening - 'has often talked grand o' the South. Now I dunnot know how far off it is, but I've been thinking if I could get down theer, where food is cheap and wages good, and all the folk friendly like; yo' could, maybe, help me to find work. I'm not forty-five, and I've a deal o' strength in me, measter.'


"But what kind of work could you do, my man?"


"Well, I reckon I could spade a bit----"


"And for that," said Margaret, stepping forwards, "for anything you could do, Higgins, with the best will in the world, you would, may be, get nine shillings a week; may be ten, at the outside. Food is much the same as here, except that you might have a little garden----"

'And for that,' said Margaret, stepping forwards, 'with the best will in the world, you would, maybe, get nine shillings a week; ten at the outside. And food costs much the same as here.'


"The childer could work at that," said he. "I'm sick o' Milton anyways, and Milton is sick o' me."

'I'm sick o' Milton anyways, and Milton is sick o' me.'


"You must not go the South," said Margaret, "for all that. You could not stand it. You would have to be out all weathers. It would kill you with rheumatism. The mere bodily work at your time of life would break you down. The fare is far different to what you have been accustomed to."

'You must not go to the South,' said she, 'for all that. You could not stand it. You would have to be out in all weathers. The bodily work at your time of life would break you down. The fare is far different to what you have been accustomed to.'


"I'se nought particular about my meat," said he, as if offended.

'I'se nought particular about my meat,' said he, as if offended.


"But you've reckoned on having butcher's meat once a day, if you're in work; pay for that out of your ten shillings, and keep those poor children if you can. I owe it to you--since it's my way of talking that has set you off on this idea--to put it all clear before you. You would not bear the dulness of the life; you don't know what it is; it would eat you away like rust. Those that have lived there all their lives, are used to soaking in the stagnant waters. They labour on from day to day, in the great solitude of steaming fields--never speaking or lifting up their poor, bent, downcast heads. The hard spadework robs their brain of life; the sameness of their toil deadens their imagination; they don't care to meet to talk over thoughts and speculations, even of the weakest, wildest kind, after their work is done; they go home brutishly tired, poor creatures! caring for nothing but food and rest. You could not stir them up into any companionship, which you get in a town as plentiful as the air you breathe, whether it be good or bad--and that I don't know; but I do know, that you of all men are not one to bear a life among such labourers. What would be peace to them, would be eternal fretting to you. Think no more of it, Nicholas, I beg. Besides, you could never pay to get mother and children all there--that's one good thing."

'But you've reckoned on having butcher's meat once a day, if you're in work. I owe it to you to put it all clear before you. You would not bear the dullness of the life; you don't know what it is; it would eat you away like rust. Those that have lived there all their lives, are used to labouring on, from day to day, in the great solitude of steaming fields - never speaking or lifting up their poor, bent heads. The toil robs their brain of life; it deadens their imagination; they don't care to meet to talk after their work is done; they go home brutishly tired, poor creatures! caring for nothing but food and rest. You could not stir them up into any companionship. You of all men could not bear a life among such labourers. Think no more of it, Nicholas, I beg. Besides, you could never pay to get mother and children all there.'


"I've reckoned for that. One house mun do for us a', and the furniture o' t'other would go a good way. And men theer mun have their families to keep--mappen six or seven childer. God help 'em!" said he, more convinced by his own presentation of the facts than by all Margaret had said, and suddenly renouncing the idea, which had but recently formed itself in a brain worn out by the day's fatigue and anxiety. "God help 'em! North an' South have each getten their own troubles. If work's sure and steady theer, labour's paid at starvation wages; while here we'n rucks o' money coming in one quarter, and ne'er a farthing th' next. For sure, th' world is in a confusion that passes me or any other man to understand; it needs fettling, and who's to fettle it if it's as yon folks say, and there's nought but what we see?"

'I've reckoned for that. One house mun do for us all. And men theer must have their families to keep - God help 'em!' said he. 'God help 'em! North an' South have each getten their own troubles. If work's sure and steady theer, labour's paid at starvation prices; while here we'n rucks o' money coming in one quarter, and ne'er a farthing th' next. For sure, th' world is in a confusion that passes understanding; it needs fettling, and who's to fettle it?'


Mr. Hale was busy cutting bread and butter; Margaret was glad of this, for she saw that Higgins was better left to himself: that if her father began to speak ever so mildly on the subject of Higgins's thoughts, the latter would consider himself challenged to an argument, and would feel himself bound to maintain his own ground. She and her father kept up an indifferent conversation until Higgins, scarcely aware whether he ate or not, had made a very substantial meal. Then he pushed his chair away from the table, and tried to take an interest in what they were saying; but it was of no use; and he fell back into dreamy gloom. Suddenly, Margaret said (she had been thinking of it for some time, but the words had stuck in her throat), "Higgins have you been to Marlborough Mills to seek for work?"

Mr. Hale was busy cutting bread and butter, and did not argue with this. He and Margaret kept up an indifferent conversation until Higgins had made a very substantial meal. Then he pushed his chair away from the table, and fell back into dreamy gloom.
Suddenly, Margaret said, 'Higgins, have you been to Marlborough Mills to seek for work?'


"Thornton's?" asked he. "Ay, I've been at Thornton's"

'Thornton's?' asked he. 'Ay, I've been at Thornton's.'


"Such a chap as me is not like to see the measter. Th' o'erlooker bid me go and be d----d."

'I didna see the measter. Th' o'erlooker bid me go and be d___ d.'


"I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton," said Mr. Hale. "He might not have given you work, but he would not have used such language."

'I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale. 'He might not have given you work, but he would not have used such language.'


"As to th' language, I'm welly used to it; it dunnot matter to me. I'm not nesh mysel' when I'm put out. It were th' fact that I were na wanted theer, no more nor ony other place, as I minded."

'I'm used to it; it dunnot matter to me. It were th' fact that I were na wanted theer that I minded.'


"But I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton," repeated Margaret. "Would you go again--it's a good deal to ask, I know--but would you go to-morrow and try him? I should be so glad if you would."

'Would you go again tomorrow,' said Margaret, 'and try to see Mr. Thornton? I should be so glad if you would.'


"I'm afraid it would be of no use," said Mr. Hale, in a low voice. "It would be better to let me speak to him." Margaret still looked at Higgins for his answer. Those grave soft eyes of hers were difficult to resist. He gave a great sigh.

'I'm afraid it would be of no use,' said Mr. Hale, in a low voice.
Higgins gave a great sigh.


"It would tax my pride above a bit; if it were for mysel', I could stand a deal o' clemming first; I'd sooner knock him down than ask a favour from him. I'd a deal sooner be flogged mysel'; but yo're not a common wench, axing yo'r pardon, nor yet have yo' common ways about yo'. I'll e'en make a wry face, and go at it to-morrow. Dunna yo' think that he'll do it. That man has it in him to be burnt at the stake afore he'll give in. I'll do it for yo'r sake, Miss Hale, and it's first time in my life as e'er I give way to a woman. Neither my wife nor Bess could e'er say that much again me."

'It would tax my pride above a bit; if it were for mysel', I'd sooner be flogged. But I'll make a wry face, and go at it tomorrow. Dunna yo' think that he'll do it. That man has it in him to be burnt at the stake afore he'll give in. I do it for your sake, Miss Hale, and it's first time in my life as e'er I give way to a woman. Neither my wife nor Bess could e'er say that much against me.'


"All the more do I thank you," said Margaret, smiling. "Though I don't believe you: I believe you have just given way to wife and daughter as much as most men."

'I thank you,' said Margaret, smiling. 'Though I don't believe you: I expect you have given way to wife and daughter as much as most men.'


"And as to Mr. Thornton," said Mr. Hale, "I'll give you a note to him, which, I think I may venture say, will ensure you a hearing."

'As to Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale, 'I'll give you a note to him, which should ensure you a hearing.'


