"Ay! I knew how it would be. Now you'll waken your mamma, just after she's gone to sleep so quietly. Miss Margaret my dear, I've had to keep it down this many a week: and though I don't pretend I can love her as you do, yet I loved her better than any other man, woman, or child--no one but Master Frederick ever came near her in my mind. Ever since Lady Beresford's maid first took me in to see her dressed out in white crape, and corn-ears, and scarlet poppies, and I ran a needle down into my finger, and broke it in, and she tore up her worked pocket-handkerchief, after they'd cut it out, and came in to wet the bandages again with lotion when she returned from the ball--where she'd been the prettiest young lady of all--I've never loved any one like her. I little thought then that I should live to see her brought so low. I don't mean no reproach to nobody. Many a one calls you pretty and handsome, and what not. Even in this smoky place, enough to blind one's eyes, the owls can see that. But you'll never be like your mother for beauty--never; not if you live to be a hundred."

'Ay! I knew how it would be. Now you'll waken your mamma again. Miss Margaret, my dear, I've had to keep it down this many a week; and though I don't pretend I can love her as you do, yet I've loved her better than any other but Master Frederick. Ever since Lady Beresford's maid first took me in to see her, and I ran a needle into my finger, and she tore up her pocket-handkerchief for bandages, I've never loved anyone like her. I little thought then that I should live to see her brought so low. I don't mean no reproach to nobody. Many a one calls you pretty and handsome, and what not, but you'll never be like your mother for beauty, not if you live to be a hundred.'


"Mamma is very pretty still. Poor mamma!"

'Mamma is very pretty still. Poor mamma!'


"Now don't ye set off again, or I shall give way at last" (whimpering). "You'll never stand master's coming home, and questioning, at this rate. Go out and take a walk, and come in something like. Many's the time I've longed to walk it off--the thought of what was the matter with her, and how it must all end."

'Now don't set off again. Go out and take a walk, and come in something like. Many's the time I've longed to walk it off - the thought of her illness, and how it must all end.'


"Oh, Dixon!" said Margaret, "how often I've been cross with you, not knowing what a terrible secret you had to bear!"

'Oh, Dixon!' said Margaret, 'how often I've been cross with you, not knowing what a terrible secret you had to bear!


"Bless you, child! I like to see you showing a bit of a spirit. It's the good old Beresford blood. Why, the last Sir John but two shot his steward down, there where he stood, for just telling him that he racked the tenants, and he'd racked the tenants till he could get no more money off them than he could get skin off a flint."


"Well, Dixon, I won't shoot you, and I'll try not to be cross again."


"You never have. If I've said it at times, it has always been to myself, just in private, by way of making a little agreeable conversation, for there's no one here fit to talk to. And when you fire up you're the very image of Master Frederick. I could find in my heart to put you in a passion any day just to see his stormy look coming like a great cloud over your face. But now you go out, Miss. I'll watch over Missus; and as for master, his books are company enough for him, if he should come in."

'Yet when you fire up, you're the very image of Master Frederick. I'd put you in a passion any day, just to see his stormy look coming like a great cloud over your face. But now you go out, Miss. I'll watch over missus.'


"I will go," said Margaret. She hung about Dixon for a minute or so, as if afraid and irresolute; then, suddenly kissing her, she went quickly out of the room.

'I will go,' said Margaret. She hung about for a minute, irresolute; then suddenly kissing Dixon, she went quickly out of the room.


"Bless her!" said Dixon. "She's as sweet as a nut. There are three people I love; its Missus, Master Frederick, and her. Just them three. That's all. The rest be hanged, for I don't know what they're in the world for. Master was born, I suppose, for to marry missus. If I thought he loved her properly, I might get to love him in time. But he should ha' made a deal more on her, and not been always reading, reading, thinking, thinking. See what it has brought him to. Many a one who never reads or thinks either, gets to be Rector, and Dean, and what not; and I daresay master might, if he'd just minded missus, and let the weary reading and thinking alone.--There she goes" (looking out of the window as she heard the front door shut). "Poor young lady! her clothes look shabby to what they did when she came to Helstone a year ago. Then she hadn't so much as a darned stocking or a cleaned pair of gloves in all her wardrobe. And now--!"

'Bless her!' said Dixon. 'There are three people I love: missus, Master Frederick, and her. Just them three. The rest be hanged - I don't know what they're in the world for. Master should ha' made more of her, and not been always reading, reading, thinking, thinking. See what it has brought him to! Many a one who never reads nor thinks gets to be Rector, and Dean, and what not; and I dare say master might, if he'd just minded missus, and let the weary reading and thinking alone. There she goes' (as she heard the front door shut). 'Poor young lady! her clothes look so shabby. When she came to Helstone a year ago, she hadn't a darned stocking in all her wardrobe. And now-!'


"The saddest birds a season find to sing." SOUTHWELL.


"Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain, Never, weighed down by memory's clouds again, To bow thy head! Thou art gone home!" MRS. HEMANS.


Mrs. Thornton came to see Mrs. Hale the next morning. She was much worse. One of those sudden changes--those great visible strides towards death, had been taken in the night, and her own family were startled by the gray sunken look her features had assumed in that one twelve hours of suffering. Mrs. Thornton--who had not seen her for weeks--was softened all at once. She had come because her son asked it from her as a personal favour, but with all the proud bitter feelings of her nature in arms against that family of which Margaret formed one. She doubted the reality of Mrs. Hale's illness; she doubted any want beyond a momentary fancy on that lady's part, which should take her out of her previously settled course of employment for the day. She told her son that she wished they had never come near the place; that he had never got acquainted with them; that there had been no such useless languages as Latin and Greek ever invented. He bore all this pretty silently; but when she had ended her invective against the dead languages, he quietly returned to the short, curt, decided expression of his wish that she should go and see Mrs. Hale at the time appointed, as most likely to be convenient to the invalid. Mrs. Thornton submitted with as bad a grace as she could to her son's desire, all the time liking him the better for having it; and exaggerating in her own mind the same notion that he had of extraordinary goodness on his part in so perseveringly keeping up with the Hales.

Mrs. Thornton came to see Mrs. Hale the next morning. She was much worse. A sudden change - a great visible stride towards death had been taken in the night, and her own family were startled by the grey sunken look of her features. Mrs. Thornton - who had not seen her for weeks - was softened at once.
She had come because her son asked her, but with proud bitter feelings against Margaret's family. She doubted the reality of Mrs. Hale's illness; she told her son that she wished they had never come near the place; that he had never got acquainted with them. He bore all this silently; but when she had ended her invective, he quietly repeated his curt, decided wish that she should go and see Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Thornton submitted with a bad grace, yet liked her son the better for it, and exaggerated in her own mind his extraordinary goodness in keeping up with the Hales.


His goodness verging on weakness (as all the softer virtues did in her mind), and her own contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, and positive dislike to Margaret, were the ideas which occupied Mrs. Thornton, till she was struck into nothingness before the dark shadow of the wings of the angel of death. There lay Mrs. Hale--a mother like herself--a much younger woman than she was,--on the bed from which there was no sign of hope that she might ever rise again. No more variety of light and shade for her in that darkened room; no power of action, scarcely change of movement; faint alternations of whispered sound and studious silence; and yet that monotonous life seemed almost too much! When Mrs. Thornton, strong and prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale lay still, although from the look on her face she was evidently conscious of who it was. But she did not even open her eyes for a minute or two. The heavy moisture of tears stood on her eyelashes before she looked up; then, with her hand groping feebly over the bed-clothes, for the touch of Mrs. Thornton's large firm fingers, she said, scarcely above her breath.--Mrs. Thornton had to stoop from her erectness to listen,--

Her contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, and positive dislike of Margaret, occupied Mrs. Thornton, till she stood under the dark shadow of the wings of the angel of death. There lay Mrs. Hale - a mother like herself, though younger - without any hope that she might ever rise again. When Mrs. Thornton, strong and prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale lay still, although she seemed conscious of who it was. But she did not even open her eyes for a minute. Then, with heavy tears on her eye-lashes, her hand groping feebly over the bed-clothes to find Mrs. Thornton's large firm fingers, she said faintly:


"Margaret--you have a daughter--my sister is in Italy. My child will be without a mother;--in a strange place,--if I die---- will you"----

'You have a daughter - my sister is in Italy. My child will be without a mother - in a strange place - if I die - will you-'


And her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves with an intensity of wistfulness on Mrs. Thornton's face. For a minute there was no change in its rigidness; it was stern and unmoved;--nay, but that the eyes of the sick woman were growing dim with the slow-gathering tears, she might have seen a dark cloud cross the cold features. And it was no thought of her son, or of her living daughter Fanny, that stirred her heart at last; but a sudden remembrance, suggested by something in the arrangement of the room,--of a little daughter--dead in infancy--long years ago--that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the icy crust, behind which there was a real tender woman.

And her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves wistfully on Mrs. Thornton's face. That face was stern and unmoved; if the sick woman's eyes had not grown dim, she might have seen a dark cloud cross the cold features. And it was no thought of her son, or of her living daughter Fanny, that stirred Mrs. Thornton's heart at last; but a sudden remembrance of a little daughter, dead in infancy long years ago that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the ice, behind which there was a real tender woman.


"You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale," said Mrs. Thornton, in her measured voice, that would not soften with her heart, but came out distinct and clear.

'You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale,' said Mrs. Thornton, in her clear, measured voice.


Mrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thornton's face, pressed the hand that lay below hers on the coverlet. She could not speak. Mrs. Thornton sighed, "I will be a true friend, if circumstances require it. Not a tender friend. That I cannot be,"--("to her," she was on the point of adding, but she relented at the sight of that poor, anxious face.)--"It is not my nature to show affection even where I feel it, nor do I volunteer advice in general. Still, at your request,--if it will be any comfort to you, I will promise you." Then came a pause. Mrs. Thornton was too conscientious to promise what she did not mean to perform; and to perform anything in the way of kindness on behalf of Margaret, more disliked at this moment than ever, was difficult; almost impossible.