"I thank yo' kindly, sir, but I'd as lief stand on my own bottom. I dunnot stomach the notion of having favour curried for me, by one as doesn't know the ins and outs of the quarrel. Meddling 'twixt master and man is liker meddling 'twixt husband and wife than aught else: it takes a deal of wisdom to do ony good. I'll stand guard at the lodge door. I'll stand there fro' six in the morning till I get speech on him. But I'd liefer sweep th' streets, if paupers had na' got hold on that work. Dunna yo' hope, miss. There'll be more chance o' getting milk out of a flint. I wish yo' a very good night, and many thanks to yo'."

'I thank yo' kindly, sir, but I'd as lief stand on my own. I'll stand guard at the lodge door fro' six in the morning till I get speech on him. But dunna yo' hope, miss. There'll be more chance o' getting milk out of a flint. I wish yo' a very good night, and many thanks to yo'.'


"You'll find your shoes by the kitchen fire; I took them there to dry," said Margaret.

'You'll find your shoes by the kitchen fire; I put them there to dry,' said Margaret.


He turned round and looked at her steadily, and then he brushed his lean hand across his eyes and went his way.


"How proud that man is!" said her father, who was a little annoyed at the manner in which Higgins had declined his intercession with Mr. Thornton.

'How proud that man is!' said her father.


"He is," said Margaret; "but what grand makings of a man there are in him, pride and all."

'What grand makings of a man there are in him,' replied Margaret, 'pride and all.


"It's amusing to see how he evidently respects the part in Mr. Thornton's character which is like his own."


"There's granite in all these northern people, papa, is there not?"

There's granite in all these northern people, papa, is there not?'


"There was none in poor Boucher, I am afraid; none in his wife either."

'There was none in poor Boucher, I am afraid; none in his wife either.'


"I should guess by their tones that they had Irish blood in them. I wonder what success he'll have to-morrow. If he and Mr. Thornton would speak out together as man to man--if Higgins would forget that Mr. Thornton was a master, and speak to him as he does to us--and if Mr. Thornton would be patient enough to listen to him with his human heart, not with his master's ears--"

'I wonder what success he'll have tomorrow. If Higgins would forget that Mr. Thornton was a master, and speak to him as he does to us - and if Mr. Thornton would be patient enough to listen to him with his human heart, not with his master's ears-'


"You are getting to do Mr. Thornton justice at last, Margaret," said her father, pinching her ear.

'You are getting to do Mr. Thornton justice at last, Margaret,' said her father.


Margaret had a strange choking at her heart, which made her unable to answer, "Oh!" thought she, "I wish I were a man, that I could go and force him to express his disapprobation, and tell him honestly that I knew I deserved it. It seems hard to lose him as a friend just when I had begun to feel his value. How tender he was with dear mamma! If it were only for her sake, I wish he would come, and then at least I should know how much I was abased in his eyes."

Margaret had a strange choking at her heart, which made her unable to answer. But she thought, 'I wish I were a man, and could go and force him to express his disapproval, and tell him honestly that I knew I deserved it. It is hard to lose him as a friend just when I had begun to feel his value. How tender he was with dear mamma! I wish he would come, and then at least I should know how much I was abased in his eyes.'


"When some beloved voice that was to you Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, And silence, against which you dare not cry, Aches round you like a strong disease and new,-- What hope? what help? what music will undo That silence to your sense?" MRS. BROWNING.


The shock had been great. Margaret fell into a state of prostration, which did not show itself in sobs and tears, or even find the relief of words. She lay on the sofa with her eyes shut, never speaking but when spoken to, and then replying in whispers. Mr. Bell was perplexed. He dared not leave her; he dared not ask her to accompany him back to Oxford, which had been one of the plans he had formed on the journey to Milton, her physical exhaustion was evidently too complete for her to undertake any such fatigue--putting the sight that she would have to encounter out of the question. Mr. Bell sate over the fire, considering what he had better do. Margaret lay motionless, and almost breathless by him. He would not leave her, even for the dinner which Dixon had prepared for him downstairs, and, with sobbing hospitality, would fain have tempted him to eat. He had a plateful of something brought up to him. In general, he was particular and dainty enough, and knew well each shade of flavour in his food, but now the devilled chicken tasted like sawdust. He minced up some of the fowl for Margaret, and peppered and salted it well; but when Dixon, following his directions, tried to feed her, the languid shake of head, proved that in such a state as Margaret was in, food would only choke, not nourish her.

The shock had been great. Margaret did not sob or even speak. She lay on the sofa with her eyes shut. Mr. Bell was perplexed. He dared not leave her; he dared not ask her to accompany him back to Oxford, which had been one of the plans he had formed on the journey to Milton. He sat by the fire, considering what he had better do. Margaret lay motionless, and almost breathless. He would not leave her, even for the dinner which Dixon had prepared for him downstairs, and, sobbing, would fain have tempted him to eat. He had a plateful of something brought up, but it tasted like sawdust. When Dixon tried to feed Margaret, the languid shake of her head indicated that food would only choke her.


Mr. Bell gave a great sigh; lifted up his stout old limbs (stiff with travelling) from their easy position, and followed Dixon out of the room.

Mr. Bell gave a great sigh, and followed Dixon out of the room.


"I can't leave her. I must write to them at Oxford, to see that the preparations are made: they can be getting on with these till I arrive. Can't Mrs. Lennox come to her? I'll write and tell her she must. The girl must have some woman-friend about her, if only to talk her into a good fit of crying."

'I can't leave her. I must write to Oxford, to see that preparations are made for the funeral. Can't Mrs. Lennox come to her? I'll write and tell her she must. The girl must have some woman-friend about her.'


Dixon was crying--enough for two; but, after wiping her eyes and steadying her voice, she managed to tell Mr. Bell, that Mrs. Lennox was too near her confinement to be able to undertake any journey at present.

Dixon was crying; but after wiping her eyes, she managed to tell Mr. Bell that Mrs. Lennox was too near her confinement with her second child to undertake any journey at present.


"Well! I suppose we must have Mrs. Shaw; she's come back to England, isn't she?"

'Well! Mrs. Shaw; she's back in England, isn't she?'


"Yes, sir, she's come back; but I don't think she will like to leave Mrs. Lennox at such an interesting time," said Dixon, who did not much approve of a stranger entering the household, to share with her in her ruling care of Margaret.

'Yes, sir; but I don't think she will like to leave Mrs. Lennox at such an interesting time,' said Dixon.


"Interesting time be----." Mr. Bell restricted himself by coughing over the end of his sentence. "She could be content to be at Venice or Naples, or some of those Popish places, at the last 'interesting time,' which took place in Corfu, I think. And what does that little prosperous woman's 'interesting time' signify, in comparison with that poor creature there,--that helpless, homeless, friendless, Margaret--lying as still on that sofa as if it were an altar-tomb, and she the stone statue on it. I tell you, Mrs. Shaw shall come. See that a room, or whatever she wants, is got ready for her by to-morrow night. I'll take care she comes."

'Interesting time be-' Mr. Bell restricted himself to coughing. 'What does that prosperous woman's "interesting time" signify, in comparison with that poor creature there - homeless and friendless - lying as still on that sofa as if it were an altar-tomb? I tell you, Mrs. Shaw shall come.'


Accordingly Mr. Bell wrote a letter, which Mrs. Shaw declared, with many tears, to be so like one of the dear general's when he was going to have a fit of the gout, that she should always value and preserve it. If he had given her the option, by requesting or urging her, as if a refusal were possible, she might not have come--true and sincere as was her sympathy with Margaret. It needed the sharp uncourteous command to make her conquer her vis inerti and allow herself to be packed by her maid, after the latter had completed the boxes. Edith, all cap, shawl, and tears, came out to the top of the stairs, as Captain Lennox was taking her mother down to the carriage:

Accordingly Mr. Bell wrote a letter, which did not give Mrs. Shaw the option of refusing. If he had, she might not have come - true and sincere as was her sympathy with Margaret. It needed the sharp, uncourteous command to make her conquer her inertia. She allowed her things to be packed by her maid; and Edith, in cap, shawls, and tears, called to her mother, as Captain Lennox was taking her down to the carriage:


"Don't forget, mamma; Margaret must come and live with us. Sholto will go to Oxford on Wednesday, and you must send word by Mr. Bell to him when we're to expect you. And if you want Sholto, he can go on from Oxford to Milton. Don't forget, mamma; you are to bring back Margaret."

'Don't forget, mamma; Margaret must come and live with us. You must send word by Mr. Bell to Cosmo when we're to expect you: Cosmo will be in Oxford, and can go on to Milton. Don't forget, mamma; you are to bring back Margaret.'


Edith re-entered the drawing-room. Mr. Henry Lennox was there, cutting open the pages of a new Review. Without lifting his head, he said, "If you don't like Sholto to be so long absent from you, Edith, I hope you will let me go down to Milton, and give what assistance I can."

Edith re-entered the drawing-room, where Mr. Henry Lennox was. Without lifting his head, he said, 'If you don't like Cosmo to be so long absent from you, Edith, I hope you will let me go down to Milton, and give what assistance I can.'


"Oh, thank you," said Edith, "I dare say old Mr. Bell will do everything he can, and more help may not be needed. Only one does not look for much savoir-faire from a resident Fellow. Dear, darling Margaret; won't it be nice to have her here, again? You were both great allies, years ago."

'Thank you,' said Edith. 'Dear Margaret! won't it be nice to have her here again? You were both great allies, years ago.'


"Were we?" asked he indifferently, with an appearance of being interested in a passage in the Review.


"Well, perhaps not--I forget. I was so full of Sholto. But doesn't it fall out well, that if my uncle was to die, it should be just now, when we are come home, and settled in the old house, and quite ready to receive Margaret? Poor thing! what a change it will be to her from Milton! I'll have new chintz for her bed-room, and make it look new and bright, and cheer her up a little."

'Well, perhaps not - I forget. I was so full of Cosmo. But doesn't it fall out well, that my uncle should die just after we are come home, and ready to receive Margaret? Poor thing! what a change it will be from Milton! I'll have new chintz for her bedroom, and make it look bright, and cheer her up a little.'


In the same spirit of kindness, Mrs. Shaw journeyed to Milton, occasionally dreading the first meeting, and wondering how it would be got over; but more frequently planning how soon she could get Margaret away from "that horrid place," and back in the pleasant comforts of Harley Street.

In the same spirit of kindness, Mrs. Shaw journeyed to Milton planning how soon she could get Margaret away from 'that horrid place,' and back into the pleasant comforts of Harley Street.


"Oh dear!" she said to her maid; "look at those chimneys! My poor sister Hale! I don't think I could have rested at Naples, if I had known what it was! I must have come and fetched her and Margaret away." And to herself she acknowledged, that she had always thought her brother-in-law rather a weak man, but never so weak as now, when she saw for what a place he had exchanged the lovely Helstone home.

'Oh dear!' she said to her maid; 'look at those chimneys! My poor sister Hale!' She had always thought her brother-in-law rather a weak man, but never so weak as now, when she saw for what a place he had exchanged the lovely Helstone home.


Margaret had remained in the same state; white, motionless, speechless, tearless. They had told her that her aunt Shaw was coming; but she had not expressed either surprise or pleasure, or dislike to the idea. Mr. Bell, whose appetite had returned, and who appreciated Dixon's endeavours to gratify it, in vain urged upon her to taste some sweetbreads stewed with oysters; she shook her head with the same quiet obstinacy as on the previous day; and he was obliged to console himself for her rejection, by eating them all himself. But Margaret was the first to hear the stopping of the cab that brought her aunt from the railway station. Her eyelids quivered, her lips coloured and trembled. Mr. Bell went down to meet Mrs. Shaw; and when they came up, Margaret was standing, trying to steady her dizzy self; and when she saw her aunt, she went forward to the arms open to receive her, and first found the passionate relief of tears on her aunt's shoulder. All thoughts of quiet habitual love, of tenderness for years, of relationship to the dead, all that inexplicable likeness in look, tone, and gesture, that seem to belong to one family, and which reminded Margaret so forcibly at this moment of her mother, came in to melt and soften her numbed heart into the overflow of warm tears.

Margaret had remained in the same state; white, motionless, speechless, tearless. They had told her that her aunt Shaw was coming; but she had not answered. Despite Mr. Bell's urgings, she still refused to eat; she shook her head with the same quiet obstinacy as on the previous day.
She was the first to hear her aunt's cab stopping. Her eyelids quivered, her lips trembled. Mr. Bell went down to meet Mrs. Shaw, and when they came up, Margaret was standing dizzily: she went forward to her aunt's open arms, and found the passionate relief of tears. All that inexplicable likeness to her mother melted her numbed heart.


Mr. Bell stole out of the room, and went down into the study, where he ordered a fire, and tried to divert his thoughts by taking down and examining the different books. Each volume brought a remembrance or a suggestion of his dead friend. It might be a change of employment from his two days' work of watching Margaret, but it was no change of thought. He was glad to catch the sound of Mr. Thornton's voice, making enquiry at the door. Dixon was rather cavalierly dismissing him; for with the appearance of Mrs. Shaw's maid, came visions of former grandeur, of the Beresford blood, of the "station" (so she was pleased to term it) from which her young lady had been ousted, and to which she was now, please God, to be restored. These visions, which she had been dwelling on with complacency in her conversation with Mrs. Shaw's maid (skilfully eliciting meanwhile all the circumstances of state and consequence connected with the Harley Street establishment, for the edification of the listening Martha), made Dixon rather inclined to be supercilious in her treatment of any inhabitant of Milton; so, though she always stood rather in awe of Mr. Thornton, she was as curt as she durst be in telling him that he could see none of the inmates of the house that night. It was rather uncomfortable to be contradicted in her statement by Mr. Bell's opening the study-door, and calling out:

Mr. Bell stole out of the room, and went into the study, where he tried to divert his thoughts by taking down books. Each volume brought a remembrance of his dead friend. He was glad to catch the sound of Mr. Thornton's voice, making enquiry at the door. Dixon was rather cavalierly dismissing him; for the appearance of Mrs. Shaw and her Beresford blood made Dixon inclined to be supercilious in her treatment of Milton inhabitants. So, though she stood rather in awe of Mr. Thornton, she was as curt as she dared be in telling him that he could see nobody that night. Mr. Bell opened the study-door, and called out:


"Thornton! is that you? Come in for a minute or two; I want to speak to you." So Mr. Thornton went into the study, and Dixon had to retreat into the kitchen, and reinstate herself in her own esteem by a prodigious story of Sir John Beresford's coach and six, when he was high sheriff.

'Thornton! is that you? Come in; I want to speak to you.' So Mr. Thornton went into the study, and Dixon had to retreat.


"I don't know what I wanted to say to you after all. Only it's dull enough to sit in a room where everything speaks to you of a dead friend. Yet Margaret and her aunt must have the drawing-room to themselves!"

'I don't know what I wanted to say to you after all. Only it's dull to sit in a room where everything reminds you of a dead friend. Yet Margaret and her aunt must have the drawing-room to themselves!'


"Is Mrs.--is her aunt come?" asked Mr. Thornton.


"Come? Yes! maid and all. One would have thought she might have come by herself at such a time! And now I shall have to turn out and find my way to the Clarendon."

'Yes! maid and all. I shall have to turn out and find my way to the Clarendon Hotel.'


"You must not go to the Clarendon. We have five or six empty bed-rooms at home."