Mrs. Hale pressed her hand. She could not speak.
Mrs. Thornton sighed. 'I will be a true friend, if circumstances require it. Not a tender friend; it is not my nature to show affection even where I feel it. Still, if it will be any comfort to you, I will promise you.' Then she paused. She was too conscientious to promise what she did not mean to perform; and to perform any kind act on behalf of Margaret, more disliked at this moment than ever, was difficult; almost impossible.


"I promise," said she, with grave severity; which, after all, inspired the dying woman with faith as in something more stable than life itself,--flickering, flittering, wavering life! "I promise that in any difficulty in which Miss Hale"----

'I promise,' said she, with grave severity, 'I promise that in any difficulty in which Miss Hale-'


"In which she comes to me for help, I will help her with every power I have, as if she were my own daughter. I also promise that if ever I see her doing what I think is wrong"----

'In which she comes to me for help, I will help her with every power I have, as if she were my own daughter. I also promise that if ever I see her doing what I think is wrong-'


"But Margaret never does wrong--not wilfully wrong," pleaded Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Thornton went on as before; as if she had not heard:

'But Margaret never does wrong - not knowingly,' pleaded Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Thornton went on as if she had not heard:


"If ever I see her doing what I believe to be wrong--such wrong not touching me or mine, in which case I might be supposed to have an interested motive--I will tell her of it, faithfully and plainly, as I should wish my own daughter to be told."

'If ever I see her doing what I believe to be wrong - and it does not involve me or mine - I will tell her of it, faithfully and plainly, as I should wish my own daughter to be told.'


There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that this promise did not include all; and yet it was much. It had reservations in it which she did not understand: but then she was weak, dizzy, and tired. Mrs. Thornton was reviewing all the probable cases in which she had pledged herself to act. She had a fierce pleasure in the idea of telling Margaret unwelcome truths, in the shape of performance of duty. Mrs. Hale began to speak:

There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that this promise did not include all; and yet it was much, and she was dizzy and tired. Mrs. Thornton was reviewing all the probable cases in which she had pledged herself to act. She had a fierce pleasure in the idea of telling Margaret unwelcome truths. Mrs. Hale began to speak:


"I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I shall never see you again in this world. But my last words are, I thank you for your promise of kindness to my child."

'I thank you. I pray God to bless you. I shall never see you again in this world. But I thank you for your promise of kindness to my child.'


"Not kindness!" testified Mrs. Thornton, ungraciously truthful to the last. But having eased her conscience by saying these words, she was not sorry that they were not heard. She pressed Mrs. Hale's soft languid hand; and rose up and went her way out of the house without seeing a creature.

'Not kindness!' said Mrs. Thornton, ungraciously truthful to the last. But she was not sorry that her words were not heard. She pressed Mrs. Hale's hand; and left the house.


During the time that Mrs. Thornton was having this interview with Mrs. Hale, Margaret and Dixon were laying their heads together and consulting how they should keep Frederick's coming a profound secret to all out of the house. A letter from him might now be expected any day; and he would assuredly follow quickly on its heels. Martha must be sent away on her holiday; Dixon must keep stern guard on the front door, only admitting the few visitors that ever came to the house into Mr. Hale's room down stairs--Mrs. Hale's extreme illness giving her a good excuse for this. If Mary Higgins was required as a help to Dixon in the kitchen, she was to hear and see as little of Frederick as possible; and he was, if necessary, to be spoken of to her under the name of Mr. Dickinson. But her sluggish and incurious nature was the greatest safeguard of all.

While Mrs. Thornton was having this interview with Mrs. Hale, Margaret and Dixon were laying their heads together, and consulting how they should keep Frederick's coming a secret to all outside the house. A letter from him might be expected any day; and he would surely follow quickly on its heels. Martha must be sent away on her holiday; Dixon must keep stern guard on the front door - Mrs. Hale's illness giving her a good excuse for this. If Mary Higgins was asked to help Dixon in the kitchen, she was to hear and see as little of Frederick as possible; and he was to be spoken of as Mr. Dickinson. But Mary's sluggish and incurious nature was the greatest safeguard.


They resolved that Martha should leave them that very afternoon for this visit to her mother. Margaret wished that she had been sent away on the previous day, as she fancied it might be thought strange to give a servant a holiday when her mistress's state required so much attendance.

They resolved that Martha should leave them that very afternoon for this visit to her mother. Margaret wished that she had been sent away on the previous day, as it might be thought strange to give a servant a holiday when her mistress's state was so much worse.


Poor Margaret! All that afternoon she had to act the part of a Roman daughter, and give strength out of her own scanty stock to her father. Mr. Hale would hope, would not despair, between the attacks of his wife's malady; he buoyed himself up in every respite from her pain, and believed that it was the beginning of ultimate recovery. And so, when the paroxysms came on, each more severe than the last, they were fresh agonies, and greater disappointments to him. This afternoon, he sat in the drawing-room, unable to bear the solitude of his study, or to employ himself in any way. He buried his head in his arms, which lay folded on the table. Margaret's heart ached to see him; yet, as he did not speak, she did not like to volunteer any attempt at comfort. Martha was gone. Dixon sat with Mrs. Hale while she slept. The house was very still and quiet, and darkness came on, without any movement to procure candles. Margaret sat at the window, looking out at the lamps and the street, but seeing nothing,--only alive to her father's heavy sighs. She did not like to go down for lights, lest the tacit restraint of her presence being withdrawn, he might give way to more violent emotion, without her being at hand to comfort him. Yet she was just thinking that she ought to go and see after the well-doing of the kitchen fire, which there was nobody but herself to attend to, when she heard the muffled door-bell ring with so violent a pull, that the wires jingled all through the house, though the positive sound was not great. She started up, passed her father, who had never moved at the veiled, dull sound,--returned, and kissed him tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took any notice of her fond embrace. Then she went down softly, through the dark, to the door. Dixon would have put the chain on before she opened it, but Margaret had not a thought of fear in her pre-occupied mind. A man's tall figure stood between her and the luminous street. He was looking away; but at the sound of the latch he turned quickly round.

Poor Margaret! All that afternoon she had to give strength to her father. Mr. Hale would hope, would not despair; he buoyed himself up in every respite from her pain, and believed that it was the beginning of recovery. And so, when the paroxysms came on again, each more severe than the last, they were fresh agonies to him.
This afternoon, he sat in the drawing-room with his head buried in his arms, which lay folded on the table. Margaret's heart ached to see him; yet, as he did not speak, she did not either. Martha was gone. Dixon sat with Mrs. Hale while she slept. The house was very still and quiet, and darkness came on. Margaret sat at the window, looking out at the lamps and the street, but seeing nothing - only hearing her father's heavy sighs. She did not like to go down for lights, lest he might give way to more violent emotion, without her being there to comfort him.
Yet she was just thinking that she ought to go and check the kitchen fire, when she heard the muffled door-bell ring with so violent a pull, that the wires jingled all through the house. She started up, and kissed her father tenderly in passing, although he never moved. Then she went down softly, through the dark, to the door. When she opened it, a man's tall figure stood between her and the luminous street. He was looking away; but at the sound of the latch he turned quickly round.


"Is this Mr. Hale's?" said he, in a clear, full, delicate voice.

'Is this Mr. Hale's?' said he, in a clear, full voice.


Margaret trembled all over; at first she did not answer. In a moment she sighed out,

Margaret trembled all over; at first she did not answer. Then she sighed out,


"Frederick!" and stretched out both her hands to catch his, and draw him in.

'Frederick!' and stretched out both her hands to catch his, and draw him in.


"Oh, Margaret!" said he, holding her off by her shoulders, after they had kissed each other, as if even in that darkness he could see her face, and read in its expression a quicker answer to his question than words could give,--

'Oh, Margaret!' said he, holding her by her shoulders, after they had kissed each other, as if even in that darkness he could see her face.


"Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother! She--as ill as she can be she is; but alive! She is alive!"

'Yes, she is alive, dear brother! She is as ill as she can be; but alive!'


"Papa is utterly prostrate with this great grief."


"Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I am coming."

'Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I am coming?'


"Oh! we all knew you would come. But wait a little! Step in here. Give me your hand. What is this? Oh! your carpet-bag. Dixon has shut the shutters; but this is papa's study, and I can take you to a chair to rest yourself for a few minutes; while I go and tell him."

'Oh! we all knew you would come. Step in here,' she said. 'Give me your hand. What is this? Oh! your carpet-bag. This is papa's study. Rest here for a few minutes, while I go and tell him.'


She groped her way to the taper and the lucifer matches. She suddenly felt shy when the little feeble light made them visible. All she could see was, that her brother's face was unusually dark in complexion, and she caught the stealthy look of a pair of remarkably long-cut blue eyes, that suddenly twinkled up with a droll consciousness of their mutual purpose of inspecting each other. But though the brother and sister had an instant of sympathy in their reciprocal glances, they did not exchange a word; only, Margaret felt sure that she should like her brother as a companion as much as she already loved him as a near relation. Her heart was wonderfully lighter as she went up stairs; the sorrow was no less in reality, but it became less oppressive from having some one in precisely the same relation to it as that in which she stood. Not her father's desponding attitude had power to damp her now. He lay across the table, helpless as ever; but she had the spell by which to rouse him. She used it perhaps too violently in her own great relief.

She groped her way to the taper and the matches. When the little feeble light made them visible, she felt suddenly shy. All she could see was, that her brother's face was unusually dark, and she caught the stealthy look of a pair of remarkably long-cut blue eyes, that suddenly twinkled drolly as they inspected each other. They did not exchange a word; yet Margaret felt sure that she should like her brother as a companion as much as she already loved him as a relation.
Her father still lay across the table; but now she had the spell by which to rouse him. She used it perhaps too violently in her own great relief.