'You must not go to the Clarendon. We have five or six empty bedrooms at home.'


"I think you may trust my mother for that."


"Then I'll only run upstairs and wish that wan girl good-night, and make my bow to her aunt, and go off with you straight."

'Then I'll just run upstairs and wish that wan girl good-night, and make my bow to her aunt, and go off with you.'


Mr. Bell was some time upstairs. Mr. Thornton began to think it long, for he was full of business, and had hardly been able to spare the time for running up to Crampton, and enquiring how Miss Hale was.

Mr. Bell was some time upstairs. Mr. Thornton began to think it long, for he was busy, and had hardly been able to spare the time for running up to Crampton to enquire after Miss Hale.


When they had set out upon their walk, Mr. Bell said:


"I was kept by those women in the drawing-room. Mrs. Shaw is anxious to get home--on account of her daughter, she says--and wants Margaret to go off with her at once. Now she is no more fit for travelling than I am for flying. Besides, she says, and very justly, that she has friends she must see--that she must wish good-bye to several people; and then her aunt worried her about old claims, and was she forgetful of old friends? And she said, with a great burst of crying, she should be glad enough to go from a place where she had suffered so much. Now I must return to Oxford to-morrow, and I don't know on which side of the scale to throw in my voice."

'Mrs. Shaw is anxious to get home, and wants Margaret to go off with her at once. Now she is no more fit for travelling than I am for flying. Besides, she says, and very justly, that she has friends she must see - that she must wish good-bye to several people. And she said, with a great burst of crying, she should be glad enough to leave a place where she had suffered so much. Now I must return to Oxford tomorrow, and I don't know which side to support.'


He paused, as if asking a question; but he received no answer from his companion, the echo of whose thoughts kept repeating--

He received no answer from his companion, who was inwardly repeating


"Where she had suffered so much." Alas! and that was the way in which this eighteen months in Milton--to him so unspeakably precious, down to its very bitterness, which was worth all the rest of life's sweetness--would be remembered. Neither loss of father, nor loss of mother, dear as she was to Mr. Thornton, could have poisoned the remembrance of the weeks, the days, the hours, when a walk of two miles, every step of which was pleasant, as it brought him nearer and nearer to her, took him to her sweet presence--every step of which was rich, as each recurring moment that bore him away from her made him recall some fresh grace in her demeanour, or pleasant pungency in her character. Yes! whatever had happened to him, external to his relation to her, he could never have spoken of that time, when he could have seen her every day--when he had her within his grasp, as it were--as a time of suffering. It had been a royal time of luxury to him, with all its stings and contumelies, compared to the poverty that crept round and clipped the anticipation of the future down to sordid fact, and life without an atmosphere of either hope or fear.

: 'Where she had suffered so much.'
Alas! and that was the way in which this eighteen months in Milton - to him so unspeakably precious, even down to its very bitterness - would be remembered by her. Nothing could have poisoned his remembrance of the weeks when a walk of two miles took him to her sweet presence - every moment of which showed him some fresh grace in her demeanour, or pleasant pungency in her character. Yes! whatever had happened to him, he could never have spoken of that period as a time of suffering. It had been a royal time of luxury to him, with all its stings, compared to the poverty that crept round the anticipation of the future.


Mrs. Thornton and Fanny were in the dining-room; the latter in a flutter of small exultation, as the maid held up one glossy material after another, to try the effect of the wedding-dresses by candle-light. Her mother really tried to sympathise with her, but could not. Neither taste nor dress were in her line of subjects, and she heartily wished that Fanny had accepted her brother's offer of having the wedding clothes provided by some first-rate London dressmaker, without the endless troublesome discussions, and unsettled waverings, that arose out of Fanny's desire to choose and superintend everything herself. Mr. Thornton was only too glad to mark his grateful approbation of any sensible man, who could be captivated by Fanny's second-rate airs and graces, by giving her ample means for providing herself with the finery, which certainly rivalled, if it did not exceed, the lover in her estimation. When her brother and Mr. Bell came in, Fanny blushed and simpered, and fluttered over the signs of her employment, in a way which could not have failed to draw attention from any one else but Mr. Bell. If he thought about her and her silks and satins at all, it was to compare her and them with the pale sorrow he had left behind him, sitting motionless, with bent head and folded hands, in a room where the stillness was so great that you might almost fancy the rush in your straining ears was occasioned by the spirits of the dead, yet hovering round their beloved. For when Mr. Bell had first gone upstairs, Mrs. Shaw lay asleep on the sofa; and no sound broke the silence.

Mrs. Thornton and Fanny were in the dining-room; the latter in a flutter of exultation, as the maid held up one glossy material after another, to try out the effect of the wedding-dresses by candlelight. Her mother really tried to sympathise with her, but could not. She heartily wished that Fanny had accepted her brother's offer of having the wedding clothes made by some London dressmaker, without these endless troublesome discussions. Mr. Thornton was only too glad to mark his approval of any sensible man who could be captivated by Fanny's second-rate airs and graces, by giving her ample means for providing herself with finery.
When her brother and Mr. Bell came in, Fanny blushed and simpered in a way which could not have failed to draw attention from anyone else but Mr. Bell. If he thought about her at all, it was to compare her with the pale sorrow he had left behind him, sitting motionless in a room so still that you might almost fancy the rush in your straining ears was caused by the spirits of the dead.


Mrs. Thornton gave Mr. Bell her formal, hospitable welcome. She was never so gracious as when receiving her son's friends in her son's house; and the more unexpected they were, the more honour to her admirable housekeeping preparations for comfort.

Mrs. Thornton gave Mr. Bell her formal welcome.


"About as broken down by this last stroke as she can be."

'About as broken down by this last stroke as she can be.'


"I am sure it is very well for her that she has such a friend as you."

'I am sure it is very well for her that she has such a friend as you.'


"I wish I were her only friend, madam. I daresay it sounds very brutal; but here have I been displaced, and turned out of my post of comforter and adviser by a fine lady aunt; and there are cousins and what not claiming her in London, as if she were a lap-dog belonging to them. And she is too weak and miserable to have a will of her own."

'I wish I were her only friend, madam. I daresay it sounds very brutal; but I have been displaced by a fine lady aunt; and there are cousins and what not claiming her in London, as if she were a lap-dog belonging to them. And she is too weak and miserable to have a will of her own.'


"She must indeed be weak," said Mrs. Thornton, with an implied meaning which her son understood well. "But where," continued Mrs. Thornton, "have these relations been all this time that Miss Hale has appeared almost friendless, and has certainly had a good deal of anxiety to bear?" But she did not feel interest enough in the answer to her question to wait for it. She left the room to make her household arrangements.

'She must indeed be weak,' said Mrs. Thornton, with an implied meaning which her son understood well. 'But where have these relations been all this time that Miss Hale has appeared almost friendless?' However, she did not feel interest enough in the answer to wait for it. She left the room to make her household arrangements.


"They have been living abroad. They have some kind of claim upon her. I will do them that justice. The aunt brought her up, and she and the cousin have been like sisters. The thing vexing me, you see, is that I wanted to take her for a child of my own; and I am jealous of these people, who don't seem to value the privilege of their right. Now it would be different if Frederick claimed her."

'They have been living abroad. The aunt brought her up, and she and the cousin have been like sisters. The thing vexing me, you see, is that I wanted to take her for a child of my own; and I am jealous of these people. Now it would be different if Frederick claimed her.'


"Frederick!" exclaimed Mr. Thornton. "Who is he? What right----?" He stopped short in his vehement question.

'Frederick!' exclaimed Mr. Thornton. 'Who is he? What right-?' He stopped short.


"Frederick," said Mr. Bell in surprise. "Why, don't you know? He's her brother. Have you not heard----"

'Frederick,' said Mr. Bell in surprise. 'Why, don't you know? He's her brother.'