"Papa," said she, throwing her arms fondly round his neck; pulling his weary head up in fact with her gentle violence, till it rested in her arms, and she could look into his eyes, and let them gain strength and assurance from hers.

'Papa,' said she, throwing her arms fondly round his neck, and pulling up his weary head to look into his eyes.


He looked at her; she saw the idea of the truth glimmer into their filmy sadness, and be dismissed thence as a wild imagination.


He threw himself forward, and hid his face once more in his stretched-out arms, resting upon the table as heretofore. She heard him whisper; she bent tenderly down to listen. "I don't know; don't tell me it is Frederick--not Frederick. I cannot bear it,--I am too weak. And his mother is dying!"

 then hid his face once more, whispering:
'Don't tell me it is Frederick. I cannot bear it - I am too weak. And his mother is dying!'


He began to cry and wail like a child. It was so different to all which Margaret had hoped and expected, that she turned sick with disappointment, and was silent for an instant. Then she spoke again--very differently--not so exultingly, far more tenderly and carefully.

He began to cry like a child. It was so different to all that Margaret had hoped and expected, that she turned sick with disappointment. After a moment she spoke again very differently - not so exultingly, far more tenderly.


"Papa, it is Frederick! Think of mamma, how glad she will be! And oh, for her sake, how glad we ought to be! For his sake, too,--our poor, poor boy!"

'Papa, it is Frederick! Think of mamma, how glad she will be! And oh, for her sake, how glad we ought to be! For his sake, too!'


Her father did not change his attitude, but he seemed to be trying to understand the fact.


"Where is he?" asked he at last, his face still hidden in his prostrate arms.

With his face still hidden, he asked, 'Where is he?'


"In your study, quite alone. I lighted the taper, and ran up to tell you. He is quite alone, and will be wondering why--"

'In your study. He is quite alone, and will be wondering-'


"I will go to him," broke in her father; and he lifted himself up and leant on her arm as on that of a guide.

'I will go to him,' broke in her father; and he lifted himself up and leant on her arm as she led him to the study door.


Margaret led him to the study door, but her spirits were so agitated that she felt she could not bear to see the meeting. She turned away, and ran up stairs, and cried most heartily. It was the first time she had dared to allow herself this relief for days. The strain had been terrible, as she now felt. But Frederick was come! He, the one precious brother, was there, safe, amongst them again! She could hardly believe it. She stopped her crying, and opened her bedroom door. She heard no sound of voices, and almost feared she might have dreamt. She went down stairs, and listened at the study door. She heard the buzz of voices; and that was enough. She went into the kitchen, and stirred up the fire, and lighted the house, and prepared for the wanderer's refreshment. How fortunate it was that her mother slept! She knew that she did, from the candle-lighter thrust through the keyhole of her bedroom door. The traveller could be refreshed and bright, and the first excitement of the meeting with his father all be over, before her mother became aware of anything unusual.

Her spirits were so agitated that she could not bear to see the meeting. She ran upstairs, and cried most heartily: the first time she had dared to allow herself this relief for days. The strain had been terrible. But Frederick was come! He was there, safe, amongst them! She could hardly believe it.
She stopped crying, and opened her bedroom door. Hearing no sound, she went downstairs. She heard the buzz of voices through the study door; and that was enough. She went into the kitchen, and stirred up the fire, and prepared some food. How fortunate it was that her mother slept! The traveller could be refreshed and bright, and the first excitement of the meeting with his father be over, before her mother became aware of anything unusual.


When all was ready, Margaret opened the study door, and went in like a serving-maiden, with a heavy tray held in her extended arms. She was proud of serving Frederick. But he, when he saw her, sprang up in a minute, and relieved her of her burden. It was a type, a sign, of all the coming relief which his presence would bring. The brother and sister arranged the table together, saying little, but their hands touching, and their eyes speaking the natural language of expression, so intelligible to those of the same blood. The fire had gone out; and Margaret applied herself to light it, for the evenings had begun to be chilly; and yet it was desirable to make all noises as distant as possible from Mrs. Hale's room.

When all was ready, Margaret opened the study door, and went in with a heavy tray. Frederick sprang up, and relieved her of her burden. It was a sign of all the relief which his presence would bring. The brother and sister arranged the table together, saying little, but their hands touching, and their eyes meeting. The fire had gone out, so Margaret tried to light it, for the evenings were chilly.


"Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not an art to be acquired."

'Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not an art to be acquired.'


"Poeta nascitur, non fit," murmured Mr. Hale; and Margaret was glad to hear a quotation once more, however languidly given.


"Dear old Dixon! How we shall kiss each other!" said Frederick. "She used to kiss me, and then look in my face to be sure I was the right person, and then set to again! But, Margaret, what a bungler you are! I never saw such a little awkward, good-for-nothing pair of hands. Run away, and wash them, ready to cut bread-and-butter for me, and leave the fire. I'll manage it. Lighting fires is one of my natural accomplishments."

'Dear old Dixon!' said Frederick. 'She used to kiss me, and then look in my face to be sure I was the right person, and then set to again! But, Margaret, what a bungler you are! I never saw such an awkward little pair of hands. Run away and wash them, and leave the fire. I'll manage it. Lighting fires is one of my natural accomplishments.'


So Margaret went away; and returned; and passed in and out of the room, in a glad restlessness that could not be satisfied with sitting still. The more wants Frederick had, the better she was pleased; and he understood all this by instinct. It was a joy snatched in the house of mourning, and the zest of it was all the more pungent, because they knew in the depth of their hearts what irremediable sorrow awaited them.

So Margaret passed in and out of the room, in glad restlessness. The more wants Frederick had, the better she was pleased; and he understood this by instinct. It was a joy snatched in the house of mourning, and all the sharper because they knew what great sorrow awaited them.


In the middle, they heard Dixon's foot on the stairs. Mr. Hale started from his languid posture in his great arm-chair, from which he had been watching his children in a dreamy way, as if they were acting some drama of happiness, which it was pretty to look at, but which was distinct from reality, and in which he had no part. He stood up, and faced the door, showing such a strange, sudden anxiety to conceal Frederick from the sight of any person entering, even though it were the faithful Dixon, that a shiver came over Margaret's heart: it reminded her of the new fear in their lives. She caught at Frederick's arm, and clutched it tight, while a stern thought compressed her brow, and caused her to set her teeth. And yet they knew it was only Dixon's measured tread. They heard her walk the length of the passage,--into the kitchen. Margaret rose up.

They heard Dixon's foot on the stairs. Mr. Hale started up, and faced the door. He showed such a strange, sudden anxiety to conceal Frederick from the sight of anyone, even faithful Dixon, that a shiver came over Margaret's heart: it reminded her of the new fear in their lives. She caught at Frederick's arm. And yet they knew it was only Dixon's measured tread. They heard her walk into the kitchen, and Margaret rose up.


"I will go to her, and tell her. And I shall hear how mamma is." Mrs. Hale was awake. She rambled at first; but after they had given her some tea she was refreshed, though not disposed to talk. It was better that the night should pass over before she was told of her son's arrival. Dr. Donaldson's appointed visit would bring nervous excitement enough for the evening; and he might tell them how to prepare her for seeing Frederick. He was there, in the house; could be summoned at any moment.

'I will go and tell her, and hear how mamma is.'
Mrs. Hale was awake. She rambled at first. Although she was refreshed after they had given her some tea, it was better that the night should pass before she was told of her son's arrival. Dr. Donaldson's visit that evening would bring nervous excitement enough.


Margaret could not sit still. It was a relief to her to aid Dixon in all her preparations for "Master Frederick." It seemed as though she never could be tired again. Each glimpse into the room where he sate by his father, conversing with him, about, she knew not what, nor cared to know,--was increase of strength to her. Her own time for talking and hearing would come at last, and she was too certain of this to feel in a hurry to grasp it now. She took in his appearance and liked it. He had delicate features, redeemed from effeminacy by the swarthiness of his complexion, and his quick intensity of expression. His eyes were generally merry-looking, but at times they and his mouth so suddenly changed, and gave her such an idea of latent passion, that it almost made her afraid. But this look was only for an instant; and had in it no doggedness, no vindictiveness; it was rather the instantaneous ferocity of expression that comes over the countenances of all natives of wild or southern countries--a ferocity which enhances the charm of the childlike softness into which such a look may melt away. Margaret might fear the violence of the impulsive nature thus occasionally betrayed, but there was nothing in it to make her distrust, or recoil in the least, from the new-found brother. On the contrary, all their intercourse was peculiarly charming to her from the very first. She knew then how much responsibility she had had to bear, from the exquisite sensation of relief which she felt in Frederick's presence. He understood his father and mother--their characters and their weaknesses, and went along with a careless freedom, which was yet most delicately careful not to hurt or wound any of their feelings. He seemed to know instinctively when a little of the natural brilliancy of his manner and conversation would not jar on the deep depression of his father, or might relieve his mother's pain. Whenever it would have been out of tune, and out of time, his patient devotion and watchfulness came into play, and made him an admirable nurse. Then Margaret was almost touched into tears by the allusions which he often made to their childish days in the New Forest; he had never forgotten her--or Helstone either--all the time he had been roaming among distant countries and foreign people. She might talk to him of the old spot, and never feared tiring him. She had been afraid of him before he came, even while she had longed for his coming; seven or eight years had, she felt, produced such great changes in herself that, forgetting how much of the original Margaret was left, she had reasoned that if her tastes and feelings had so materially altered, even in her stay-at-home life, his wild career, with which she was but imperfectly acquainted, must have almost substituted another Frederick for the tall stripling in his middy's uniform, whom she remembered looking up to with such admiring awe. But in their absence they had grown nearer to each other in age, as well as in many other things. And so it was that the weight, this sorrowful time, was lightened to Margaret. Other light than that of Frederick's presence she had none. For a few hours, the mother rallied on seeing her son. She sate with his hand in hers; she would not part with it even while she slept; and Margaret had to feed him like a baby, rather than he should disturb her mother by removing a finger. Mrs. Hale wakened while they were thus engaged; she slowly moved her head round on the pillow, and smiled at her children, as she understood what they were doing, and why it was done.