"I never heard his name before. Where is he? Who is he?"


"Surely I told you about him, when the family first came to Milton--the son who was concerned in that mutiny."

'Surely I told you about him, when the family first came to Milton - the son who was concerned in that mutiny.'


"I never heard of him till this moment. Where does he live?"

'I never heard of him till this moment. Where does he live?'


"In Spain. He's liable to be arrested the moment he sets foot on English ground. Poor fellow! he will grieve at not being able to attend his father's funeral. We must be content with Captain Lennox; for I don't know of any other relation."

'In Spain. He's liable to be arrested the moment he sets foot in England. Poor fellow! He will grieve at not being able to attend his father's funeral.'


"Certainly; thankfully. You're a good fellow, after all, Thornton. Hale liked you. He spoke to me, only the other day, at Oxford. He regretted he had seen so little of you lately. I am obliged to you for wishing to show him respect."

'Certainly. You're a good fellow, Thornton. Hale liked you.'


"But about Frederick. Does he never come to England?"

'But about Frederick. Does he never come to England?'


"He was not over here about the time of Mrs. Hale's death?"

'He was not over here about the time of Mrs. Hale's death?'


"No. Why, I was here then. I hadn't seen Hale for years and years: and, if you remember, I came--No, it was some time after that that I came. But poor Frederick Hale was not here then. What made you think he was?"

'No. Why, I was here then - no, it was some time later. But poor Frederick was not here then. What made you think he was?'


"I saw a young man walking with Miss Hale one day," replied Mr. Thornton, "and I think it was about that time."

'I saw a young man walking with Miss Hale one day, about that time,' replied Mr. Thornton.


"Oh, that would be this young Lennox, the Captain's brother. He's a lawyer, and they were in pretty constant correspondence with him; and I remember Mr. Hale told me he thought he would come down. Do you know," said Mr. Bell, wheeling round, and shutting one eye, the better to bring the forces of the other to bear with keen scrutiny on Mr. Thornton's face, "that I once fancied you had a little tenderness for Margaret?"

'Oh, that would be young Lennox, the Captain's brother. He's a lawyer, and they were in pretty constant correspondence with him; I remember Mr. Hale told me he thought he would come down. Do you know,' said Mr. Bell, wheeling round, 'that I once fancied you had a little tenderness for Margaret?'


"And so did poor Hale. Not at first, and not till I had put it into his head."

'And so did poor Hale, though not till I had put it into his head.'


"I admired Miss Hale. Every one must do so. She is a beautiful creature," said Mr. Thornton, driven to bay by Mr. Bell's pertinacious questioning.

'I admired Miss Hale. Everyone must do so. She is a beautiful creature,' said Mr. Thornton, at bay.


"Is that all! You can speak of her in that measured way, as simply a 'beautiful creature'--only something to catch the eye. I did hope you had had nobleness enough in you to make you pay her the homage of the heart. Though I believe--in fact I know, she would have rejected you, still to have loved her without return would have lifted you higher than all those, be they who they may, that have ever known her to love. 'Beautiful creature' indeed! Do you speak of her as you would of a horse or a dog?"

'Is that all! You can speak of her in that measured way, as simply a "beautiful creature" - only something to catch the eye. I did hope you had had nobleness enough in you to make you pay her the homage of the heart. Though I believe she would have rejected you, still to have loved her without return would have lifted you higher than all those that have never known and loved her. "Beautiful creature" indeed! Do you speak of her as you would of a horse or a dog?'


Mr. Thornton's eyes glowed like red embers.


"Mr. Bell," said he, "before you speak so, you should remember that all men are not as free to express what they feel as you are. Let us talk of something else." For though his heart leaped up, as at a trumpet-call, to every word that Mr. Bell had said, and though he knew that what he had said would henceforward bind the thought of the old Oxford Fellow closely up with the most precious things of his heart, yet he would not be forced into any expression of what he felt towards Margaret. He was no mocking-bird of praise to try, because another extolled what he reverenced and passionately loved, to outdo him in laudation. So he turned to some of the dry matters of business that lay between Mr. Bell and him, as landlord and tenant.

'Mr. Bell,' said he, 'not all men are as free to express what they feel as you are. Let us talk of something else.' For though his heart leaped up, as at a trumpet-call, to every word that Mr. Bell had said, he would not be forced into any expression of what he felt towards Margaret. He was no mocking-bird of praise, to try and out-do another. So he turned to some matters of business that lay between Mr. Bell and him, as landlord and tenant.


"What is that heap of brick and mortar we came against in the yard? Any repairs wanted?"

'What is that heap of brick and mortar we came against in the yard?


"Are you building on your own account? If you are, I'm very much obliged to you."


"I'm building a dining-room--for the men I mean--the hands."

asked Mr. Bell.
'I'm building a dining-room for the men - the hands.


"I thought you were hard to please, if this room wasn't good enough to satisfy you, a bachelor."


"I've got acquainted with a strange kind of chap, and I put one or two children in whom he is interested to school. So, as I happened to be passing near his house one day, I just went there about some trifling payment to be made; and I saw such a miserable black frizzle of a dinner--a greasy cinder of meat, as first set me a-thinking. But it was not till provisions grew so high this winter that I bethought me how, by buying things wholesale, and cooking a good quantity of provisions together, much money might be saved, and much comfort gained. So I spoke to my friend--or my enemy--the man I told you of--and he found fault with every detail of my plan; and in consequence I laid it aside, both as impracticable, and also because if I forced it into operation I should be interfering with the independence of my men; when, suddenly, this Higgins came to me and graciously signified his approval of a scheme so nearly the same as mine, that I might fairly have claimed it; and, moreover, the approval of several of his fellow-workmen, to whom he had spoken. I was a little 'riled,' I confess, by his manner, and thought of throwing the whole thing overboard to sink or swim. But it seemed childish to relinquish a plan which I had once thought wise and well-laid, just because I myself did not receive all the honour and consequence due to the originator. So I coolly took the part assigned to me, which is something like that of a steward to a club. I buy in the provisions wholesale, and provide a fitting matron or cook."

I've got acquainted with a strange kind of chap, and I put one or two children in whom he is interested in school. I happened to be passing his house one day, and called in; and I saw such a miserable black frizzle of a dinner - a greasy cinder of meat, as set me a-thinking. By buying things wholesale, and cooking a good quantity together, much money might be saved, and much comfort gained. So I spoke to this man - and he found fault with every detail of my plan; and I had laid it aside, when, suddenly, this Higgins graciously signified his approval of a scheme so nearly the same as mine, that I might fairly have claimed it. I was a little "riled", I confess, and thought of throwing the whole thing overboard. But that seemed a childish reaction; so I coolly took the part assigned to me, which is something like that of steward to a club. I buy in the provisions wholesale, and provide a cook.'


"I hope you give satisfaction in your new capacity. Are you a good judge of potatoes and onions? But I suppose Mrs. Thornton assists you in your marketing."

'I hope you give satisfaction. Are you a good judge of potatoes and onions? But I suppose Mrs. Thornton assists you.'


"Not a bit," replied Mr. Thornton. "She disapproves of the whole plan, and now we never mention it to each other. But I manage pretty well, getting in great stocks from Liverpool, and being served in butcher's meat by our own family butcher. I can assure you, the hot dinners the matron turns out are not to be despised."

'Not a bit,' replied Mr. Thornton. 'She disapproves of the whole plan. But I manage pretty well, getting in great stocks from Liverpool, and meat from our own family butcher. I can assure you, the hot dinners the cook turns out are by no means to be despised.'


"Do you taste each dish as it goes in, in virtue of your office? I hope you have a white wand."