Margaret could not sit still. It seemed as though she could never be tired again. Each glimpse into the room where Frederick sat talking with his father gave her strength. Her own time for talking and hearing would come later. She liked his appearance: he had delicate features under his swarthy complexion, and a quick intensity of expression. His eyes were generally merry-looking, but at times they and his mouth so suddenly changed, and gave her such an idea of latent passion, that it almost made her afraid. But this look was only for an instant; and though it betrayed an impulsive nature, there was nothing in it to make Margaret recoil.
On the contrary, all their talk was peculiarly charming to her from the very first. She knew then how much responsibility she had had to bear, from the relief she felt in Frederick's presence. He understood his father and mother's characters, and spoke with freedom, yet was most delicately careful not to hurt their feelings. He seemed to know instinctively when a little of the natural brilliancy of his manner would not jar on his father's deep depression, or might relieve his mother's pain. And his patient devotion and watchfulness made him an admirable nurse.
Margaret was almost touched into tears by the allusions which he often made to their childish days in the New Forest; he had never forgotten her - or Helstone - all the time he had been roaming among distant countries. She had been afraid before he came, even while she had longed for his coming; she felt that she herself had changed so much in seven or eight years that his wild career must have almost substituted another Frederick for the tall stripling in his midshipman's uniform, whom she remembered looking up to with such admiring awe. But they had grown nearer to each other in age, as well as in many other things.
And so it was that the weight of this sorrowful time was lightened to Margaret. Other light she had none. For a few hours, the mother rallied on seeing her son. She sat with his hand in hers; she would not part with it even while she slept; and Margaret had to feed him like a baby, rather than that he should disturb her mother by removing a finger. Mrs. Hale wakened while they were doing this; she slowly moved her head round on the pillow, and smiled at her children, as she understood what they were doing.


"I am very selfish," said she; "but it will not be for long." Frederick bent down and kissed the feeble hand that imprisoned his.

'I am very selfish,' said she; 'but it will not be for long.' Frederick bent down and kissed the feeble hand.


This state of tranquility could not endure for many days, nor perhaps for many hours; so Dr. Donaldson assured Margaret. After the kind doctor had gone away, she stole down to Frederick, who, during the visit, had been adjured to remain quietly concealed in the back parlour, usually Dixon's bedroom, but now given up to him.

This state of tranquillity could not endure for many days, nor perhaps for many hours; so Dr. Donaldson assured Margaret. After the kind doctor had gone away, she stole down to Frederick, who, during the visit, had remained concealed in the back parlour.


Margaret told him what Dr. Donaldson said.

She told him what Dr. Donaldson had said.


"I don't believe it," he exclaimed. "She is very ill; she may be dangerously ill, and in immediate danger, too; but I can't imagine that she could be as she is, if she were on the point of death. Margaret! she should have some other advice--some London doctor. Have you never thought of that?"

'I don't believe it,' he exclaimed. 'She is very ill; but I can't imagine that she is on the point of death. Margaret! she should have some other advice - some London doctor. Have you never thought of that?'


"Yes," said Margaret, "more than once. But I don't believe it would do any good. And, you know, we have not the money to bring any great London surgeon down, and I am sure Dr. Donaldson is only second in skill to the very best,--if, indeed, he is to them."

'Yes,' said Margaret, 'more than once. But I don't believe it would do any good. And, you know, we have not the money to bring any great London surgeon down, and I am sure Dr. Donaldson is only second in skill to the very best - if indeed, he is to them.'


Frederick began to walk up and down the room impatiently.

Frederick began to walk up and down impatiently.


"I have credit in Cadiz," said he, "but none here, owing to this wretched change of name. Why did my father leave Helstone? That was the blunder."

'I have credit in Cadiz,' said he, 'but none here. Why did my father leave Helstone? That was the blunder.'


"It was no blunder," said Margaret gloomily. "And above all possible chances, avoid letting papa hear anything like what you have just been saying. I can see that he is tormenting himself already with the idea that mamma would never have been ill if we had stayed at Helstone, and you don't know papa's agonising power of self-reproach!"

'It was no blunder,' said Margaret. 'And do not let papa hear you say that. He is tormenting himself already with the idea that mamma would never have been ill if we had stayed at Helstone, and you don't know papa's agonising power of self-reproach!'


Frederick walked away as if he were on the quarter-deck. At last he stopped right opposite to Margaret, and looked at her drooping and desponding attitude for an instant.

Frederick stopped opposite her as she stood drooping.


"My little Margaret!" said he, caressing her. "Let us hope as long as we can. Poor little woman! what! is this face all wet with tears? I will hope. I will, in spite of a thousand doctors. Bear up, Margaret, and be brave enough to hope!"

'My little Margaret!' said he, caressing her. 'Let us hope as long as we can. I will hope, in spite of a thousand doctors. Bear up, Margaret, and be brave enough to hope!'


Margaret choked in trying to speak, and when she did it was very low.


"I must try to be meek enough to trust. Oh, Frederick! mamma was getting to love me so! And I was getting to understand her. And now comes death to snap us asunder!"

'I must try to be meek enough to trust. Oh, Frederick! mamma was getting to love me so! And I was getting to understand her. And now comes death to snap us asunder!'


"Come, come, come! Let us go upstairs, and do something, rather than waste time that may be so precious. Thinking has, many a time, made me sad, darling; but doing never did in all my life. My theory is a sort of parody on the maxim of 'Get money, my son, honestly if you can; but get money.' My precept is, 'Do something my sister, do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something.'"

'Come, come! Let us go upstairs, and do something, rather than waste time that may be so precious. Thinking has often made me sad, darling; but doing never did. My motto is, "Do something, do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something."'


"Not excluding mischief," said Margaret, smiling faintly through her tears.

'Not excluding mischief,' said Margaret, smiling faintly through her tears.


"By no means. What I do exclude is the remorse afterwards. Blot your misdeeds out (if you are particularly conscientious), by a good deed, as soon as you can; just as we did a correct sum at school on the slate, where an incorrect one was only half rubbed out. It was better than wetting our sponge with our tears; both less loss of time where tears had to be waited for, and a better effect at last."

'By no means. What I do exclude is remorse afterwards. Blot your misdeeds out by a good deed, as soon as you can; just as at school we did a correct sum on the slate, over an incorrect one.'


If Margaret thought Frederick's theory rather a rough one at first, she saw how he worked it out into continual production of kindness in fact. After a bad night with his mother (for he insisted on taking his turn as a sitter-up) he was busy next morning before breakfast, contriving a leg-rest for Dixon, who was beginning to feel the fatigues of watching. At breakfast-time, he interested Mr. Hale with vivid, graphic, rattling accounts of the wild life he had led in Mexico, South America, and elsewhere. Margaret would have given up the effort in despair to rouse Mr. Hale out of his dejection; it would even have affected herself and rendered her incapable of talking at all. But Fred, true to his theory, did something perpetually; and talking was the only thing to be done, besides eating, at breakfast.

If Margaret thought Frederick's theory rather a rough one at first, she saw how he carried it out. After a bad night with his mother, he was busy next morning before breakfast, allowing some rest for Dixon, who was beginning to feel the fatigues of watching. At breakfast-time, he interested Mr. Hale with vivid, rattling accounts of the wild life he had led in Mexico and South America. Margaret would have despaired of rousing Mr. Hale out of his dejection; but Fred, true to his theory, did something perpetually; and talking was the only thing to be done, besides eating, at breakfast.


Before the night of that day, Dr. Donaldson's opinion was proved to be too well founded. Convulsions came on; and when they ceased, Mrs. Hale was unconscious. Her husband might lie by her shaking the bed with his sobs; her son's strong arms might lift her tenderly up into a comfortable position; her daughter's hands might bathe her face; but she knew them not. She would never recognise them again, till they met in Heaven.

Before the end of that day, Dr. Donaldson's opinion was proved to be too well founded. Convulsions came on; and when they ceased, Mrs. Hale was unconscious. Her husband might lie by her shaking the bed with his sobs; her son's strong arms might lift her tenderly into a comfortable position; her daughter might bathe her face; but she knew them not. She would never recognise them again, till they met in Heaven.


Then Margaret rose from her trembling and despondency, and became as a strong angel of comfort to her father and brother. For Frederick had broken down now, and all his theories were of no use to him. He cried so violently when shut up in his little room at night, that Margaret and Dixon came down in affright to warn him to be quiet: for the house partitions were but thin, and the next door neighbours might easily hear his youthful passionate sobs, so different from the slower trembling agony of after-life, when we become inured to grief, and dare not be rebellious against the inexorable doom, knowing who it is that decrees.

Then Margaret rose from her despondency, and became as a strong angel of comfort to her father and brother. For Frederick broke down now, and all his theories were of no use to him. He cried so violently in his little room at night, that Margaret and Dixon came down to warn him to be quiet: for the walls were thin, and the next-door neighbours might easily hear his passionate sobs.


Margaret sate with her father in the room of the dead. If he had cried, she would have been thankful. But he sate by the bed quite quietly; only, from time to time, he uncovered the face, and stroked it gently, making a kind of soft inarticulate noise, like that of some mother-animal caressing her young. He took no notice of Margaret's presence. Once or twice she came up to kiss him; and he submitted to it, giving her a little push away when she had done, as if her affection disturbed him from his absorption in the dead. He started when he heard Frederick's cries, and shook his head:--"Poor boy! poor boy!" he said, and then took no more notice. Margaret's heart ached within her. She could not think of her own loss in thinking of her father's case. The night was wearing away, and the day was at hand, when, without a word of preparation, Margaret's voice broke upon the stillness of the room, with a clearness of sound that startled even herself: "Let not your heart be troubled," it said; and she went steadily on through all that chapter of unspeakable consolation.

Margaret sat with her father in the room with the dead. From time to time, he uncovered the face, and stroked it gently, making a kind of soft inarticulate noise, like that of some mother-animal caressing her young. He took no notice of Margaret's presence. Once or twice she kissed him; and he submitted, giving her a little push away when she had done, as if it disturbed him from his absorption in the dead. On hearing Frederick's cries, he shook his head. 'Poor boy!' he said, and took no more notice.
Margaret's heart ached. She could not think of her own loss in attending to her father. The night was wearing away, and the day was at hand, when her voice broke upon the stillness of the room, with a clearness that startled even herself:
'Let not your heart be troubled,' it said; and she went steadily on through all that chapter of unspeakable consolation.


"Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it, And one or two poor melancholy pleasures, Each in the pale unwarming light of hope, Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by-- Moths in the moonbeam!" COLERIDGE.


The next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith. It was affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection was charming to Margaret's own affectionate nature; and she had grown up with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It was as follows:--

The next morning brought a letter from Edith. It was affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection was charming to Margaret; and she had grown up with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It was as follows:


"Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see my boy! He is a superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially in the one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered, persevering little lady! Having made all the mothers here envious, I want to show him to somebody new, and hear a fresh set of admiring expressions; perhaps, that's all the reason; perhaps it is not--nay, possibly, there is just a little cousinly love mixed with it; but I do want you so much to come here, Margaret! I'm sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale's health; everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue, and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from morning till night; and, to come back to the burden of my ditty, my baby always smiles. I am constantly wanting you to draw him from me, Margaret. It does not signify what he is doing; that very thing is prettiest, gracefullest, best. I think I love him a great deal better than my husband, who is getting stout, and grumpy--what he calls 'busy.' No! he is not. He has just come in with news of such a charming pic-nic, given by the officers of the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because he has brought in such a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just now. Did not somebody burn his hand for having said or done something he was sorry for? Well, I can't burn mine, because it would hurt me, and the scar would be ugly; but I'll retract all I said as fast as I can. Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as ungrumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes he is very, very busy. I may say that without love--wifely duty--- where was I?--I had something very particular to say, I know, once. Oh, it is this--Dearest Margaret!--you must come and see me; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I said before. Get the doctor to order it for her. Tell him that it's the smoke of Milton that does her harm. I have no doubt it is that, really. Three months (you must not come for less) of this delicious climate--all sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her. I don't ask my uncle"--(Here the letter became more constrained, and better written. Mr. Hale was in the corner, like a naughty child, for having given up his living.)--"because, I dare say, he disapproves of war, soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he would not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I'll hide up Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things; or, if they do play pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow time. Dear Margaret, if he would like to accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try and make it pleasant, though I'm rather afraid of any one who has done anything for conscience' sake. You never did, I hope. Tell Aunt Hale not to bring any warm clothes, though I'm afraid it will be late in the year before you can come. But you have no idea of the heat here! I tried to wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept myself up with proverbs as long as I could; 'Pride must abide,'--and such wholesome pieces of pith; but it was no use. I was like mamma's little dog Tiny with an elephant's trappings on; smothered, hidden, killed with my finery; so I made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit down upon. Here's this boy of mine, Margaret--if you don't pack up your things as soon as you get this letter, and come straight off to see him, I shall think you're descended from King Herod!"

'Oh, Margaret, you should see my boy! He is a superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially in the one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered little lady! Having made all the mothers here envious, I want to show him to somebody new - I do want you so much to come here, Margaret! I'm sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale's health; everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue, and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from morning till night; and my baby always smiles. I think I love him a great deal better than my husband, who is getting stout, and grumpy - what he calls "busy." No! he is not. He has just come in with news of a charming picnic, given by the officers of the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below; so I retract all I said just now. Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as un-grumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes he is very busy.
'Where was I? Oh, yes - Dearest Margaret! - you must come and see me. Get the doctor to order it for your mother. Tell him that it's the smoke of Milton that does her harm. This delicious climate - all sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her. I don't ask my uncle, because I dare say he disapproves of war, and soldiers, and military bands; but if he would like to come, Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I'll hide Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things in double slow time. Tell Aunt Hale not to bring many warm clothes. You have no idea of the heat here! I tried to wear my great Indian shawl at a picnic, but I was like mamma's little dog Tiny with an elephant's trappings on, smothered with my finery; so I made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit upon. Pack up your things as soon as you get this letter, and come straight off to see us!'


Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life--her freedom from care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have transported her, she would have gone off; just for one day. She yearned for the strength which such a change would give--even for a few hours to be in the midst of that bright life, and to feel young again. Not yet twenty! and she had had to bear up against such hard pressure that she felt quite old. That was her first feeling after reading Edith's letter. Then she read it again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to Edith's self, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the drawing-room, leaning on Dixon's arm. Margaret flew to adjust the pillows. Her mother seemed more than usually feeble.

Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life - her freedom from care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have transported her, she would have gone off, just for one day. She yearned for the strength which such a change would give - even for a few hours in the midst of that bright life, to feel young again. Not yet twenty! She felt quite old. Then she read Edith's letter again, and, forgetting herself, was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the drawing-room, leaning feebly on Dixon's arm.


"What were you laughing at, Margaret?" asked she, as soon as she had recovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.

'What were you laughing at, Margaret?' asked she.


"A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I read it to you, mamma?"


She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her mother, who kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy, and suggesting all probable names, and all possible reasons why each and all of these names should be given. Into the very midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came, bringing another offering of fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not--say rather, he would not--deny himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing Margaret. He had no end in this but the present gratification. It was the sturdy wilfulness of a man usually most reasonable and self-controlled. He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of Margaret's presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he never seemed to let his eyes fall on her again. He only stayed to present his peaches--to speak some gentle kindly words--and then his cold offended eyes met Margaret's with a grave farewell, as he left the room. She sat down silent and pale.

She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her mother, who kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy.
Into the midst of these wonders Mr. Thornton came, bringing more fruit for Mrs. Hale. He could not - or would not - deny himself the chance of the pleasure of seeing Margaret. It was the sturdy wilfulness of a man usually reasonable and self-controlled.
He entered the room, taking in at a glance the fact of Margaret's presence; but after the first cold distant bow, he did not look at her. He only stayed to present his peaches - to speak some gentle kindly words - and then his cold offended eyes met Margaret's with a grave farewell, as he left the room. She sat down silent and pale.


"Do you know, Margaret, I really begin to like Mr. Thornton."

'Do you know, Margaret, I really begin quite to like Mr. Thornton.'


No answer at first. Then Margaret forced out an icy "Do you?"


"Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his manners."

'Yes! I think he is really getting quite polished in his manners.'


Margaret's voice was more in order now. She replied,


"He is very kind and attentive--there is no doubt of that."


"I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill, because of the water-bed."

'I wonder Mrs. Thornton never calls. She must know I am ill, because of the water-bed.


"I dare say, she hears how you are from her son."


"Still, I should like to see her. You have so few friends here, Margaret."

I should like to see her. You have so few friends here, Margaret.'


Margaret felt what was in her mother's thoughts--a tender craving to bespeak the kindness of some woman towards the daughter that might soon be left motherless. But she could not speak.

Margaret felt what was in her mother's thoughts - a craving to ask for the kindness of some woman towards the daughter that might so soon be motherless. She could not speak.


"Do you think," said Mrs. Hale, after a pause, "that you could go and ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me? Only once--I don't want to be troublesome."

'Do you think,' said Mrs. Hale, 'that you could go and ask Mrs. Thornton to come and see me? Only once. I don't want to be troublesome.'


"I will do anything, if you wish it, mamma--but if--but when Frederick comes----"

'If you wish it, mamma - but when Frederick comes-'


"Ah, to be sure! we must keep our doors shut--we must let no one in. I hardly know whether I dare wish him to come or not. Sometimes I think I would rather not. Sometimes I have such frightful dreams about him."

'Ah, to be sure! we must let no one in. I hardly know whether I wish him to come or not. Sometimes I have such frightful dreams about him.'


"Oh, mamma! we'll take good care. I will put my arm in the bolt sooner than he should come to the slightest harm. Trust the care of him to me, mamma. I will watch over him like a lioness over her young."

'Oh, mamma! we'll take good care. Trust me; I will watch over him like a lioness over her young.'


"Not for a week yet, certainly--perhaps more."


"We must send Martha away in good time. It would never do to have her here when he comes, and then send her off in a hurry."

'We must send Martha away in good time.'


"Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that, if we wanted any help in the house while he is here, we could perhaps get Mary Higgins. She is very slack of work, and is a good girl, and would take pains to do her best, I am sure, and would sleep at home, and need never come upstairs, so as to know who is in the house."

'Dixon is sure to remind us of that. I was thinking that if we wanted any help in the house while he is here, we could perhaps get Mary Higgins. She is very slack of work, and is a good girl, and would do her best, I am sure, and would sleep at home, and need never come upstairs.'


"As you please. As Dixon pleases. But, Margaret, don't get to use these horrid Milton words. 'Slack of work:' it is a provincialism. What will your aunt Shaw say, if she hears you use it on her return?"

'As you and Dixon please. But, Margaret, don't use these horrid Milton words. "Slack of work!" What will your aunt Shaw say, if she hears you on her return?'