"I was very scrupulous, at first, in confining myself to the mere purchasing part, and even in that I rather obeyed the men's orders, conveyed through the housekeeper, than went by my own judgment. At one time, the beef was too large, at another the mutton was not fat enough. I think they saw how careful I was to leave them free, and not to intrude my own ideas upon them; so, one day, two or three of the men--my friend Higgins among them--asked me if I would not come in and take a snack. It was a very busy day, but I saw that the men would be hurt if, after making the advance, I didn't meet them half-way, so I went in, and I never made a better dinner in my life. I told them (my next neighbours I mean, for I'm no speech-maker) how much I enjoyed it; and for some time, whenever that especial dinner recurred in their dietary, I was sure to be met by these men, with a 'Master, there's hot-pot for dinner to-day, win yo' come in?' If they had not asked me, I would no more have intruded on them than I'd have gone to the mess at the barracks without invitation."

'I was very scrupulous, at first, in confining myself to the buying, and even in that I obeyed the men's orders rather than my own judgment. At one time, the beef was too large, at another the mutton was not fat enough. I think they saw how careful I was not to intrude my own ideas upon them; so, one day, some of the men - my friend Higgins among them - asked me to come in and take a snack. It was a very busy day, but I saw that the men would be hurt if I didn't, so I went in, and I never made a better dinner in my life. I told them how much I'd enjoyed it; and for some time after I'd be met by these men, with a "Master, there's hot-pot for dinner today, win yo' come?"'


"I should think you were rather a restraint on your hosts' conversation. They can't abuse the masters while you're there. I expect they take it out on non-hot-pot days."

'I should think you were rather a restraint on your hosts' conversation. They can't abuse the masters while you're there.'


"Well! hitherto we've steered clear of all vexed questions. But if any of the old disputes came up again, I would certainly speak out my mind next hot-pot day. But you are hardly acquainted with our Darkshire fellows, for all you're a Darkshire man yourself. They have such a sense of humour, and such a racy mode of expression! I am getting really to know some of them now, and they talk pretty freely before me."

'Well! if any of the old disputes came up, I would certainly speak out my mind next hot-pot day. But you are hardly acquainted with our Darkshire fellows, for all you're a Darkshire man yourself. They have such a sense of humour, and such a racy mode of expression! I am getting to know some of them now, and they talk pretty freely before me.'


"Nothing like the act of eating for equalising men. Dying is nothing to it. The philosopher dies sententiously--the pharisee ostentatiously--the simple-hearted humbly--the poor idiot blindly, as the sparrow falls to the ground; the philosopher and idiot, publican and pharisee, all eat after the same fashion--given an equally good digestion. There's theory for theory for you!"

'Nothing like the act of eating for equalising men.


"Indeed I have no theory; I hate theories."


"I beg your pardon. To show my penitence, will you accept a ten pound note towards your marketing, and give the poor fellows a feast?"

Will you accept a ten pound note towards your marketing, and give the poor fellows a feast?'


"Thank you; but I'd rather not. They pay me rent for the oven and cooking-places at the back of the mill: and will have to pay more for the new dining-room. I don't want it to fall into a charity. I don't want donations. Once let in the principle, and I should have people going and talking, and spoiling the simplicity of the whole thing."

'Thank you; but I'd rather not. They pay me rent for the oven and cooking-places at the back of the mill. I don't want it to fall into a charity. I don't want donations.


"People will talk about any new plan. You can't help that."


"My enemies, if I have any, may make a philanthropic fuss about this dinner-scheme; but you are a friend, and I expect that you will now pay my experiment the respect of silence. It is but a new broom at present, and sweeps clean enough. But by-an-bye we shall meet with plenty of stumbling-blocks, no doubt."

But by-and-by we shall meet with plenty of stumbling-blocks, no doubt.'


"Mist clogs the sunshine, Smoky dwarf houses Have we round on every side." MATTHEW ARNOLD.


The next afternoon, about twenty miles from Milton-Northern, they entered on the little branch railway that led to Heston. Heston itself was one long straggling street, running parallel to the seashore. It had a character of its own, as different from the little bathing-places in the south of England as they again from those of the continent. To use a Scotch word, everything looked more "purpose-like." The country carts had more iron, and less wood and leather about the horse-gear; the people in the streets, although on pleasure bent, had yet a busy mind. The colours looked grayer--more enduring, not so gay and pretty. There were no smock-frocks, even among the country-folk; they retarded motion, and were apt to catch on machinery, and so the habit of wearing them had died out. In such towns in the south of England, Margaret had seen the shopmen, when not employed in their business, lounging a little at their doors, enjoying the fresh air, and the look up and down the street. Here, if they had any leisure from customers, they made themselves business in the shop--even, Margaret fancied, to the unnecessary unrolling and re-rolling of ribbons. All these differences struck upon her mind, as she and her mother went out next morning to look for lodgings.

The next afternoon they travelled on the railway to Heston. Heston was one long straggling street, running parallel to the seashore. It was different from the little bathing-places in the south of England: to use a Scotch word, everything looked more 'purposelike.' The people looked busier; the colours looked greyer. In such towns in the south of England, Margaret had seen shopmen lounging at their doors to look up and down the street. Here, if they had any leisure, they busied themselves in the shop - even, Margaret fancied, to the unnecessary unrolling and rerolling of ribbons. All these differences struck her, as she and her mother went out next morning to look for lodgings.


Their two nights at hotels had cost more than Mr. Hale had anticipated, and they were glad to take the first clean, cheerful rooms they met with that were at liberty to receive them. There, for the first time for many days, did Margaret feel at rest. There was a dreaminess in the rest, too, which made it still more perfect and luxurious to repose in. The distant sea, lapped the sandy shore with measured sound; the nearer cries of the donkey-boys; the unusual scenes moving before her like pictures, which she cared not in her laziness to have fully explained before they passed away; the stroll down to the beach to breathe the sea-air, soft and warm on that sandy shore even to the end of November; the great long misty sea-line touching the tender-coloured sky; the white sail of a distant boat turning silver in some pale sunbeam:--it seemed as if she could dream her life away in such luxury of pensiveness, in which she made her present all in all, from not daring to think of the past, or wishing to contemplate the future.

Two nights in hotels had cost more than anticipated, and they were glad to take the first clean, cheerful rooms they found. There, for the first time for many days, Margaret felt at rest. There was a dreaminess which made it still more perfect and luxurious. The distant sea, lapping the sandy shore; the cries of the donkey-boys; the stroll down to the beach to breathe the sea-air, soft and warm even at the end of November; the great long misty sea-line touching the sky; the white sail of a distant boat turning silver in some pale sunbeam: she felt she could dream her life away here, without thinking of the past or future.


But the future must be met, however stern and iron it be. One evening it was arranged that Margaret and her father should go the next day to Milton-Northern, and look out for a house. Mr. Hale had received several letters from Mr. Bell, and one or two from Mr. Thornton, and he was anxious to ascertain at once a good many particulars respecting his position and chances of success there, which he could only do by an interview with the latter gentleman. Margaret knew that they ought to be removing; but she had a repugnance to the idea of a manufacturing town, and believed that her mother was receiving benefit from Heston air, so she would willingly have deferred the expedition to Milton.

But the future must be met, however stern and iron it might be. One evening it was arranged that Margaret and her father should go the next day to Milton-Northern, and look for a house. Mr. Hale was anxious to see Mr. Thornton and ascertain his position. Margaret had a repugnance to the idea of a manufacturing town, and would willingly have put off the expedition.