"Oh, mamma! don't try and make a bugbear of aunt Shaw," said Margaret, laughing. "Edith picked up all sorts of military slang from Captain Lennox, and aunt Shaw never took any notice of it."

'Oh, mamma!' said Margaret, laughing. 'Edith picked up all sorts of military slang from Captain Lennox, and aunt Shaw never took any notice.'


"And if I live in a factory town, I must speak factory language when I want it. Why, mamma, I could astonish you with a great many words you never heard in your life. I don't believe you know what a knobstick is."

'I live in a factory town. Why, mamma, I could astonish you with a great many words you never heard in your life. Do you know what a knobstick is? It means a strike-breaker.'


"Not I, child. I only know it has a very vulgar sound; and I don't want to hear you using it."

'I don't want to hear you using such words.


"Very well, dearest mother, I won't. Only I shall have to use a whole explanatory sentence instead."


"I don't like this Milton," said Mrs. Hale. "Edith is right enough in saying it's the smoke that has made me so ill."

I don't like this Milton,' said Mrs. Hale. 'Edith is right enough in saying it's the smoke that has made me so ill.'


Margaret started up as her mother said this. Her father had just entered the room, and she was most anxious that the faint impression she had seen on his mind that the Milton air had injured her mother's health, should not be deepened--should not receive any confirmation. She could not tell whether he had heard what Mrs. Hale had said or not; but she began speaking hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton was following him.

Margaret started up as her mother said this. Her father had just entered the room, and she was most anxious that he should not hear. She began speaking hurriedly of other things, unaware that Mr. Thornton was following him.


"Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of vulgarity since we came to Milton."

'Mamma is accusing me of having picked up a great deal of vulgarity since we came to Milton.'


The "vulgarity" Margaret spoke of, referred purely to the use of local words, and the expression arose out of the conversation they had just been holding. But Mr. Thornton's brow darkened; and Margaret suddenly felt how her speech might be misunderstood by him; so, in the natural sweet desire to avoid giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to go forwards with a little greeting, and continue what she was saying, addressing herself to him expressly.

By 'vulgarity' Margaret referred purely to the use of local words. But Mr. Thornton's brow darkened; and Margaret suddenly felt she might be misunderstood by him; so, in the natural sweet desire to avoid giving unnecessary pain, she forced herself to go forwards with a little greeting, and continue what she was saying.


"Now, Mr. Thornton, though 'knobstick' has not a very pretty sound, is it not expressive? Could I do without it, in speaking of the thing it represents? If using local words is vulgar, I was very vulgar in the Forest,--was I not, mamma?"

'Now, Mr. Thornton, though "knobstick" has not a very pretty sound, is it not expressive? If using local words is vulgar, I was very vulgar in the Forest - was I not, mamma?'


It was unusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject of conversation on others; but, in this case, she was so anxious to prevent Mr. Thornton from feeling annoyance at the words he had accidentally overheard, that it was not until she had done speaking that she coloured all over with consciousness, more especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to understand the exact gist or bearing of what she was saying, but passed her by, with a cold reserve of ceremonious movement, to speak to Mrs. Hale.

It was unusual with Margaret to obtrude her own subject of conversation on others; but, in this case, she was so anxious to prevent Mr. Thornton from feeling annoyed at her words, that after speaking she coloured all over; especially as Mr. Thornton seemed hardly to understand what she was saying, but passed her by, with a cold ceremonious movement, to speak to Mrs. Hale.


The sight of him reminded her of the wish to see his mother, and commend Margaret to her care. Margaret, sitting in burning silence, vexed and ashamed of her difficulty in keeping her right place, and her calm unconsciousness of heart, when Mr. Thornton was by, heard her mother's slow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her; see her soon; to-morrow, if it were possible. Mr. Thornton promised that she should--conversed a little, and then took his leave; and Margaret's movements and voice seemed at once released from some invisible chains. He never looked at her; and yet, the careful avoidance of his eyes betokened that in some way he knew exactly where, if they fell by chance, they would rest on her. If she spoke, he gave no sign of attention, and yet his next speech to any one else was modified by what she had said; sometimes there was an express answer to what she had remarked, but given to another person as though unsuggested by her. It was not the bad manners of ignorance; it was the wilful bad manners arising from deep offence. It was wilful at the time; repented of afterwards. But no deep plan, no careful cunning could have stood him in such good stead. Margaret thought about him more than she had ever done before; not with any tinge of what is called love, but with regret that she had wounded him so deeply,--and with a gentle, patient striving to return to their former position of antagonistic friendship; for a friend's position was what she found that he had held in her regard, as well as in that of the rest of the family. There was a pretty humility in her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for the over-strong words which were the reaction from the deeds of the day of the riot.

Margaret, sitting in burning silence, was vexed and ashamed of her difficulty in keeping calm when Mr. Thornton was by. She heard her mother's slow entreaty that Mrs. Thornton would come and see her soon; tomorrow, if possible. Mr. Thornton promised that she should - conversed a little, and then left; and Margaret's movements and voice seemed at once released from invisible chains.
He never looked at her; and yet the careful avoidance of his eyes showed that he knew exactly where she was. If she spoke, he gave no sign of attention, and yet his next speech to anyone else was modified by what she had said; sometimes with an answer to what she had remarked, but given to another person. It was not the bad manners of ignorance; it was the wilful bad manners arising from deep offence. He repented of it afterwards.
But no deep plan, no careful cunning could have stood him in such good stead. Margaret thought about him more than she had ever done before; not with any love, but with regret that she had wounded him so deeply; and with a gentle, patient striving to return to their former position of antagonistic friendship. There was a pretty humility in her behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising for the over-strong words which had been the reaction from the day of the riot.


But he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his ears; and he was proud of the sense of justice which made him go in every kindness he could offer to her parents. He exulted in the power he showed in compelling himself to face her, whenever he could think of any action which might give her father or mother pleasure. He thought that he disliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was mistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and feel her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives and was mistaken, as I have said.

But he resented those words bitterly. They rung in his ears; and he was proud of the sense of justice which made him offer every kindness he could to her parents. He exulted in the power he showed in compelling himself to face her. He thought that he disliked seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was mistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and feel her presence. But he was no great analyser of his own motives.


"Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high; Bravely, as for life and death-- With a loyal gravity.

Chapter 3: "THE MORE HASTE THE WORSE SPEED"


Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, by your truthful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries." MRS. BROWNING.


"Mr. Henry Lennox." Margaret had been thinking of him only a moment before, and remembering his inquiry into her probable occupations at home. It was "parler du soleil et l'on en voit les rayons;" and the brightness of the sun came over Margaret's face as she put down her board, and went forward to shake hands with him. "Tell mamma, Sarah," said she. "Mamma and I want to ask you so many questions about Edith; I am so much obliged to you for coming."

Margaret had been thinking of him only a moment before. Her face brightened as she put down her board, and went forward to shake hands with him.
'Mamma and I want to ask you about Edith; I am so obliged to you for coming,' she said.


"Did not I say that I should?" asked he, in a lower tone than that in which he had spoken.

'Did not I say that I should?' asked he, in a low tone.


"But I heard of you so far away in the Highlands that I never thought Hampshire could come in."

'But I heard of you far away in the Highlands.'


"Oh!" said he, more lightly, "our young couple were playing such foolish pranks, running all sorts of risks, climbing this mountain, sailing on that lake, that I really thought they needed a Mentor to take care of them. And indeed they did: they were quite beyond my uncle's management, and kept the old gentleman in a panic for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four. Indeed, when I once saw how unfit they were to be trusted alone, I thought it my duty not to leave them till I had seen them safely embarked at Plymouth."

'Oh!' said he, more lightly, 'our young couple were playing such foolish pranks, running all sorts of risks, climbing this mountain, sailing on that lake, that I really thought they needed a mentor to take care of them. They were quite beyond my uncle's management, and kept the old gentleman in a panic. I thought it my duty not to leave them till I had seen them safely embarked at Plymouth.'


"Have you been at Plymouth? Oh! Edith never named that. To be sure, she has written in such a hurry lately. Did they really sail on Tuesday?"

'Edith never mentioned that. To be sure, she has written in such a hurry lately. Did they really sail on Tuesday?'


"Really sailed, and relieved me from many responsibilities. Edith gave me all sorts of messages for you. I believe I have a little diminutive note somewhere; yes, here it is."

'Yes. Edith gave me all sorts of messages for you. I believe I have a little note somewhere; here it is.'


"Oh! thank you," exclaimed Margaret; and then, half wishing to read it alone and unwatched, she made the excuse of going to tell her mother again (Sarah surely had made some mistake) that Mr. Lennox was there.

'Thank you,' exclaimed Margaret; and then, wishing to read it alone and unwatched, she made the excuse of going to tell her mother that Mr. Lennox was there.


When she had left the room, he began in his scrutinising way to look about him. The little drawing-room was looking its best in the streaming light of the morning sun. The middle window in the bow was opened, and clustering roses and the scarlet honeysuckle came peeping round the corner; the small lawn was gorgeous with verbenas and geraniums of all bright colours. But the very brightness outside made the colours within seem poor and faded. The carpet was far from new; the chintz had been often washed; the whole apartment was smaller and shabbier than he had expected, as back-ground and frame-work for Margaret, herself so queenly. He took up one of the books lying on the table; it was the Paradise of Dante, in the proper old Italian binding of white vellum and gold; by it lay a dictionary, and some words copied out in Margaret's handwriting. They were a dull list of words, but somehow he liked looking at them. He put them down with a sigh.

When she had left him, he began to scrutinise the little drawing-room. It was looking its best in the streaming light of the morning sun. The window was open, and clustering roses and honeysuckle came peeping round the corner; the small lawn was gorgeous with verbenas and bright geraniums. But the very brightness outside made the colours within seem poor and faded. The room was smaller and shabbier than he had expected as a background for Margaret, herself so queenly.
He took up one of the books lying on the table; it was the Paradiso of Dante. By it lay a dictionary, and some words copied out in Margaret's hand-writing. They made a dull list, but somehow he liked looking at them. He put them down with a sigh.