For several miles before they reached Milton, they saw a deep lead-coloured cloud hanging over the horizon in the direction in which it lay. It was all the darker from contrast with the pale gray-blue of the wintry sky; for in Heston there had been the earliest signs of frost. Nearer to the town, the air had a faint taste and smell of smoke; perhaps, after all, more a loss of the fragrance of grass and herbage than any positive taste or smell. Quick they were whirled over long, straight, hopeless streets of regularly-built houses, all small and of brick. Here and there a great oblong many-windowed factory stood up, like a hen among her chickens, puffing out black "unparliamentary" smoke, and sufficiently accounting for the cloud which Margaret had taken to foretell rain. As they drove through the larger and wider streets, from the station to the hotel, they had to stop constantly; great loaded lurries blocked up the not over-wide thoroughfares. Margaret had now and then been into the city in her drives with her aunt. But there the heavy lumbering vehicles seemed various in their purposes and intent; here every van, every waggon and truck, bore cotton, either in the raw shape in bags, or the woven shape in bales of calico. People thronged the footpaths, most of them well-dressed as regarded the material, but with a slovenly looseness which struck Margaret as different from the shabby, threadbare smartness of a similar class in London.

For several miles before they reached Milton, they saw a deep lead-coloured cloud hanging over the horizon above it, contrasting with the pale wintry sky. Nearer to the town, the air had a faint taste and smell of smoke. They were whirled over long, straight, hopeless streets of small brick houses. Here and there a great oblong many-windowed factory stood up, like a hen among her chickens, puffing out black smoke, and accounting for the cloud.
As they drove through the streets, they had to stop constantly; loaded lorries blocked up the thoroughfares. Margaret had now and then been into the city of London in her drives with her aunt. But there the heavy lumbering vehicles seemed to have various purposes; here, every van, wagon and truck bore cotton, either raw in bags, or woven, in the form of bales of calico. People thronged the footpaths, most of them well-dressed as regarded the material, but with a slovenly looseness which struck Margaret as different from the shabby, threadbare smartness of a similar class in London.


"New Street," said Mr. Hale. "This, I believe, is the principal street in Milton. Bell has often spoken to me about it. It was the opening of this street from a lane into a great thoroughfare, thirty years ago, which has caused his property to rise so much in value. Mr. Thornton's mill must be somewhere not very far off, for he is Mr. Bell's tenant. But I fancy he dates from his warehouse."

'New Street,' said Mr. Hale. 'This, Bell tells me, is the main street in Milton. It was the making of this street into a great thoroughfare, thirty years ago, which has caused his property to rise so much in value. Mr. Thornton's mill must be nearby, for he is Mr. Bell's tenant.


"Close to the end of this street, I believe. Shall we have lunch before or after we have looked at the houses we marked in the Milton Times?"

Before we look for those houses we marked in the Milton Times


"Very well. Then I will only see if there is any note or letter for me from Mr. Thornton, who said he would let me know anything he might hear about these houses, and then we will set off. We will keep the cab; it will be safer than losing ourselves, and being too late for the train this afternoon."

I will see if there is any letter for me at our hotel from Mr. Thornton. He said he would let me know anything he might hear about the houses.'


There were no letters awaiting him. They set out on their house-hunting. Thirty pounds a-year was all they could afford to give, but in Hampshire they could have met with a roomy house and pleasant garden for the money. Here, even the necessary accommodation of two sitting-rooms and four bed-rooms seemed unattainable. They went through their list, rejecting each as they visited it. They then looked at each other in dismay.

There were no letters awaiting him, so they set out on their house-hunting. Thirty pounds a year was all they could afford, but in Hampshire they could have found a roomy house and pleasant garden for the money. Here, even the necessary two sitting-rooms and four bed-rooms seemed unattainable. They went through their list, rejecting each as they visited it. Then they looked at each other in dismay.


"We must go back to the second, I think. That one,--in Crampton, don't they call the suburb? There were three sitting-rooms; don't you remember how we laughed at the number compared with the three bed-rooms? But I have planned it all. The front room down-stairs is to be your study and our dining-room (poor papa!), for you know, we settled mamma is to have as cheerful a sitting-room as we can get; and that front room up-stairs, with the atrocious blue and pink paper and heavy cornice, had really a pretty view over the plain, with a great bend of river, or canal, or whatever it is, down below. Then I could have the little bed-room behind, in that projection at the head of the first flight of stairs over the kitchen, you know--and you and mamma the room behind the drawing-room, and that closet in the roof will make you a splendid dressing-room."

'We must go back to the second, I think,' said Margaret. 'That one in the suburb of Crampton? There were three sitting-rooms; don't you remember how we laughed at the number compared with the three bedrooms? But I have planned it all. The front room downstairs is to be your study and our dining-room, for mamma is to have the cheerful sitting-room; and that room upstairs, with the atrocious blue and pink paper, had a pretty view of the plain with the river, or canal, or whatever it is, down below. Then I could have the little bedroom behind - over the kitchen - and you and mamma the room behind the drawing-room.'


"But Dixon, and the girl we are to have to help?"


"Oh, wait a minute. I am overpowered by the discovery of my own genius for management. Dixon is to have--let me see, I had it once--the back sitting-room. I think she will like that. She grumbles so much about the stairs at Heston; and the girl is to have that sloping attic over your room and mamma's. Won't that do?"

'Wait a minute. Dixon is to have, let me see - the back sitting-room. I think she will like that. And the girl can have that sloping attic over your room and mamma's. Won't that do?'


"I dare say it will. But the papers. What taste! And the over-loading such a house with colour and such heavy cornices!"

'I dare say it will. But the wallpapers. What taste!'


"Never mind, papa! Surely you can charm the landlord into re-papering one or two of the rooms--the drawing-room and your bed-room--for mamma will come most in contact with them; and your book-shelves will hide a great deal of that gaudy pattern in the dining-room."

'Never mind, papa! Surely you can charm the landlord into re-papering the drawing-room and your bedroom; and your book-shelves will hide a great deal of that gaudy pattern in the dining-room.'


"Then you think it the best? If so, I had better go at once and call on this Mr. Donkin, to whom the advertisement refers me. I will take you back to the hotel, where you can order lunch, and rest, and by the time it is ready, I shall be with you. I hope I shall be able to get new papers."

'Then you think it the best? If so, I had better go and call on the landlord. I will take you back to the hotel, where you can order lunch, and by the time it is ready, I shall be with you. I hope I shall be able to get new wallpaper.'


Margaret hoped so too, though she said nothing. She had never come fairly in contact with the taste that loves ornament, however bad, more than the plainness and simplicity which are of themselves the framework of elegance.


Her father took her through the entrance of the hotel, and leaving her at the foot of the staircase, went to the address of the landlord of the house they had fixed upon. Just as Margaret had her hand on the door of their sitting-room, she was followed by a quick-stepping waiter:

Her father took her through the entrance of the hotel, and went away. Just as Margaret was entering their sitting-room, she was addressed by a waiter:


"I beg your pardon, ma'am. The gentleman was gone so quickly, I had no time to tell him. Mr. Thornton called almost directly after you left; and as I understood, from what the gentleman said, you would be back in an hour, I told him so, and he came again about five minutes ago, and said he would wait for Mr. Hale. He is in your room now, ma'am."

'I beg your pardon, ma'am. I had no time to tell the gentleman. Mr. Thornton called directly after you left; and, as I understood you would be back in an hour, I told him so, and he came again five minutes ago, and said he would wait for Mr. Hale. He is in your room now, ma'am.'


"Thank you. My father will return soon, and then you can tell him."

'Thank you. My father will return soon.'


Margaret opened the door and went in with the straight, fearless, dignified presence habitual to her. She felt no awkwardness; she had too much the habits of society for that. Here was a person come on business to her father; and, as he was one who had shown himself obliging, she was disposed to treat him with a full measure of civility. Mr. Thornton was a good deal more surprised and discomfited than she. Instead of a quiet, middle-aged clergyman, a young lady came forward with frank dignity,--a young lady of a different type to most of those he was in the habit of seeing. Her dress was very plain: a close straw bonnet of the best material and shape, trimmed with white ribbon; a large Indian shawl, which hung about her in long heavy folds, and which she wore as an empress wears her drapery. He did not understand who she was, as he caught the simple, straight, unabashed look, which showed that his being there was of no concern to the beautiful countenance, and called up no flush of surprise to the pale ivory of the complexion. He had heard that Mr. Hale had a daughter, but he had imagined that she was a little girl.

Margaret opened the door and went in; straight, fearless and dignified, as usual. She felt no awkwardness; here was a person come on business to her father; and she would treat him with civility.
Mr. Thornton was a good deal more surprised and discomfited than she. Instead of a quiet, middle-aged clergyman, a young lady came forward with frank dignity - a young lady of a different type to those he was in the habit of seeing. Her dress was very plain: a close straw bonnet of the best material; a dark silk gown, without any trimming; a large Indian shawl, which she wore as an empress wears her drapery. He did not understand who she was, as he caught the simple, straight, unabashed look. He had heard that Mr. Hale had a daughter, but he had imagined that she was a little girl; and his words would not come.


"Mr. Thornton, I believe!" said Margaret, after a half-instant's pause, during which his unready words would not come. "Will you sit down. My father brought me to the door not a minute ago, but unfortunately he was not told that you were here, and he has gone away on some business. But he will come back almost directly. I am sorry you have had the trouble of calling twice."

'Mr. Thornton, I believe!' said Margaret, after a pause. 'Will you sit down? Unfortunately my father was not told that you were here, and he has gone away on some business. But he will come back soon. I am sorry you have had the trouble of calling twice.'


Mr. Thornton was in habits of authority himself, but she seemed to assume some kind of rule over him at once. He had been getting impatient at the loss of his time on a market-day, the moment before she appeared, yet now he calmly took a seat at her bidding.

Mr. Thornton was in the habit of authority himself, but she seemed to assume some kind of rule over him. He calmly took a seat at her bidding.


"Do you know where it is that Mr. Hale has gone to? Perhaps I might be able to find him."

'Do you know where Mr. Hale has gone? Perhaps I might be able to find him.'


"He has gone to a Mr. Donkin in Canute Street. He is the landlord of the house my father wishes to take in Crampton."

'He has gone to a Mr. Donkin's; the landlord of the house my father wishes to take in Crampton.'


Mr. Thornton knew the house. He had seen the advertisement, and been to look at it, in compliance with a request of Mr. Bell's that he would assist Mr. Hale to the best of his power: and also instigated by his own interest in the case of a clergyman who had given up his living under circumstances such as those of Mr. Hale. Mr. Thornton had thought that the house in Crampton was really just the thing; but now that he saw Margaret, with her superb ways of moving and looking, he began to feel ashamed of having imagined that it would do very well for the Hales, in spite of a certain vulgarity in it which had struck him at the time of his looking it over.

Mr. Thornton knew the house. He had seen the advertisement, and been to look at it, in compliance with a request of Mr. Bell's: and also because of his own interest in Mr. Hale's circumstances. Mr. Thornton had thought that the house in Crampton, despite a certain vulgarity, was really just the thing; but now that he saw Margaret, with her superb ways of moving and looking, he began to feel ashamed of having imagined that it would do very well for the Hales.


Margaret could not help her looks; but the short curled upper lip, the round, massive up-turned chin, the manner of carrying her head, her movements, full of a soft feminine defiance, always gave strangers the impression of haughtiness. She was tired now, and would much rather have remained silent, and taken the rest her father had planned for her; but, of course, she owed to herself to be a gentlewoman, and to speak courteously from time to time to this stranger; not over-brushed, nor over-polished, it must be confessed, after his rough encounter with Milton streets and crowds. She wished that he would go, as he had once spoken of doing, instead of sitting there, answering with curt sentences all the remarks she made. She had taken off her shawl, and hung it over the back of her chair. She sat facing him and facing the light; her full beauty met his eye; her round white flexile throat rising out of the full, yet lithe figure; her lips moving so slightly as she spoke, not breaking the cold serene look of her face with any variation from the one lovely haughty curve; her eyes, with their soft gloom, meeting his with quiet maiden freedom. He almost said to himself that he did not like her, before their conversation ended; he tried so to compensate himself for the mortified feeling, that while he looked upon her with an admiration he could not repress, she looked at him with proud indifference, taking him, he thought, for what, in his irritation, he told himself he was--a great rough fellow, with not a grace or a refinement about him. Her quiet coldness of demeanour he interpreted into contemptuousness, and resented it in his heart to the pitch of almost inclining him to get up and go away, and have nothing more to do with these Hales, and their superciliousness.

Margaret could not help her looks; but the short curled upper lip, the round, up-turned chin, the manner of carrying her head, and her movements, full of a soft feminine defiance, always gave strangers the impression of haughtiness. She was tired now, and would rather have rested; but she owed it to herself to speak courteously to this stranger. She wished that he would go, instead of sitting there, curtly answering all her remarks.
She had taken off her shawl, and sat facing the light. Her full beauty met his eye; her round white throat rising out of the lithe figure; her moving lips not breaking the cold serene look of her face; her eyes meeting his with quiet freedom. He almost said to himself that he did not like her. While he looked upon her with admiration, she looked at him with proud indifference, taking him, he thought, for what he was - a great rough fellow, with not a refinement about him. Her quiet coldness he interpreted as contempt, and resented it so much that he was almost inclined to get up and go away, and have nothing more to do with these supercilious Hales.


Just as Margaret had exhausted her last subject of conversation--and yet conversation that could hardly be called which consisted of so few and such short speeches--her father came in, and with his pleasant gentlemanly courteousness of apology, reinstated his name and family in Mr. Thornton's good opinion.

Just as Margaret had exhausted her last subject of conversation, her father came in, and with a pleasant gentlemanly apology reinstated his family in Mr. Thornton's good opinion.


Mr. Hale and his visitor had a good deal to say respecting their mutual friend, Mr. Bell; and Margaret, glad that her part of entertaining the visitor was over, went to the window to try and make herself more familiar with the strange aspect of the street. She got so much absorbed in watching what was going on outside that she hardly heard her father when he spoke to her, and he had to repeat what he said:

The two men had much to say about their mutual friend, Mr. Bell; and Margaret, glad that her part of entertaining the visitor was over, went to the window and was gazing out at the street, when her father spoke to her:


"Margaret! the landlord will persist in admiring that hideous paper, and I am afraid we must let it remain."

'Margaret! the landlord will persist in admiring that hideous paper, and I am afraid we must let it remain.'


"Oh dear! I am sorry!" she replied, and began to turn over in her mind the possibility of hiding part of it, at least, by some of her sketches, but gave up the idea at last, as likely only to make bad worse. Her father, meanwhile, with his kindly country hospitality, was pressing Mr. Thornton to stay to luncheon with them. It would have been very inconvenient to him to do so, yet he felt that he should have yielded, if Margaret by word or look had seconded her father's invitation; he was glad she did not, and yet he was irritated at her for not doing so. She gave him a low, grave bow when he left, and he felt more awkward and self-conscious in every limb than he had ever done in his life before.

'Oh dear! I am sorry!' she replied, and began to consider if she could hide part of it, at least, with some of her sketches. Her father, meanwhile, was pressing Mr. Thornton to stay to luncheon. It would have been very inconvenient to him to do so, yet he felt that he should accept, if Margaret also invited him. She did not, and he was glad, yet irritated at her. She gave him a low, grave bow when he left, and he felt more awkward and self-conscious than he had ever done in his life.


"Well, Margaret, now to luncheon as fast as we can. Have you ordered it?"


"No, papa; that man was here when I came home, and I have never had an opportunity."


"Then we must take anything we can get. He must have been waiting a long time I'm afraid."

Mr. Thornton must have been waiting a long time, I'm afraid.'


"It seemed exceedingly long to me. I was just at the last gasp when you came in. He never went on with any subject, but gave little, short, abrupt answers."

'It seemed exceedingly long to me. I was just at the last gasp when you came in. He gave such short, abrupt answers.'