"The living is evidently as small as she said. It seems strange, for the Beresfords belong to a good family."


Margaret meanwhile had found her mother. It was one of Mrs. Hale's fitful days, when everything was a difficulty and a hardship: and Mr. Lennox's appearance took this shape, although secretly she felt complimented by his thinking it worth while to call.

Margaret meanwhile had found her mother. It was one of Mrs. Hale's fitful days, when everything was a difficulty; including Mr. Lennox's visit, although secretly she felt complimented by his calling.


"It is most unfortunate! We are dining early to-day, and having nothing but cold meat, in order that the servants may get on with their ironing; and yet, of course, we must ask him to dinner--Edith's brother-in-law and all. And your papa is in such low spirits this morning about something--I don't know what. I went into the study just now, and he had his face on the table, covering it with his hands. I told him I was sure Helstone air did not agree with him any more than with me, and he suddenly lifted up his head, and begged me not to speak a word more against Helstone, he could not bear it; if there was one place he loved on earth it was Helstone. But I am sure, for all that, it is the damp and relaxing air."

'It is most unfortunate! We have nothing but cold meat, and yet, of course, we must ask him to dinner. And your papa is in such low spirits this morning - I don't know why. I went into the study just now, and he had his face in his hands. I told him I was sure Helstone air did not agree with him, and he suddenly lifted up his head, and begged me not to speak a word more against Helstone, he could not bear it; if there was one place he loved on earth it was Helstone. But I am sure it is the damp air.'


Margaret felt as if a thin cold cloud had come between her and the sun. She had listened patiently, in hopes that it might be some relief to her mother to unburden herself; but now it was time to draw her back to Mr. Lennox.

Margaret felt as if a thin cold cloud had come between her and the sun. She drew her mother back to the subject of Mr. Lennox.


"Papa likes Mr. Lennox; they got on together famously at the wedding breakfast. I daresay his coming will do papa good. And never mind the dinner, dear mamma. Cold meat will do capitally for a lunch, which is the light in which Mr. Lennox will most likely look upon a two o'clock dinner."

'Papa likes Mr. Lennox; they got on together famously at the wedding. His coming will do papa good. And never mind dinner, dear mamma. Cold meat will do capitally for lunch.'


"But what are we to do with him till then? It is only half-past ten now."

'But what are we to do with him till then? It is only half-past ten.'


"I'll ask him to go out sketching with me. I know he draws, and that will take him out of your way, mamma. Only do come in now; he will think it so strange if you don't."

'I'll ask him to go out sketching with me. That will take him out of your way, mamma. Only do come in now; he will think it strange if you don't.'


Mrs. Hale took off her black silk apron, and smoothed her face. She looked a very pretty lady-like woman, as she greeted Mr. Lennox with the cordiality due to one who was almost a relation. He evidently expected to be asked to spend the day, and accepted the invitation with a glad readiness that made Mrs. Hale wish she could add something to the cold beef. He was pleased with everything; delighted with Margaret's idea of going out sketching together; would not have Mr. Hale disturbed for the world, with the prospect of so soon meeting him at dinner. Margaret brought out her drawing materials for him to choose from; and after the paper and brushes had been duly selected, the two set out in the merriest spirits in the world.

Mrs. Hale took off her black silk apron, and smoothed her face. She looked a very pretty lady-like woman, as she greeted Mr. Lennox cordially. He accepted the invitation to lunch with a glad readiness that made Mrs. Hale wish she could add something to the cold beef. He was delighted with Margaret's idea of going sketching together. She brought out her drawing materials, and the two set out in merry spirits.


"Now, please, just stop here for a minute or two," said Margaret. "These are the cottages that haunted me so during the rainy fortnight, reproaching me for not having sketched them."

'Now, please, just stop here for a minute,' said Margaret. 'These are the cottages that haunted me so during the rainy fortnight, reproaching me for not having sketched them.'


"Before they tumbled down and were no more seen. Truly, if they are to be sketched--and they are very picturesque--we had better not put it off till next year. But where shall we sit?"

'Before they tumbled down. Truly, if they are to be sketched - and they are very picturesque - we had better not put it off till next year. But where shall we sit?'


"Oh! You might have come straight from chambers in the Temple, instead of having been two months in the Highlands! Look at this beautiful trunk of a tree, which the woodcutters have left just in the right place for the light. I will put my plaid over it, and it will be a regular forest throne."

'Oh! On this beautiful tree trunk. I will put my shawl over it, and it will be a regular forest throne.'


"With your feet in that puddle for a regal footstool! Stay, I will move, and then you can come nearer this way. Who lives in these cottages?"

'With your feet in that puddle for a regal footstool! Who lives in these cottages?'


"They were built by squatters fifty or sixty years ago. One is uninhabited; the foresters are going to take it down, as soon as the other is dead, poor old fellow! Look--there he is--I must go and speak to him. He is so deaf you will hear all our secrets."

'One is uninhabited,' said she; 'the foresters are going to take it down, as soon as the old man who lives in the other is dead, poor old fellow! Look - there he is - I must go and speak to him.'


The old man stood bareheaded in the sun, leaning on his stick at the front of his cottage. His stiff features relaxed into a slow smile as Margaret went up and spoke to him. Mr. Lennox hastily introduced the two figures into his sketch, and finished up the landscape with a subordinate reference to them--as Margaret perceived, when the time came for getting up, putting away water, and scraps of paper, and exhibiting to each other their sketches. She laughed and blushed: Mr. Lennox watched her countenance.

The old man stood bareheaded in the sun, leaning on his stick in front of his cottage. His stiff features relaxed into a slow smile as Margaret went up to him. Mr. Lennox hastily added the two figures to his sketch - as Margaret perceived later, when they were putting away the paints. She laughed and blushed.


"Now, I call that treacherous," said she. "I little thought that you were making old Isaac and me into subjects, when you told me to ask him the history of these cottages."

'Now, I call that treacherous,' said she. 'I little thought you were drawing old Isaac and me.'


"It was irresistible. You can't know how strong a temptation it was. I hardly dare tell you how much I shall like this sketch."

'It was irresistible. You can't know how strong a temptation it was. I hardly dare tell you how much I shall like this sketch.'


He was not quite sure whether she heard this latter sentence before she went to the brook to wash her palette. She came back rather flushed, but looking perfectly innocent and unconscious. He was glad of it, for the speech had slipped from him unawares--a rare thing in the case of a man who premeditated his actions so much as Henry Lennox.

He was not quite sure whether she heard this latter sentence before she went to the brook to wash her palette. She came back rather flushed, but looking perfectly unconscious. He was glad of it, for the speech had slipped from him unawares - a rare thing in his case.


The aspect of home was all right and bright when they reached it. The clouds on her mother's brow had cleared off under the propitious influence of a brace of carp, most opportunely presented by a neighbour. Mr. Hale had returned from his morning's round, and was awaiting his visitor just outside the wicket gate that led into the garden. He looked a complete gentleman in his rather threadbare coat and well-worn hat. Margaret was proud of her father; she had always a fresh and tender pride in seeing how favourably he impressed every stranger; still her quick eye sought over his face and found there traces of some unusual disturbance, which was only put aside, not cleared away.

When they reached home, the clouds on her mother's brow had cleared under the lucky influence of a brace of carp, most opportunely presented by a neighbour. Mr. Hale had returned from his morning's round, and was waiting by the garden gate. He looked a complete gentleman in his rather threadbare coat and well-worn hat.
Margaret was proud of her father; she had always a tender pride in seeing how favourably he impressed every stranger. Still her quick eye sought his face and found there traces of some unusual disturbance.


Mr. Hale asked to look at their sketches.


"I think you have made the tints on the thatch too dark, have you not?" as he returned Margaret's to her, and held out his hand for Mr. Lennox's, which was withheld from him one moment, no more.

'I think you have made the tints on the thatch too dark, have you not?' He returned Margaret's to her, and held out his hand for Mr. Lennox's.


"No, papa! I don't think I have. The house-leek and stone-crop have grown so much darker in the rain. Is it not like, papa?" said she, peeping over his shoulder, as he looked at the figures in Mr. Lennox's drawing.

'No, papa! I don't think I have. It is so much darker in the rain. Is that not like, papa?' said she, peeping over his shoulder, as he looked at the figures in Mr. Lennox's drawing.


"Yes, very like. Your figure and way of holding yourself is capital. And it is just poor old Isaac's stiff way of stooping his long rheumatic back. What is this hanging from the branch of the tree? Not a bird's nest, surely."

'Yes, very like. Your way of holding yourself is capital. And it is just like poor old Isaac. What is this hanging from the branch of the tree? Not a bird's nest, surely.'


"Oh no! that is my bonnet. I never can draw with my bonnet on; it makes my head so hot. I wonder if I could manage figures. There are so many people about here whom I should like to sketch."

'Oh no! that is my bonnet. I wonder if I could manage figures. There are so many people about here whom I should like to sketch.'


"I should say that a likeness you very much wish to take you would always succeed in," said Mr. Lennox. "I have great faith in the power of will. I think myself I have succeeded pretty well in yours." Mr. Hale had preceded them into the house, while Margaret was lingering to pluck some roses, with which to adorn her morning gown for dinner.

'I should say you would succeed,' said Mr. Lennox. 'I think myself I have succeeded pretty well in yours.' Mr. Hale had gone into the house, while Margaret was lingering to pluck some roses.


"A regular London girl would understand the implied meaning of that speech," thought Mr. Lennox. "She would be up to looking through every speech that a young man made her for the arrire-pense of a compliment. But I don't believe Margaret,--Stay!" exclaimed he, "Let me help you;" and he gathered for her some velvety cramoisy roses that were above her reach, and then dividing the spoil he placed two in his button-hole, and sent her in, pleased and happy, to arrange her flowers.

'A regular London girl would understand the implied meaning of that speech,' thought Mr. Lennox. 'She would look through every speech a young man made her for a compliment. But I don't believe - stay!' exclaimed he. 'Let me help you.' He gathered some velvety roses that were above her reach, and sent her in, pleased and happy, to arrange her flowers.


The conversation at dinner flowed on quietly and agreeably. There were plenty of questions to be asked on both sides--the latest intelligence which each could give of Mrs. Shaw's movements in Italy to be exchanged; and in the interest of what was said, the unpretending simplicity of the parsonage-ways--above all in the neighbourhood of Margaret, Mr. Lennox forgot the little feeling of disappointment with which he had at first perceived that she had spoken but the simple truth when she had described her father's living as very small.

The conversation at dinner flowed on quietly and agreeably. There was the latest news of Mrs. Shaw in Italy to be exchanged; and in the unpretending simplicity of the parsonage-ways, Mr. Lennox forgot his first feeling on finding her father's living was so small.


"Margaret, my child, you might have gathered us some pears for our dessert," said Mr. Hale, as the hospitable luxury of a freshly-decanted bottle of wine was placed on the table.

'Margaret, my child, you might have gathered us some pears for our dessert,' said Mr. Hale.


Mrs. Hale was hurried. It seemed as if desserts were impromptu and unusual things at the parsonage; whereas, if Mr. Hale would only have looked behind him, he would have seen biscuits and marmalade, and what not, all arranged in formal order on the side-board. But the idea of pears had taken possession of Mr. Hale's mind, and was not to be got rid of.


"There are a few brown beurrs against the south wall which are worth all foreign fruits and preserves. Run, Margaret, and gather some."

'There are a few brown beurres against the south wall. Run and gather us some.'


"I propose that we adjourn into the garden, and eat them there," said Mr. Lennox. "Nothing is so delicious as to set one's teeth into the crisp, juicy fruit, warm and scented by the sun. The worst is, the wasps are impudent enough to dispute it with one, even at the very crisis and summit of enjoyment."

'I propose that we adjourn into the garden, and eat them there,' said Mr. Lennox. 'Nothing is so delicious as the crisp, juicy fruit, scented by the sun. The worst is, the wasps are impudent enough to dispute it.'


He rose, as if to follow Margaret, who had disappeared through the window: he only awaited Mrs. Hale's permission. She would rather have wound up the dinner in the proper way, and with all the ceremonies which had gone on so smoothly hitherto, especially as she and Dixon had got out the finger-glasses from the store-room on purpose to be as correct as became General Shaw's widow's sister; but as Mr. Hale got up directly, and prepared to accompany his guest, she could only submit.


"I shall arm myself with a knife," said Mr. Hale: "the days of eating fruit so primitively as you describe are over with me. I must pare it and quarter it before I can enjoy it."


Margaret made a plate for the pears out of a beet-root leaf, which threw up their brown gold colour admirably. Mr. Lennox looked more at her than at the pears; but her father, inclined to cull fastidiously the very zest and perfection of the hour he had stolen from his anxiety, chose daintily the ripest fruit, and sat down on the garden bench to enjoy it at his leisure. Margaret and Mr. Lennox strolled along the little terrace-walk under the south wall, where the bees still hummed and worked busily in their hives.

She made a plate for the pears out of a beetroot leaf, which threw up their colour admirably. Mr. Lennox looked more at her than at the pears; but her father, determined to make the most of the hour he had stolen from his anxiety, chose the ripest fruit, and sat down on the garden bench to enjoy it. Margaret and Mr. Lennox strolled along the little terrace-walk under the south wall, where the bees still hummed busily.


"What a perfect life you seem to live here! I have always felt rather contemptuously towards the poets before, with their wishes, 'Mine be a cot beside a hill,' and that sort of thing; but now I am afraid that the truth is, I have been nothing better than a Cockney. Just now I feel as if twenty years' hard study of law would be amply rewarded by one year of such an exquisite serene life as this--such skies!" looking up--"such crimson and amber foliage, so perfectly motionless as that!" pointing to some of the great forest trees which shut in the garden as if it were a nest.

'What a perfect life you seem to live here! I have always felt rather contemptuously towards the poets, with their "Mine be a cot beside a hill," and that sort of thing: but just now I feel as if twenty years' hard study of law would be amply rewarded by one year of such an exquisite serene life as this. Such skies!' - looking up - 'such crimson and amber foliage, so perfectly motionless!' He pointed to some of the great forest trees which shut in the garden like a nest.


"You must please to remember that our skies are not always as deep a blue as they are now. We have rain, and our leaves do fall, and get sodden: though I think Helstone is about as perfect a place as any in the world. Recollect how you rather scorned my description of it one evening in Harley Street: 'a village in a tale.'"

'Our skies are not always so deep a blue as now. We have rain, and our leaves do fall, and get sodden: though I think Helstone is about as perfect a place as any in the world. Recollect how you scorned my description of it in Harley Street: "a village in a tale."'


"Scorned, Margaret! That is rather a hard word."

'Scorned, Margaret! That is rather a hard word.'


"Perhaps it is. Only I know I should have liked to have talked to you of what I was very full at the time, and you--what must I call it then?--spoke disrespectfully of Helstone as a mere village in a tale."

'Perhaps it is. Only I should have liked to have talked to you about Helstone, and you spoke disrespectfully of it as a mere village in a tale.'


"I will never do so again," said he, warmly. They turned the corner of the walk.

'I will never do so again,' said he, warmly. They turned the corner.


"I could almost wish, Margaret----" he stopped and hesitated. It was so unusual for the fluent lawyer to hesitate that Margaret looked up at him, in a little state of questioning wonder; but in an instant--from what about him she could not tell--she wished herself back with her mother--her father--anywhere away from him, for she was sure he was going to say something to which she should not know what to reply. In another moment the strong pride that was in her came to conquer her sudden agitation, which she hoped he had not perceived. Of course she could answer, and answer the right thing; and it was poor and despicable of her to shrink from hearing any speech, as if she had not power to put an end to it with her high maidenly dignity.

'I could almost wish, Margaret-' He stopped and hesitated. It was so unusual for the fluent lawyer to hesitate that Margaret looked up at him in questioning wonder; but in an instant she wished herself back with her mother - her father - anywhere away from him, for she was sure he was going to say something to which she should not know what to reply.
Her pride made her conquer her sudden agitation, which she hoped he had not perceived. Of course she could answer; and it was poor and despicable of her to shrink from hearing any speech.


"Margaret," said he, taking her by surprise, and getting sudden possession of her hand, so that she was forced to stand still and listen, despising herself for the fluttering at her heart all the time; "Margaret, I wish you did not like Helstone so much--did not seem so perfectly calm and happy here. I have been hoping for these three months past to find you regretting London--and London friends, a little--enough to make you listen more kindly" (for she was quietly, but firmly, striving to extricate her hand from his grasp) "to one who has not much to offer, it is true--nothing but prospects in the future--but who does love you, Margaret, almost in spite of himself. Margaret, have I startled you too much? Speak!" For he saw her lips quivering almost as if she were going to cry. She made a strong effort to be calm; she would not speak till she had succeeded in mastering her voice, and then she said:

'Margaret,' said he, getting sudden possession of her hand, so that she was forced to stand still and listen, despising herself for the fluttering of her heart. 'Margaret, I wish you did not like Helstone so much - did not seem so perfectly happy here. I have been hoping to find you regretting London - and London friends - enough to make you listen more kindly' (for she was quietly, but firmly, striving to remove her hand from his grasp) 'to one who has not much to offer apart from future prospects - but who does love you, Margaret, almost in spite of himself. Margaret, have I startled you too much? Speak!'
For he saw her lips quivering almost as if she were going to cry. She made a strong effort to be calm; she would not speak till she had mastered her voice, and then she said:


"I was startled. I did not know that you cared for me in that way. I have always thought of you as a friend; and, please, I would rather go on thinking of you so. I don't like to be spoken to as you have been doing. I cannot answer you as you want me to do, and yet I should feel so sorry if I vexed you."

'I was startled. I did not know that you cared for me in that way. I have always thought of you as a friend; and, please, I would rather go on thinking of you so. I cannot answer you as you want me to do, and yet I should feel so sorry if I vexed you.'


"Margaret," said he, looking into her eyes, which met his with their open, straight look, expressive of the utmost good faith and reluctance to give pain, "Do you"--he was going to say--"love any one else?" But it seemed as if this question would be an insult to the pure serenity of those eyes. "Forgive me! I have been too abrupt. I am punished. Only let me hope. Give me the poor comfort of telling me you have never seen any one whom you could----" Again a pause. He could not end his sentence. Margaret reproached herself acutely as the cause of his distress.

'Margaret,' said he, looking into her eyes, which met his with their open, straight look. 'Do you' - he was going to say, 'love anyone else?' But it seemed as if this question would be an insult. 'Forgive me. I have been too abrupt. I am punished. Only let me hope. Tell me you have never seen anyone whom you could-' Again he could not end his sentence.
Margaret reproached herself as the cause of his distress.


"Ah! if you had but never got this fancy into your head! It was such a pleasure to think of you as a friend."

'Ah! if only you had never got this fancy into your head! It was such a pleasure to think of you as a friend.'


"But I may hope, may I not, Margaret, that some time you will think of me as a lover? Not yet, I see--there is no hurry--but some time----"

'But may I not hope, Margaret, that some time you will think of me as a lover? Not yet, but some time.'


She was silent for a minute or two, trying to discover the truth as it was in her own heart, before replying, then she said:

She was silent, trying to discover the truth in her own heart, before replying. Then she said: