"Why, my paragon pupil (as Margaret calls him) has told me that his mother intends to call on Mrs. and Miss Hale to-morrow."

'Why, my paragon pupil has told me that his mother intends to call on you both tomorrow.'


"The mother of whom he spoke to us?" said Margaret.


"Mrs. Thornton; the only mother he has, I believe," said Mr. Hale, quietly.


"I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon person," her mother added. "Perhaps she may have a relation who might suit us, and be glad of our place. She sounded to be such a careful economical person, that I should like any one out of the same family."

'I shall like to see her. She must be an uncommon person. Perhaps she may have a relation who might suit us, and be glad of the job.'


"My dear," said Mr. Hale alarmed. "Pray don't go off on that idea. I fancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud in her way as our little Margaret here is in hers, and that she completely ignores that old time of trial, and poverty, and economy, of which he speaks so openly. I am sure, at any rate, she would not like strangers to know anything about it."

'My dear,' said Mr. Hale, alarmed. 'Pray don't think that! I fancy Mrs. Thornton is as haughty and proud in her way, as our little Margaret is in hers, and that she completely ignores that old time of poverty of which her son speaks so openly. I am sure she would not like strangers to know anything about It.'


"Take notice that is not my kind of haughtiness, papa, if I have any at all; which I don't agree to, though you're always accusing me of it."

'Note that that is not my kind of haughtiness, papa, if I have any at all; which I don't agree to.


"I don't know positively that it is hers either; but from little things I have gathered from him, I fancy so."


They cared too little to ask in what manner her son had spoken about her. Margaret only wanted to know if she must stay in to receive this call, as it would prevent her going to see how Bessy was, until late in the day, since the early morning was always occupied in household affairs; and then she recollected that her mother must not be left to have the whole weight of entertaining her visitor.

Must I stay in to receive this call?' Margaret thought it would prevent her going to see Bessy until late in the day; and then she recollected that her mother must not be left to have the whole weight of entertaining her visitor.


"A dull rotation, never at a stay, Yesterday's face twin image of to-day." COWPER.


"Of what each one should be, he sees the form and rule, And till he reach to that, his joy can ne'er be full." RUCKERT.


It was very well for Margaret that the extreme quiet of the Harley Street house, during Edith's recovery from her confinement, gave her the natural rest which she needed. It gave her time to comprehend the sudden change which had taken place in her circumstances within the last two months. She found herself at once an inmate of a luxurious house, where the bare knowledge of the existence of every trouble or care seemed scarcely to have penetrated. The wheels of the machinery of daily life were well oiled, and went along with delicious smoothness. Mrs. Shaw and Edith could hardly make enough of Margaret, on her return to what they persisted in calling her home. And she felt that it was almost ungrateful in her to have a secret feeling that the Helstone vicarage--nay, even the poor little house at Milton, with her anxious father and her invalid mother, and all the small household cares of comparative poverty, composed her idea of home. Edith was impatient to get well, in order to fill Margaret's bed-room with all the soft comforts, and pretty knick-knacks, with which her own abounded. Mrs. Shaw and her maid found plenty of occupation in restoring Margaret's wardrobe to a state of elegant variety. Captain Lennox was easy, kind, and gentlemanly; sate with his wife in her dressing-room an hour or two every day; played with his little boy for another hour, and lounged away the rest of his time at his club, when he was not engaged out to dinner. Just before Margaret had recovered from her necessity for quiet and repose--before she had begun to feel her life wanting and dull--Edith came downstairs and resumed her usual part in the household; and Margaret fell into the old habit of watching, and admiring, and ministering to her cousin. She gladly took all charge of the semblances of duties off Edith's hands; answered notes, reminded her of engagements, tended her when no gaiety was in prospect, and she was consequently rather inclined to fancy herself ill. But all the rest of the family were in the full business of the London season, and Margaret was often left alone. Then her thoughts went back to Milton, with a strange sense of the contrast between the life there, and here. She was getting surfeited of the eventless ease in which no struggle or endeavour was required. She was afraid lest she should even become sleepily deadened into forgetfulness of anything beyond the life which was lapping her round with luxury. There might be toilers and moilers there in London, but she never saw them; the very servants lived in an underground world of their own, of which she knew neither the hopes nor the fears; they only seemed to start into existence when some want or whim of their master and mistress needed them. There was a strange unsatisfied vacuum in Margaret's heart and mode of life; and, once when she had dimly hinted this to Edith, the latter, wearied with dancing the night before, languidly stroked Margaret's cheek as she sat by her in the old attitude,--she on a footstool by the sofa where Edith lay.

The quiet of the Harley Street house, during Edith's recovery from her confinement, gave Margaret the natural rest which she needed. It gave her time to comprehend the sudden changes of the last two months. In this luxurious house, the knowledge of trouble or care seemed scarcely to have penetrated: the wheels of the machinery of daily life were well oiled, and went along with delicious smoothness.
Mrs. Shaw and Edith could hardly make enough of Margaret. Edith wanted to fill her room with soft comforts, and pretty knick-knacks. Mrs. Shaw and her maid began to restore her wardrobe to a state of elegant variety. Captain Lennox was easy, kind, and gentlemanly; sat with his wife an hour or two every day; played with his little boy for another hour, and lounged away the rest of his time at his club.
Just as Margaret was recovering from her need for quiet, and before she had begun to feel her life dull, Edith came downstairs and resumed her usual part in the household. Margaret gladly took all duties off Edith's hands. She answered notes, reminded her of engagements, and tended her when no gaiety was in prospect, and Edith was consequently inclined to fancy herself ill. But the rest of the family were in the full swing of the London season, and Margaret, withdrawn from society while she was in mourning, was often left alone.
Then her thoughts went back to Milton, with a strange sense of the contrast between the life there, and here. She was getting surfeited of the ease in which no effort was required. She was afraid of becoming sleepily deadened into forgetfulness of anything beyond this luxurious life. There might be workers in London, but she never saw them; the very servants lived in an underground world of their own, and only seemed to start into existence when their master or mistress needed them. There was a strange unsatisfied vacuum in Margaret's heart; and once, when she hinted this to Edith, the latter languidly stroked Margaret's cheek.


"Poor child!" said Edith. "It is a little sad for you to be left, night after night, just at this time when all the world is so gay. But we shall be having our dinner-parties soon--as soon as Henry comes back from circuit--and then there will be a little pleasant variety for you. No wonder it is moped, poor darling!"

'Poor child!' said Edith. 'It is a little sad for you to be left, night after night, when all the world is so gay. But we shall be having our dinner-parties as soon as Henry comes back from circuit - and then there will be a little pleasant variety for you, poor darling!'


Margaret did not feel as if the dinner-parties would be a panacea. But Edith piqued herself on her dinner-parties; "so different," as she said, "from the old dowager dinners under mamma's rgime;" and Mrs. Shaw herself seemed to take exactly the same kind of pleasure in the very different arrangements and circle of acquaintances which were to Captain and Mrs. Lennox's taste, as she did in the more formal and ponderous entertainments which she herself used to give. Captain Lennox was always extremely kind and brotherly to Margaret. She was really very fond of him, excepting when he was anxiously attentive to Edith's dress and appearance, with a view to her beauty making a sufficient impression on the world. Then all the latent Vashti in Margaret was roused, and she could hardly keep herself from expressing her feelings.

Edith piqued herself on her dinner-parties; and Captain Lennox was always extremely kind and brotherly to Margaret. She was really very fond of him, except when he was anxiously attentive to Edith's dress and appearance, with a view to her beauty making a sufficient impression on the world. Then all the latent Vashti in Margaret was roused, and she could hardly keep herself from expressing her feelings.


The course of Margaret's day was this; a quiet hour or two before a late breakfast; an unpunctual meal, lazily eaten by weary and half-awake people, but yet at which, in all its dragged out length, she was expected to be present, because, directly afterwards, came a discussion of plans, at which, although they none of them concerned her, she was expected to give her sympathy, if she could not assist with her advice; an endless number of notes to write, which Edith invariably left to her, with many caressing compliments as to her eloquence du billet; a little play with Sholto as he returned from his morning's walk; besides the care of the children during the servants' dinner; a drive or callers; and some dinner or morning engagement for her aunt and cousins, which left Margaret free, it is true, but rather wearied with the inactivity of the day, coming upon depressed spirits and delicate health.

The course of Margaret's day was this; a quiet hour or two before a late breakfast, lazily eaten by weary and half-awake people; afterwards came a discussion of plans, none of which concerned her; an endless number of notes to write, which Edith invariably left to her; a little play with baby Sholto, besides the care of the children during the servants' dinner; a drive or callers; and some engagement for her aunt and cousins, which left Margaret free, it is true, but rather wearied with the inactivity of the day.


She looked forward with longing, though unspoken interest to the homely object of Dixon's return from Milton; where, until now, the old servant had been busily engaged in winding up all the affairs of the Hale family. It had appeared a sudden famine to her heart, this entire cessation of any news respecting the people among whom she had lived so long. It was true, that Dixon, in her business-like letters, quoted, every now and then, an opinion of Mr. Thornton's as to what she had better do about the furniture, or how act in regard to the landlord of the Crampton Terrace house. But it was only here and there that the name came in, or any Milton name, indeed; and Margaret was sitting one evening, all alone in the Lennox's drawing-room, not reading Dixon's letters, which yet she held in her hand, but thinking over them, and recalling the days which had been, and picturing the busy life out of which her own had been taken and never missed; wondering if all went on in that whirl just as if she and her father had never been; questioning within herself, if no one in all the crowd missed her (not Higgins, she was not thinking of him), when, suddenly Mr. Bell was announced; and Margaret hurried the letters into her work-basket, and started up, blushing as if she had been doing some guilty thing.

She looked forward with longing to Dixon's return from Milton, where the old servant had been engaged in winding up all the Hale family's affairs. She was hungry for news of the people amongst whom she had lived so long. It was true that Dixon, in her business-letters, quoted every now and then an opinion of Mr. Thornton's as to what she had better do about the furniture. But it was only here and there that any Milton name came in.
Margaret was sitting one evening, alone in the Lennoxes's drawing-room, thinking over Dixon's letters and wondering if all went on in that busy whirl just as if she and her father had never been, or if anyone missed her; when, suddenly, Mr. Bell was announced. Margaret hurried the letters into her work-basket, and started up, blushing guiltily.


"Oh, Mr. Bell! I never thought of seeing you!"

'Mr. Bell! I never thought of seeing you!


"But you give me a welcome, I hope, as well as that very pretty start of surprise."


"Have you dined? How did you come? Let me order you some dinner."

Have you dined? How did you come? Let me order you some dinner.'


"If you're going to have any. Otherwise, you know, there is no one who cares less for eating than I do. But where are the others? Gone out to dinner? Left you alone?"

'If you're going to have any. But where are the others? Gone out to dinner and left you alone?'


"Oh yes! and it is such a rest. I was just thinking--But will you run the risk of dinner? I don't know if there is anything in the house."

'Oh yes! and it is such a rest. But will you run the risk of dinner? I don't know if there is anything in the house.'


"Why, to tell you the truth, I dined at my club. Only they don't cook as well as they did, so I thought, if you were going to dine, I might try and make out my dinner. But never mind, never mind! There aren't ten cooks in England to be trusted at impromptu dinners. If their skill and their fires will stand it, their tempers won't. You shall make me some tea, Margaret. And now, what were you thinking of? you were going to tell me. Whose letters were those, god-daughter, that you hid away so speedily?"

'Why, to tell you the truth, I dined at my club. Only they don't cook as well as they did. You shall make me some tea, Margaret. And now, whose letters were those, god-daughter, that you hid away so speedily?'


"Only Dixon's," replied Margaret, growing very red.

'Only Dixon's,' replied Margaret, growing very red.


"Whew! is that all? Who do you think came up in the train with me?"

'Whew! is that all? Who do you think came up in the train with me?'


"I don't know," said Margaret, resolved against making a guess.


"Your what d'ye call him? What's the right name for a cousin-in-law's brother?"

'Your what d'ye call him? What's the right name for a cousin-in-law's brother?'


"Yes," replied Mr. Bell. "You knew him formerly, didn't you? What sort of a person is he, Margaret?"

'Yes. What sort of a person is he, Margaret?'


"I liked him long ago," said Margaret, glancing down for a moment. And then she looked straight up and went on in her natural manner. "You know we have been corresponding about Frederick since; but I have not seen him for nearly three years, and he may be changed. What did you think of him?"

'I liked him long ago,' said Margaret, glancing down for a moment. Then she looked straight up and went on in her natural manner. 'You know we have been corresponding about Frederick; but I have not seen him for nearly three years, and he may be changed. What did you think of him?'


"I don't know. He was so busy trying to find out who I was, in the first instance, and what I was in the second, that he never let out what he was; unless indeed that veiled curiosity of his as to what manner of man he had to talk to was not a good piece, and a fair indication of his character. Do you call him good-looking, Margaret?"

'I don't know. He was so busy trying to find out who I was that he never let out what he was; unless indeed that veiled curiosity of his is a fair indication of his character. Do you call him good looking, Margaret?'


"Not I. But I thought perhaps you might. Is he a great deal here?"

'Not I. But I thought, perhaps, you might. Is he a great deal here?'


"I fancy he is when he is in town. He has been on circuit now since I came. But--Mr. Bell--have you come from Oxford or from Milton?"

'I fancy he is when he is in town. He has been on circuit since I came. But, Mr. Bell, have you come from Oxford or from Milton?'


"From Milton. Don't you see I'm smoke-dried?"

'From Milton. Don't you see I'm smoke-dried?'


"Certainly. But I thought that it might be the effect of the antiquities of Oxford."

'Certainly. But I thought that it might be the effect of the antiquities of Oxford.'


"Come now, be a sensible woman! In Oxford, I could have managed all the landlords in the place, and had my own way, with half the trouble your Milton landlord has given me, and defeated me after all. He won't take the house off our hands till next June twelve-month. Luckily, Mr. Thornton found a tenant for it. Why don't you ask after Mr. Thornton, Margaret? He has proved himself a very active friend of yours, I can tell you. Taken more than half the trouble off my hands."

'Come now, be a sensible woman! In Oxford, I could have managed all the landlords in the place with half the trouble your Milton landlord has given me. He won't take the house off our hands till June next year. Luckily, Mr. Thornton found a tenant for it. Why don't you ask after Mr. Thornton, Margaret? He has proved himself a very active friend of yours, I can tell you.'


"And how is he? How is Mrs. Thornton?" asked Margaret hurriedly and below her breath, though she tried to speak out.

'And how is he? How is Mrs. Thornton?' asked Margaret.


"I suppose they're well. I've been staying at their house till I was driven out of it by the perpetual clack about that Thornton girl's marriage. It was too much for Thornton himself, though she was his sister. He used to go and sit in his own room perpetually. He's getting past the age for caring for such things, either as principal or accessory. I was surprised to find the old lady falling into the current, and carried away by her daughter's enthusiasm for orange-blossoms and lace. I thought Mrs. Thornton had been made of sterner stuff."

'I suppose they're well. I've been staying at their house till I was driven out of it by the perpetual clack about that Thornton girl's marriage. It was too much for Thornton himself, though she was his sister. He's getting past the age for caring for such things. I was surprised to find the old lady carried away by her daughter's enthusiasm for orange-blossoms and lace. I thought Mrs. Thornton was made of sterner stuff.'


"She would put on any assumption of feeling to veil her daughter's weakness," said Margaret in a low voice.

'She would put on any manner to veil her daughter's weakness,' said Margaret in a low voice.


"Perhaps so. You've studied her, have you? She doesn't seem over fond of you, Margaret."

'Perhaps so. You've studied her, have you? She doesn't seem over fond of you, Margaret.'


"I know it," said Margaret. "Oh, here is tea, at last!" exclaimed she, as if relieved. And with tea came Mr. Henry Lennox, who had walked up to Harley Street after a late dinner, and had evidently expected to find his brother and sister-in-law at home. Margaret suspected him of being as thankful as she was at the presence of a third party, on this their first meeting since the memorable day of his offer, and her refusal at Helstone. She could hardly tell what to say at first, and was thankful for all the tea-table occupations, which gave her an excuse for keeping silence, and him an opportunity for recovering himself. For, to tell the truth, he had rather forced himself up to Harley Street this evening, with a view of getting over an awkward meeting, awkward even in the presence of Captain Lennox and Edith, and doubly awkward now that he found her the only lady there, and the person to whom he must naturally and perforce address a great part of his conversation. She was the first to recover her self-possession. She began to talk on the subject which came uppermost in her mind, after the first flush of awkward shyness.

'I know it. Oh, here is tea at last!' exclaimed she, as if relieved. And with tea came Mr. Henry Lennox, who had walked up to Harley Street after his dinner, expecting to find his brother and sister-in-law at home. Margaret suspected him of being as thankful as she was at the presence of a third party, on this their first meeting since the memorable day of his offer. She hardly knew what to say at first, and was grateful for all the tea-table occupations which gave her an excuse for silence, and him an opportunity of recovering himself.
For, to tell the truth, he had rather forced himself up to Harley Street this evening, with a view of getting over an awkward meeting - doubly awkward now that he found her the only lady there. She was the first to recover her self-possession, saying,


"Mr. Lennox, I have been so much obliged to you for all you have done about Frederick."

'Mr. Lennox, I have been so much obliged to you for all you have done about Frederick.'


"I am only sorry it has been so unsuccessful," replied he, with a quick glance towards Mr. Bell, as if reconnoitring how much he might say before him. Margaret, as if she read his thought, addressed herself to Mr. Bell, both including him in the conversation, and implying that he was perfectly aware of the endeavours that had been made to clear Frederick.

'I am only sorry it has been so unsuccessful,' replied he, with a quick glance towards Mr. Bell, as if unsure how much he might say before him. But Margaret addressed Mr. Bell, to show that he was perfectly aware of the situation.


"That Horrocks--that very last witness of all, has proved as unavailing as all the others. Mr. Lennox has discovered that he sailed for Australia only last August; only two months before Frederick was in England, and gave us the names of----"

'That last witness of all, Horrocks, has proved as unavailing as all the others. He sailed for Australia only last August; only two months before Frederick was in England, and gave us the names of-'


"Frederick in England! you never told me that!" exclaimed Mr. Bell in surprise.

'Frederick in England! you never told me that!' exclaimed Mr. Bell in surprise.


"I thought you knew. I never doubted you had been told. Of course, it was a great secret, and perhaps I should not have named it now," said Margaret, a little dismayed.

'I thought you knew. Of course, it was a great secret, and perhaps I should not have mentioned it now,' said Margaret, a little dismayed.


"I have never named it to either my brother or your cousin," said Mr. Lennox, with a little professional dryness of implied reproach.


"Never mind, Margaret. I am not living in a talking, babbling world, nor yet among people who are trying to worm facts out of me; you needn't look so frightened because you have let the cat out of the bag to a faithful old hermit like me. I shall never name his having been in England; I shall be out of temptation, for no one will ask me. Stay!" (interrupting himself rather abruptly). "Was it at your mother's funeral?"

'Never mind, Margaret; you needn't look so frightened because you have let the cat out of the bag to a faithful old hermit like me. I shall never name his having been in England. Stay! Was it at your mother's funeral?'


"He was with mamma when she died," said Margaret, softly.

'He was with mamma when she died,' said Margaret, softly.


"To be sure! To be sure! Why, some one asked me if he had not been over then, and I denied it stoutly--not many weeks ago--who could it have been? Oh! I recollect!"

'To be sure! Why, someone asked me if he had not been over then, and I denied it - not many weeks ago - who could it have been? Oh! I recollect!'


But he did not say the name; and although Margaret would have given much to know if her suspicions were right, and it had been Mr. Thornton who had made the enquiry, she could not ask the question of Mr. Bell, much as she longed to do so.

But he did not say the name; and although Margaret would have given much to know if her suspicions were right, and it had been Mr. Thornton, she could not ask.


There was a pause for a moment or two. Then Mr. Lennox said, addressing himself to Margaret, "I suppose as Mr. Bell is now acquainted with all the circumstances attending your brother's unfortunate dilemma, I cannot do better than inform him exactly how the research into the evidence we once hoped to produce in his favour stands at present. So, if he will do me the honour to breakfast with me to-morrow, we will go over the names of these missing gentry."

Mr. Lennox said, 'I suppose I may inform Mr. Bell how the research into the evidence stands at present. So, if he will do me the honour to breakfast with me tomorrow, we will go over the names of these missing gentry.'


"I should like to hear all the particulars, if I may. Cannot you come here? I dare not ask you both to breakfast, though I am sure you would be welcome. But let me know all you can about Frederick, even though there may be no hope at present."

'I should like to hear all the particulars. Cannot you both come here?'


"I have an engagement at half-past eleven. But I will certainly come if you wish it," replied Mr. Lennox with a little after-thought of extreme willingness, which made Margaret shrink into herself, and almost wish that she had not proposed her natural request. Mr. Bell got up and looked around him for his hat, which had been removed to make room for tea.

asked Margaret.
'I have an engagement at half-past eleven. But I will certainly come if you wish it,' replied Mr. Lennox, with a willingness which made Margaret shrink. Mr. Bell got up and looked around for his hat.


"Well!" said he, "I don't know what Mr. Lennox is inclined to do, but I'm disposed to be moving off homewards. I've been a journey to-day, and journeys begin to tell upon my sixty and odd years."

'Well!' said he, 'I don't know what Mr. Lennox is inclined to do, but I'm moving off homewards.'


"I believe I shall stay and see my brother and sister," said Mr. Lennox, making no movement of departure. Margaret was seized with a shy awkward dread of being left alone with him. The scene on the little terrace in the Helstone garden was so present to her, that she could hardly help believing it was so with him.

'I believe I shall stay and see my brother and sister,' said Mr. Lennox. Margaret was seized with a shy awkward dread of being left alone with him; and could not help thinking he must feel the same.


"Don't go yet, please Mr. Bell," said she, hastily. "I want you to see Edith; and I want Edith to know you. Please!" said she, laying a light but determined hand on his arm. He looked at her, and saw the confusion stirring in her countenance; he sate down again, as if her little touch had been possessed of resistless strength.

'Don't go yet, please, Mr. Bell,' said she, hastily. 'I want you to see Edith; and I want Edith to know you. Please!' She laid a light but determined hand on his arm. He saw the confusion in her countenance, and sat down again.


"You see how she overpowers me, Mr. Lennox," said he. "And I hope you noticed the happy choice of her expressions; she wants me to 'see' this cousin Edith, who, I am told, is a great beauty; but she has the honesty to change her word when she comes to me--Mrs. Lennox is to 'know' me. I suppose I am not much to 'see,' eh, Margaret?"

'You see how she overpowers me, Mr. Lennox,' said he. 'And I hope you noticed the happy choice of words; she wants me to "see" Edith, who, I am told, is a great beauty; but she has the honesty to change her word to "know" when she comes to me. I suppose I am not much to see, eh, Margaret?'


He joked, to give her time to recover from the slight flutter which he had detected in her manner on his proposal to leave; and she caught the tone, and threw the ball back. Mr. Lennox wondered how his brother, the Captain, could have reported her as having lost all her good looks. To be sure, in her quiet black dress, she was a contrast to Edith, dancing in her white crape mourning, and long floating golden hair, all softness and glitter. She dimpled and blushed most becomingly when introduced to Mr. Bell, conscious that she had her reputation as a beauty to keep up, and that it would not do to have a Mordecai refusing to worship and admire, even in the shape of an old Fellow of a College, which nobody had ever heard of. Mrs. Shaw and Captain Lennox, each in their separate way, gave Mr. Bell a kind and sincere welcome, winning him over to like them almost in spite of himself, especially when he saw how naturally Margaret took her place as sister and daughter of the house.

He joked to give her time to recover from the slight flutter in her manner; and she caught the tone, and threw the ball back. Mr. Lennox wondered how his brother, the Captain, could have reported her as having lost all her good looks. To be sure, in her quiet black dress, she was a contrast to Edith, who came in all softness and glitter. Edith dimpled and blushed most becomingly when introduced to Mr. Bell, conscious that she had her reputation as a beauty to keep up. Mrs. Shaw and Captain Lennox gave Mr. Bell a kind and sincere welcome, making him like them almost in spite of himself, especially when he saw how naturally Margaret took her place as daughter of the house.


"What a shame that we were not at home to receive you," said Edith. "You, too, Henry! though I don't know that we should have stayed at home for you. And for Mr. Bell! for Margaret's Mr. Bell----"

'What a shame that we were not at home to receive you,' said Edith. 'You, too, Henry! though I don't know that we should have waited at home for you.'


"There is no knowing what sacrifices you would not have made," said her brother-in-law. "Even a dinner-party! and the delight of wearing this very becoming dress."


Edith did not know whether to frown or to smile, but it did not suit Mr. Lennox to drive her to the first of these alternatives; so he went on.


"Will you show your readiness to make sacrifices to-morrow morning, first by asking me to breakfast, to meet Mr. Bell, and secondly, by being so kind as to order it at half-past nine, instead of at ten o'clock? I have some letters and papers that I want to show to Miss Hale and Mr. Bell."

'Will you ask me to breakfast tomorrow to meet Mr. Bell, and be so kind as to order it at half-past nine? I have some papers that I want to show to Miss Hale and Mr. Bell.'


"I hope Mr. Bell will make our house his own during his stay in London," said Captain Lennox. "I am only so sorry we cannot offer him a bedroom."

'I hope Mr. Bell will make our house his own during his stay in London,' said Captain Lennox. 'I am only sorry we cannot offer him a bedroom.'


"Thank you. I am much obliged to you. You would only think me a churl if you had, for I should decline it, I believe, in spite of all the temptations of such agreeable company," said Mr. Bell, bowing all round, and secretly congratulating himself on the neat turn he had given to his sentence, which, if put into plain language, would have been more to this effect: "I couldn't stand the restraints of such a proper-behaved and civil-spoken people as these are: it would be like meat without salt. I'm thankful they haven't a bed. And how well I rounded my sentence! I'm absolutely catching the trick of good manners."

'Thank you. I am much obliged.' Mr. Bell, bowing, was secretly thinking: 'I couldn't stand the restraints of such proper-behaved people as these. I'm thankful they haven't a bed!'


His self-satisfaction lasted him till he was fairly out in the streets, walking side by side with Henry Lennox. Here he suddenly remembered Margaret's little look of entreaty as she urged him to stay longer, and he also recollected a few hints given him long ago by an acquaintance of Mr. Lennox's, as to his admiration of Margaret. It gave a new direction to his thoughts. "You have known Miss Hale for a long time, I believe. How do you think her looking? She strikes me as pale and ill."

Out in the streets, walking side by side with Henry Lennox, he suddenly remembered Margaret's little look of entreaty as she urged him to stay longer. It gave a new direction to his thoughts.
'You have known Miss Hale for a long time, I believe,' he said. 'How do you think she is looking? She strikes me as pale and ill.'


"I thought her looking remarkably well. Perhaps not when I first came--now I think of. But certainly, when she grew animated, she looked as well as ever I saw her do."

'I thought her looking remarkably well. Perhaps not when I first came in. But certainly, when she grew animated, she looked as well as ever I saw her do.'


"She has had a great deal to go through," said Mr. Bell.

'She has had a great deal to go through,' said Mr. Bell.


"Yes! I have been sorry to hear of all she has had to bear; not merely the common and universal sorrow arising from death, but all the annoyance which her father's conduct must have caused her, and then----"

'Yes! I have been sorry to hear of all she has had to bear; not merely sorrow, but all the annoyance which her father's conduct must have caused her-'


"Her father's conduct!" said Mr. Bell, in an accent of surprise. "You must have heard some wrong statement. He behaved in the most conscientious manner. He showed more resolute strength than I should ever have given him credit for formerly."

'Her father's conduct!' said Mr. Bell, in surprise. 'You must have heard some wrong statement. He behaved in the most conscientious and resolute manner.'


"Perhaps I have been wrongly informed. But I have been told, by his successor in the living--a clever sensible man, and a thoroughly active clergyman--that there was no call upon Mr. Hale to do what he did, relinquish the living, and throw himself and his family on the tender mercies of private teaching in a manufacturing town; the bishop had offered him another living, it is true, but if he had come to entertain certain doubts, he could have remained where he was, and so had no occasion to resign. But the truth is, these country clergymen live such isolated lives--isolated, I mean, from all intercourse with men of equal cultivation with themselves, by whose minds they might regulate their own, and discover when they were going either too fast or too slow--that they are very apt to disturb themselves with imaginary doubts as to the articles of faith, and throw up certain opportunities of doing good for very uncertain fancies of their own."

'Perhaps I have been wrongly informed. But I have been told, by his successor - a sensible, active clergyman - that there was no need for Mr. Hale to relinquish the living; he could have remained where he was, and so had no occasion to resign. But the truth is, these country clergymen live such isolated lives - isolated, I mean, from men of cultivation - that they are very apt to disturb themselves with imaginary doubts.'


"I differ from you. I do not think they are very apt to do as my poor friend Hale did." Mr. Bell was inwardly chafing.

'I differ from you. I do not think they are very apt to do as my poor friend Hale did.' Mr. Bell was inwardly chafing.


"Perhaps I used too general an expression in saying 'very apt.' But certainly, their lives are such as very often to produce either inordinate self-sufficiency, or a morbid state of conscience," replied Mr. Lennox with perfect coolness.

'Yet certainly, their lives are such as very often to produce either inordinate self-sufficiency, or a morbid state of conscience,' replied Mr. Lennox with perfect coolness.


"You don't meet with any self-sufficiency among the lawyers, for instance?" asked Mr. Bell. "And seldom, I imagine, any cases of morbid conscience." He was becoming more and more vexed, and forgetting his lately-caught trick of good manners. Mr. Lennox saw now that he had annoyed his companion; and as he had talked pretty much for the sake of saying something, and so passing the time away while their road lay together, he was very indifferent as to the exact side he took upon the question, and quietly came round by saying: "To be sure, there is something fine in a man of Mr. Hale's age leaving his home of twenty years, and giving up all settled habits, for an idea which was probably erroneous--but that does not matter--an untangible thought. One cannot help admiring him, with a mixture of pity in one's admiration, something like what one feels for Don Quixote. Such a gentleman as he was too! I shall never forget the refined and simple hospitality he showed to me that last day at Helstone."

'You don't meet with any self-sufficiency among lawyers?' asked Mr. Bell. 'And seldom, I imagine, any cases of morbid conscience.' He was becoming more and more vexed. Mr. Lennox saw that he had annoyed his companion; and as he had talked pretty much for the sake of making conversation, he quietly came round by saying:
'To be sure, there is something fine in a man of Mr. Hale's age leaving his home for an idea which was probably erroneous. One cannot help admiring him, with a mixture of pity and admiration; something like what one feels for Don Quixote. Such a gentleman as he was too! I shall never forget the refined and simple hospitality he showed to me that last day at Helstone.'


Only half-mollified, and yet anxious, in order to lull certain qualms of his own conscience, to believe that Mr. Hale's conduct had a tinge of Quixotism in it, Mr. Bell growled out--"Aye! And you don't know Milton. Such a change from Helstone! It is years since I have been at Helstone--but I'll answer for it, it is standing there yet--every stick and every stone as it has done for the last century, while Milton! I go there every four or five years--and I was born there--yet I do assure you, I often lose my way--aye, among the very piles of warehouses that are built upon my father's orchard. Do we part here? Well, good-night, sir; I suppose we shall meet in Harley Street to-morrow morning."

Only half mollified, Mr. Bell growled - 'Aye! And you don't know Milton. Such a change from Helstone! It is years since I have been at Helstone - but I'll answer for it, it is standing there yet, every stone as it has done for the last century, while Milton! I go there every four or five years, and yet I often lose my way. Do we part here? Well, good night, sir; we shall meet in Harley Street tomorrow morning.'


"Your beauty was the first that won the place And scal'd the walls of my undaunted heart, Which, captive now, pines in a caitive case, Unkindly met with rigour for desert:-- Yet not the less your servant shall abide, In spite of rude repulse or silent pride." WILLIAM FOWLER.


The next morning, Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that the night was over,--unrefreshed, yet rested. All had gone well through the house; her mother had only wakened once. A little breeze was stirring in the hot air, and though there were no trees to show the playful tossing movement caused by the wind among the leaves, Margaret knew how, somewhere or another, by wayside, in copses, or in thick green woods, there was a pleasant, murmuring dancing sound,--a rushing and falling noise, the very thought of which was an echo of distinct gladness in her heart.

The next morning, Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that the night was over - unrefreshed, yet rested. A little breeze was stirring in the hot air, and she knew how, somewhere or other, in thick green woods, there would be a pleasant, murmuring, dancing sound; the thought was an echo of distant gladness in her heart.


She sat at her work in Mrs. Hale's room. As soon as that forenoon slumber was over, she would help her mother to dress; after dinner, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. She would banish all recollection of the Thornton family--no need to think of them till they absolutely stood before her in flesh and blood. But, of course, the effort not to think of them brought them only the more strongly before her; and from time to time, the hot flush came over her pale face sweeping it into colour, as a sunbeam from between watery clouds comes swiftly moving over the sea.

She sat at her work in Mrs. Hale's room. As soon as her mother's morning slumber was over, she would help her to dress; after dinner, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. She would banish all recollection of the Thornton family. But, of course, the effort not to think of them brought them only the more strongly before her; and from time to time, the hot flush came over her pale face, sweeping it into colour, like a sunbeam swiftly moving over the sea.


Dixon opened the door very softly, and stole on tiptoe up to Margaret, sitting by the shaded window.


"Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in the drawing-room."

'Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in the drawing-room.'


"Did he ask for me? Isn't papa come in?"


"He asked for you, miss; and master is out."

'He asked for you, miss; and master is out.'


"Very well, I will come," said Margaret, quietly. But she lingered strangely.

'Very well, I will come,' said Margaret, quietly. But she lingered.


Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows, with his back to the door apparently absorbed in watching something in the street. But, in truth, he was afraid of himself. His heart beat thick at the thought of her coming. He could not forget the touch of her arms around his neck, impatiently felt as it had been at the time; but now the recollection of her clinging defence of him, seemed to thrill him through and through,--to melt away every resolution, all power of self-control, as if it were wax before a fire. He dreaded lest he should go forwards to meet her, with his arms held out in mute entreaty that she would come and nestle there, as she had done, all unheeded, the day before, but never unheeded again. His heart throbbed loud and quick. Strong man as he was, he trembled at the anticipation of what he had to say, and how it might be received. She might droop, and flush, and flutter to his arms, as to her natural home and resting-place. One moment he glowed with impatience at the thought that she might do this,--the next he feared a passionate rejection, the idea of which withered up his future with so deadly a blight that he refused to think of it. He was startled by the sense of the presence of some one else in the room. He turned round. She had come in so gently, that he had never heard her; the street noises had been more distinct to his inattentive ear than her slow movements, in her soft muslin gown.

Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows, apparently absorbed in watching something in the street. In truth, he was afraid of himself. His heart beat thick at the thought of her coming. He could not forget the touch of her arms around his neck, impatient as he had been at the time; but now the recollection of her clinging defence seemed to thrill him through and through - to melt away all power of self-control, like wax before a fire. He dreaded lest he should go forwards to meet her with his arms held out in mute entreaty. His heart throbbed loud and quick. Strong man as he was, he trembled at the anticipation of what he had to say, and how it might be received. She might flush, and flutter to his arms, as to her natural home. Or she might respond with a passionate rejection, the very idea of which withered up his future with so deadly a blight that he refused to think of it.
He was startled by the sense of a presence in the room. She had come in so gently that he had never heard her.


She stood by the table, not offering to sit down. Her eyelids were dropped half over her eyes; her teeth were shut, not compressed; her lips were just parted over them, allowing the white line to be seen between their curve. Her slow deep breathings dilated her chin and beautiful nostrils; it was the only motion visible on her countenance. The fine-grained skin, the oval cheek, the rich outline of her mouth, its corners deep set in dimples,--were all wan and pale to-day; the loss of their usual natural healthy colour being made more evident by the heavy shadow of the dark hair, brought down upon her temples, to hide all sign of the blow she had received. Her head, for all its drooping eyes, was thrown a little back, in the old proud attitude. Her long arms hung motionless by her sides. Altogether she looked like some prisoner, falsely accused of a crime that she loathed and despised, and from which she was too indignant to justify herself.

She stood by the table. Her eyelids were dropped half over her eyes; her lips were just parted, allowing the white line of teeth to be seen between their curve. The fine-grained skin, the oval cheek, the rich outline of her mouth, its corners deep set in dimples - all were wan and pale today, under the heavy shadow of the dark hair, brought down to hide all sign of the blow she had received. Her head was thrown a little back, in the old proud attitude. Her long arms hung motionless. Altogether she looked like some prisoner, falsely accused of a crime that she despised.


Mr. Thornton made a hasty step or two forwards; recovered himself, and went with quiet firmness to the door (which she had left open), and shut it. Then he came back, and stood opposite to her for a moment, receiving the general impression of her beautiful presence, before he dared to disturb it, perhaps to repel it, by what he had to say.

Mr. Thornton made a hasty step or two forwards; recovered himself, and went with quiet firmness to the door and shut it. Then he stood opposite to her for a moment, receiving the general impression of her beautiful presence, before he dared to disturb it, perhaps to repel it, by what he had to say.


"Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday--"

'Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday-'


"You had nothing to be grateful for," said she raising her eyes, and looking full and straight at him. "You mean, I suppose, that you believe you ought to thank me for what I did." In spite of herself--in defiance of her anger--the thick blushes came all over her face, and burnt into her very eyes; which fell not nevertheless from their grave and steady look. "It was only a natural instinct; any woman would have done just the same. We all feel the sanctity of our sex as a high privilege when we see danger. I ought rather," said she, hastily, "to apologise to you, for having said thoughtless words which sent you down into the danger."

'You had nothing to be grateful for,' said she, raising her eyes, and looking full and straight at him. 'You mean, I suppose, that you believe you ought to thank me for what I did.' In spite of her anger, the blushes burnt her face; but her eyes kept their grave and steady look. 'It was only a natural instinct; any woman would have done the same. I ought rather to apologise to you, for having said thoughtless words which sent you down into the danger.'


"It was not your words; it was the truth they conveyed, pungently as it was expressed. But you shall not drive me off upon that, and so escape the expression of my deep gratitude, my--" he was on the verge now; he would not speak in the haste of his hot passion; he would weigh each word. He would; and his will was triumphant. He stopped in mid career.

'It was not your words; it was the truth they conveyed. But you shall not so escape the expression of my deep gratitude, my-' he was on the verge now; yet he would not speak in the haste of his hot passion; he would weigh each word. He stopped in mid career.


"I do not try to escape from anything," said she. "I simply say, that you owe me no gratitude; and I may add, that any expression of it will be painful to me, because I do not feel that I deserve it. Still, if it will relieve you from even a fancied obligation, speak on."

'I do not try to escape from anything,' said she. 'I simply say, that you owe me no gratitude; and I do not feel that I deserve it. Still, if it will relieve you from even a fancied obligation, speak on.'


"I do not want to be relieved from any obligation," said he, goaded by her calm manner. "Fancied, or not fancied--I question not myself to know which--I choose to believe that I owe my very life to you--ay--smile, and think it an exaggeration if you will. I believe it, because it adds a value to that life to think--oh, Miss Hale!" continued he, lowering his voice to such a tender intensity of passion that she shivered and trembled before him, "to think circumstances so wrought, that whenever I exult in existence henceforward, I may say to myself, 'All this gladness in life, all honest pride in doing my work in the world, all this keen sense of being, I owe to her!' And it doubles the gladness, it makes the pride glow, it sharpens the sense of existence till I hardly know if it is pain or pleasure to think that I owe it to one--nay, you must, you shall hear,"--said he, stepping forward with stern determination--"to one whom I love, as I do not believe man ever loved woman before." He held her hand tight in his. He panted as he listened for what should come. He threw the hand away with indignation, as he heard her icy tone; for icy it was, though the words came faltering out, as if she knew not where to find them.

'I do not want to be relieved from any obligation,' said he, goaded by her calm manner. 'I choose to believe that I owe my very life to you - aye, smile, and think it an exaggeration if you will. I believe it, because it adds a value to that life to think - oh, Miss Hale!' His voice held such a tender intensity of passion that she shivered. 'Henceforward, I may say to myself, "All this gladness in life, all honest pride in doing my work in the world, all this keen sense of being, I owe to her!" And it doubles the gladness, it makes the pride glow, it sharpens the sense of existence till I hardly know if it is pain or pleasure, to think that I owe it to one - nay, you must, you shall hear - to one whom I love, as I do not believe man ever loved woman before.'
He held her hand tight in his, listening for what should come - and threw the hand away with indignation, as he heard her icy tone. For icy it was, though the words came faltering.


"Your way of speaking shocks me. It is blasphemous. I cannot help it, if that is my first feeling. It might not be so, I dare say, if I understood the kind of feeling you describe. I do not want to vex you; and besides, we must speak gently, for mamma is asleep; but your whole manner offends me--"

'Your way of speaking shocks me. It is blasphemous. I cannot help it, if that is my first feeling. It might not be so, I dare say, if I understood the kind of feeling you describe. I do not want to vex you; and we must speak gently, for mamma is asleep; but your whole manner offends me-'


"How!" exclaimed he. "Offends you! I am indeed most unfortunate."


"Yes!" said she with recovered dignity. "I do feel offended; and, I think, justly. You seem to fancy that my conduct of yesterday"--again the deep carnation blush, but this time with eyes kindling with indignation rather than shame--"was a personal act between you and me; and that you may come and thank me for it, instead of perceiving, as a gentleman would--yes! a gentleman," she repeated, in allusion to their former conversation about that word, "that any woman, worthy of the name of woman, would come forward to shield, with her reverenced helplessness, a man in danger from the violence of numbers."

'Yes!' said she, with recovered dignity. 'I do feel offended; and, I think, justly. You seem to fancy that my conduct of yesterday' - again the deep blush, but this time with eyes kindling with indignation rather than shame - 'was a personal act; and that you may come and thank me for it, instead of perceiving, as a gentleman would, that any woman worthy of the name of woman would come forward and use her helplessness to shield a man in danger from the violence of a mob.'


"And the gentleman thus rescued is forbidden the relief of thanks!" he broke in contemptuously. "I am a man. I claim the right of expressing my feelings."

'And the gentleman is forbidden the relief of thanks!' he broke in contemptuously. 'I am a man. I claim the right of expressing my feelings.'


"And I yielded to the right; simply saying that you gave me pain by insisting upon it," she replied, proudly. "But you seem to have imagined, that I was not merely guided by womanly instinct, but"--and here the passionate tears (kept down for long--struggled with vehemently) came up into her eyes and choked her voice--"but that I was prompted by some particular feeling for you--you! Why, there was not a man--not a poor desperate man in all that crowd--for whom I had not more sympathy--for whom I should not have done what little I could more heartily."

'And I yielded to the right,' she replied, proudly. 'But you seem to have imagined, that I was not merely guided by womanly instinct, but' - and here the passionate tears came up at last into her eyes, and choked her voice - 'but that I was prompted by some particular feeling for you - for you! Why, there was not a poor desperate man in all that crowd for whom I had not more sympathy.'


"You may speak on, Miss Hale. I am aware of these misplaced sympathies of yours. I now believe that it was only your innate sense of oppression--(yes; I, though a master, may be oppressed)--that made you act so nobly as you did. I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is because you do not understand me."

'Miss Hale, I am aware of all these misplaced sympathies of yours. I now believe that it was only your innate sense of oppression (yes; I, though a master, may be oppressed) that made you act so nobly as you did. I know you despise me; but it is because you do not understand me.'


"I do not care to understand," she replied, taking hold of the table to steady herself; for she thought him cruel--as, indeed, he was--and she was weak with her indignation.

'I do not care to understand,' she replied, taking hold of the table to steady herself; for she thought him cruel, and she was weak with indignation.


"No, I see you do not. You are unfair and unjust."

'No, I see you do not. You are unfair and unjust.'


Margaret compressed her lips. She would not speak in answer to such accusations. But, for all that--for all his savage words, he could have thrown himself at her feet, and kissed the hem of her garment. She did not speak; she did not move. The tears of wounded pride fell hot and fast. He waited awhile, longing for her to say something, even a taunt, to which he might reply. But she was silent. He took up his hat.

Margaret compressed her lips. She would not speak in answer. But, for all his savage words, he could have thrown himself at her feet. She did not speak; she did not move. Her tears of wounded pride fell hot and fast. He waited awhile, longing for her to say something, even a taunt, to which he might reply. But she was silent. He took up his hat.


"One word more. You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by me. You cannot avoid it. Nay, I, if I would, cannot cleanse you from it. But I would not if I could. I have never loved any woman before: my life has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things. Now I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expression on my part."

'One word more. You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by me. I cannot cleanse you from it. But I would not, if I could. I have never loved any woman before: my life has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed. Now I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expression on my part.'


"I am not afraid," she replied, lifting herself straight up. "No one yet has ever dared to be impertinent to me, and no one ever shall. But, Mr. Thornton, you have been very kind to my father," said she, changing her whole tone and bearing to a most womanly softness. "Don't let us go on making each other angry. Pray don't!" He took no notice of her words; he occupied himself in smoothing the nap of his hat with his coat-sleeve, for half a minute or so; and then, rejecting her offered hand, and making as if he did not see her grave look of regret, he turned abruptly away, and left the room. Margaret caught one glance at his face before he went.

'I am not afraid,' she replied, lifting herself straight up. 'No one yet has ever dared to be impertinent to me, and no one ever shall. But, Mr. Thornton, you have been very kind to my father,' said she, changing her whole tone to a most womanly softness. 'Don't let us go on making each other angry. Pray don't!'
He took no notice of her words: he occupied himself in smoothing his hat with his coat-sleeve; and then, rejecting her offered hand, and acting as if he did not see her grave look of regret, he turned abruptly away, and left the room. Margaret caught one glance at his face before he went.


When he was gone she thought she had seen the gleam of washed tears in his eyes; and that turned her proud dislike into something different and kinder, if nearly as painful--self-reproach for having caused such mortification to any one.

She thought she had seen the gleam of unshed tears in his eyes; and that turned her proud dislike into something different and kinder: self-reproach for having caused such pain.


"But how could I help it?" asked she of herself. "I never liked him. I was civil; but I took no trouble to conceal my indifference. Indeed, I never thought about myself or him, so my manners must have shown the truth. All that yesterday, he might mistake. But that is his fault, not mine. I would do it again, if need were, though it does lead me into all this shame and trouble."

'But how could I help it?' she asked herself. 'I never liked him. I was civil; but I did not conceal my indifference to him. About yesterday, he might mistake. But that is his fault, not mine. I would do it again, if need were, though it does lead me into all this shame and trouble.'


"The meanest thing to which we bid adieu, Loses its meanness in the parting hour." ELLIOTT.


Mrs. Shaw took as vehement a dislike as it was possible for one of her gentle nature to do, against Milton. It was noisy, and smoky, and the poor people whom she saw in the streets were dirty, and the rich ladies over-dressed, and not a man that she saw, high or low, had his clothes made to fit him. She was sure Margaret would never regain her lost strength while she stayed in Milton; and she herself was afraid of one of her old attacks of the nerves. Margaret must return with her, and that quickly. This, if not the exact force of her words, was at any rate the spirit of what she urged on Margaret, till the latter, weak, weary, and broken-spirited, yielded a reluctant promise that, as soon as Wednesday was over, she would prepare to accompany her aunt back to town, leaving Dixon in charge of all the arrangements for paying bills, disposing of furniture, and shutting up the house. Before that Wednesday--that mournful Wednesday, when Mr. Hale was to be interred, far away from either of the homes he had known in life, and far away from the wife who lay lonely among strangers (and this last was Margaret's great trouble, for she thought that if she had not given way to that overwhelming stupor during the first sad days, she could have arranged things otherwise)--before that Wednesday, Margaret received a letter from Mr. Bell.

The gentle Mrs. Shaw took a vehement dislike to Milton. It was noisy and smoky, and the poor people were dirty, and the rich ladies over-dressed, and not a man wore clothes made to fit him. She was sure Margaret would never regain her lost strength while she stayed in Milton; she must return with her. She urged this until Margaret, weak, weary, and broken-spirited, reluctantly promised that as soon as the funeral was over, she would accompany her aunt back to town, leaving Dixon in charge of shutting up the house.
Before that mournful day, Margaret received a letter from Mr. Bell.


"MY DEAR MARGARET:--I did mean to have returned to Milton on Thursday, but unluckily it turns out to be one of the rare occasions when we, Plymouth Fellows, are called upon to perform any kind of duty, and I must not be absent from my post. Captain Lennox and Mr. Thornton are here. The former seems a smart, well-meaning man; and has proposed to go over to Milton, and assist you in any search for the will; of course there is none, or you would have found it by this time, if you followed my directions. Then the Captain declares he must take you and his mother-in-law home; and, in his wife's present state, I don't see how you can expect him to remain away longer than Friday. However, that Dixon of yours is trusty; and can hold her, or your own, till I come. I will put matters into the hands of my Milton attorney if there is no will; for I doubt this smart Captain is no great man of business. Nevertheless, his moustachios are splendid. There will have to be a sale, so select what things you wish to be reserved. Or you can send a list afterwards. Now two things more, and I have done. You know, or if you don't, your poor father did, that you are to have my money and goods when I die. Not that I mean to die yet; but I name this just to explain what is coming. These Lennoxes seem very fond of you now; and perhaps may continue to be; perhaps not. So it is best to start with a formal agreement; namely, that you are to pay to them two hundred and fifty pounds a year, as long as you and they find it pleasant to live together. (This, of course, includes Dixon; mind you don't be cajoled into paying more for her.) Then you won't be thrown adrift, if some day the captain wishes to have his house to himself, but you can carry yourself and your two hundred and fifty pounds off somewhere else; if, indeed, I have not claimed you to come and keep house for me first. Then as to dress, and Dixon, and personal expenses, and confectionery (all young ladies eat confectionery till wisdom comes by age), I shall consult some lady of my acquaintance, and see how much you will have from your father before fixing this. Now, Margaret, have you flown out before you have read this far, and wondered what right the old man has to settle your affairs for you so cavalierly? I make no doubt you have. Yet the old man has a right. He has loved your father for five and thirty years; he stood beside him on his wedding-day; he closed his eyes in death. Moreover, he is your godfather; and as he cannot do you much good spiritually, having a hidden consciousness of your superiority in such things, he would fain do you the poor good of endowing you materially. And the old man has not a known relation on earth; 'who is there to mourn for Adam Bell?' and his whole heart is set and bent upon this one thing, and Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay. Write by return if only two lines, to tell me your answer. But _no thanks_."

'My dear Margaret,
'I did mean to return to Milton on Thursday, but unluckily it turns out to be one of the rare occasions when we Plymouth Fellows are called upon to perform a duty, and I must not be absent from my post. Captain Lennox and Mr. Thornton are here. The former seems a smart, well-meaning man; and declares he must take you and his mother-in-law home. I will put matters into the hands of my Milton attorney if there is no will; for I doubt if this smart captain is any great man of business. Nevertheless, his moustachios are splendid. There will have to be a sale, so select what things you wish reserved, or you can send a list afterwards.
'Two things more, and I have done. You are to have my money and goods when I die. Not that I mean to die yet; but I say this just to explain. These Lennoxes seem very fond of you now; but it is best to start with a formal agreement; namely, that you will pay them two hundred and fifty pounds a year, as long as you and they find it pleasant to live together. (This, of course, includes Dixon.) Then you won't be thrown adrift, if some day the captain wishes to have his house to himself, but you can carry yourself and your two hundred and fifty pounds off somewhere else; if, indeed, I have not claimed you to come and keep house for me first. As to dress, and Dixon, and so on, I shall consult some lady of my acquaintance, and see how much you will have from your father before fixing this.
'Now, Margaret, have you flown out yet, and wondered what right the old man has to settle your affairs for you? I make no doubt you have. Yet the old man has a right. He loved your father for five and thirty years; he stood beside him on his wedding-day; he closed his eyes in death. Moreover, he is your godfather; and has not a known relation on earth. His whole heart is set upon this one thing, and Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay. Write by return, if only two lines, to tell me your answer. But no thanks.'


Margaret took up a pen and scrawled with trembling hand, "Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay." In her weak state she could not think of any other words, and yet, she was vexed to use these. But she was so much fatigued even by this slight exertion, that if she could have thought of another form of acceptance, she could not have sate up to write a syllable of it. She was obliged to lie down again and try not to think.

Margaret took up a pen and scrawled with trembling hand, 'Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay.' In her weak state she could not think of any other words. But she was so much fatigued even by this slight exertion that she was obliged to lie down again, and try not to think.


"My dearest child! Has that letter vexed or troubled you?"

'My dearest child!' said her aunt. 'Has that letter vexed you?'


"No!" said Margaret feebly. "I shall be better when to-morrow is over."

'No!' said Margaret feebly. 'I shall be better when tomorrow is over.'


"I feel sure, darling, you won't be better till I get you out of this horrid air. How you can have borne it these two years I can't imagine."

'I feel sure, darling, you won't be better till I get you out of this horrid air. How you can have borne it two years I can't imagine.'


"Where could I go to? I could not leave papa and mamma."


"Well, don't distress yourself, my dear. I dare say it was all for the best, only I had no conception of how you were living. Our butler's wife lives in a better house than this."

'Well! don't distress yourself, my dear. I dare say it was all for the best, but our butler's wife lives in a better house than this.'


"It is sometimes very pretty--in summer; you can't judge by what it is now. I have been very happy here," and Margaret closed her eyes by way of stopping the conversation.

'It is sometimes very pretty - in summer. I have been very happy here.' Margaret closed her eyes to stop the conversation.


The house teemed with comfort now, compared to what it had been. The evenings were chilly, and by Mrs. Shaw's directions fires were lighted in every bedroom. She petted Margaret in every possible way, and bought every delicacy, or soft luxury in which she herself would have burrowed and sought comfort. But Margaret was indifferent to all these things; or, if they forced themselves upon her attention, it was simply as causes for gratitude to her aunt, who was putting herself so much out of the way to think of her. She was restless, though so weak. All the day long, she kept herself from thinking of the ceremony which was going on at Oxford, by wandering from room to room, and languidly setting aside such articles as she wished to retain. Dixon followed her by Mrs. Shaw's desire, ostensibly to receive instructions, but with a private injunction to soothe her into repose as soon as might be.

The house teemed with comfort now. Fires were lighted in every bedroom. Mrs. Shaw bought every delicacy or soft luxury which might give Margaret comfort. But Margaret, though grateful, was indifferent to all these things. She was restless; all day, she kept herself from thinking of the funeral, which was going on at Oxford, by wandering from room to room, and setting aside anything she wished to keep.


"These books, Dixon, I will keep. All the rest will you send to Mr. Bell? They are of a kind that he will value for themselves, as well as for papa's sake. This---- I should like you to take this to Mr. Thornton, after I am gone. Stay; I will write a note with it." And she sate down hastily, as if afraid of thinking, and wrote:

'These books, Dixon, I will keep. Will you send the rest to Mr. Bell? They are ones that he will value for themselves, as well as for papa's sake. This - I should like you to take this to Mr. Thornton, after I am gone. Stay; I will write a note with it.' And she sat down hastily, and wrote:


"DEAR SIR,--The accompanying book I am sure will be valued by you for the sake of my father, to whom it belonged.

'Dear Sir,
The accompanying book I am sure will be valued by you for the sake of my father, to whom it belonged.


She set out again upon her travels through the house, turning over articles, known to her from her childhood, with a sort of caressing reluctance to leave them--old-fashioned, worn and shabby, as they might be. But she hardly spoke again; and Dixon's report to Mrs. Shaw was, that "she doubted whether Miss Hale heard a word of what she said, though she talked the whole time, in order to divert her intention." The consequence of her being on her feet all day was excessive bodily weariness in the evening, and a better night's rest than she had had since she heard of Mr. Hale's death.

She set out again upon her travels through the house, turning over familiar articles with a sort of caressing reluctance to leave them - shabby though they might be. But in the evening she was excessively weary.


At breakfast time the next day, she expressed her wish to go and bid one or two friends good-bye. Mrs. Shaw objected:

At breakfast time the next day, she expressed her wish to bid one or two friends good-bye.


"I am sure, my dear, you can have no friends here with whom you are sufficiently intimate to justify you in calling upon them so soon; before you have been at church."


"But to-day is my only day; if Captain Lennox comes this after noon, and if we must--if I must really go to-morrow----"

'Today is my only day; if Captain Lennox comes this afternoon, and if we must really go tomorrow-'


"Oh, yes, we shall go to-morrow. I am more and more convinced that this air is bad for you, and makes you look so pale and ill; besides, Edith expects us; and she may be waiting for me; and you cannot be left alone, my dear, at your age. No; if you must make these calls, I will go with you. Dixon can get us a coach, I suppose?"

'Oh, yes; we shall go tomorrow. I am more and more convinced that this air is bad for you. If you must pay these calls, I will go with you. Dixon can get us a coach, I suppose?'


So Mrs. Shaw went to take care of Margaret and took her maid with her to take care of the shawls and air-cushions. Margaret's face was too sad to lighten up into a smile at all this preparation for paying two visits, that she had often made by herself at all hours of the day. She was half afraid of owning that one place to which she was going was Nicholas Higgins'; all she could do was to hope her aunt would be indisposed to get out of the coach and walk up the court, and at every breath of wind have her face slapped by wet clothes, hanging out to dry on ropes stretched from house to house.

So Mrs. Shaw and her maid went, with shawls and cushions. Margaret's face was too sad to lighten up into a smile at all this preparation for paying two visits that she had often made by herself at all hours of the day. She was half afraid of owning that one of her visits was to Nicholas Higgins's, and was glad that her aunt stayed in the coach.


There was a little battle in Mrs. Shaw's mind between ease and a sense of matronly propriety; but the former gained the day; and with many an injunction to Margaret to be careful of herself, and not to catch any fever, such as was always lurking in such places, her aunt permitted her to go where she had often been before without taking any precaution or requiring any permission.


Nicholas was out; only Mary and one or two of the Boucher children at home. Margaret was vexed with herself for not having timed her visit better. Mary had a very blunt intellect, although her feelings were warm and kind; and the instant she understood what Margaret's purpose was in coming to see them, she began to cry and sob with so little restraint that Margaret found it useless to say any of the thousand little things which had suggested themselves to her as she was coming along in the coach. She could only try to comfort her a little by suggesting the vague chance of their meeting again, at some possible time, in some possible place, and bid her tell her father how much she wished, if he could manage it, that he should come to see her when he had done his work in the evening.

Nicholas was out; only Mary and one or two of the Boucher children were at home. Margaret was vexed with herself for not having timed her visit better. Mary had a very blunt intellect, although her feelings were warm and kind; and the instant she understood why Margaret was coming to see them, she began to sob with so little restraint that Margaret found it useless to say any of the thousand little things which she had intended to. She could only suggest vaguely that they might meet again, and bid her tell her father that she wished, if he could manage it, that he should come to see her that evening.


As she was leaving the place, she stopped and looked around; then hesitated a little before she said:

As she was leaving the place, she stopped and said:


"I should like to have some little thing to remind me of Bessy."

'I should like to have some little thing to remind me of Bessy.'


Instantly Mary's generosity was keenly alive. What could they give? And on Margaret's singling out a little common drinking-cup, which she remembered as the one always standing by Bessy's side with a drink for her feverish lips, Mary said:

Instantly Mary's generosity was keenly alive. What could they give? And on Margaret's singling out Bessy's little common drinking-cup, Mary said:


"Oh, take summat better; that only cost fourpence!"

'Oh, take summut better; that only cost fourpence!'


"That will do, thank you," said Margaret; and she went quickly away, while the light caused by the pleasure of having something to give yet lingered on Mary's face.

'That will do, thank you,' said Margaret; and she went quickly away.


"Now to Mrs. Thornton's," thought she to herself. "It must be done." But she looked rather rigid and pale at the thoughts of it, and had hard work to find the exact words in which to explain to her aunt who Mrs. Thornton was, and why she should go to bid her farewell.

'Now to Mrs. Thornton's,' thought she. 'It must be done.' But she looked rather pale at the thought of it, and had hard work to explain to her aunt who Mrs. Thornton was, and why she should bid her farewell.


They (for Mrs. Shaw alighted here) were shown into the drawing-room, in which a fire had only just been kindled. Mrs. Shaw huddled herself up in her shawl and shivered.

Mrs. Shaw alighted here, and they were shown into Mrs. Thornton's drawing-room, in which a fire had only just been kindled. Mrs. Shaw huddled herself in her shawl, and shivered.


They had to wait for some time before Mrs. Thornton entered. There was some softening in her heart towards Margaret, now that she was going away out of her sight. She remembered her spirit, as shown at various times and places, even more than the patience with which she had endured long and wearing cares. Her countenance was blander than usual, as she greeted her; there was even a shade of tenderness in her manner, as she noticed the white, tear-swollen face, and the quiver in the voice which Margaret tried to make so steady.

They had to wait for some time before Mrs. Thornton entered. There was some softening in her heart towards Margaret, now that she was going away. She remembered her spirit, even more than the patience with which she had endured long and wearing cares. There was even a shade of tenderness in her manner, as she noticed the white, tear-swollen face, and the quiver in the voice which Margaret tried to make steady.


"Allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Shaw. I am going away from Milton to-morrow; I do not know if you are aware of it, but I wanted to see you once again, Mrs. Thornton, to--to apologize for my manner the last time I saw you; and to say that I am sure you meant kindly--however much we may have misunderstood each other."

'Allow me to introduce my aunt, Mrs. Shaw. I am going away from Milton tomorrow; and I wanted to see you once again, Mrs. Thornton, to - to apologise for my manner the last time I saw you; and to say that I am sure you meant kindly - however much we may have misunderstood each other.'


Mrs. Shaw looked extremely perplexed by what Margaret had said. Thanks for kindness! and apologies for failure in good manners! But Mrs. Thornton replied:

Mrs. Shaw looked extremely perplexed by this. But Mrs. Thornton replied:


"Miss Hale, I am glad you do me justice. I did no more than I believed to be my duty in remonstrating with you as I did. I have always desired to act the part of a friend to you. I am glad you do me justice."

'Miss Hale, I am glad you do me justice. I did what I believed to be my duty in remonstrating with you. I have always desired to act as a friend to you.'


"And," said Margaret, blushing excessively as she spoke, "will you do me justice, and believe that though I cannot--I do not choose--to give explanations of my conduct, I have not acted in the unbecoming way you apprehended?"

'And,' said Margaret, blushing excessively, 'will you do me justice, and believe that though I cannot - I do not choose - to give explanations of my conduct, I have not acted in the unbecoming way you thought?'


Margaret's voice was so soft, and her eyes so pleading, that Mrs. Thornton was for once affected by the charm of manner to which she had hitherto proved herself invulnerable.

Margaret's voice was so soft, and her eyes so pleading, that Mrs. Thornton was for once affected by the charm to which she had hitherto proved invulnerable.


"Yes, I do believe you. Let us say no more about it. Where are you going to reside, Miss Hale? I understood from Mr. Bell that you were going to leave Milton. You never liked Milton, you know," said Mrs. Thornton, with a sort of grim smile; "but for all that, you must not expect me to congratulate you on quitting it. Where shall you live?"

'Yes, I do believe you. Let us say no more about it. Where are you going to live, Miss Hale?'


"With my aunt," replied Margaret, turning towards Mrs. Shaw.

'With my aunt,' replied Margaret, turning towards Mrs. Shaw.


"My niece will reside with me in Harley Street. She is almost like a daughter to me," said Mrs. Shaw, looking fondly at Margaret; "and I am glad to acknowledge my own obligation for any kindness that has been shown to her. If you and your husband ever come to the town, my son and daughter, Captain and Mrs. Lennox, will, I am sure, join with me in wishing to do anything in our power to show you attention."

'My niece will reside with me in Harley Street. She is almost like a daughter to me,' said Mrs. Shaw, looking fondly at Margaret. 'If you and your husband ever come to town, we will do anything in our power to show you attention.'


Mrs. Thornton thought in her own mind, that Margaret had not taken much care to enlighten her aunt as to the relationship between the Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, towards whom the fine-lady aunt was extending her soft patronage; so she answered shortly,

Mrs. Thornton thought that Margaret had not taken much care to enlighten her aunt about the relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Thornton.


"My husband is dead. Mr. Thornton is my son. I never go to London; so I am not likely to be able to avail myself of your polite offers."

She said shortly, 'My husband is dead. Mr. Thornton is my son. I never go to London.'


At this instant Mr. Thornton entered the room; he had only just returned from Oxford. His mourning suit spoke of the reason that had called him there.

At this instant Mr. Thornton entered the room; he had only just returned from Oxford, and still wore his mourning suit.


"John," said his mother, "this lady is Mrs. Shaw, Miss Hale's aunt. I am sorry to say, that Miss Hale's call is to wish us good-bye."

'John,' said his mother, 'this lady is Mrs. Shaw, Miss Hale's aunt. I am sorry to say that Miss Hale's call is to wish us good-bye.'


"You are going then!" said he in a low voice.

'You are going then!' said he, in a low voice.


"Yes," said Margaret. "We leave to-morrow."

'Yes,' said Margaret. 'We leave tomorrow.'


"My son-in-law comes this evening to escort us," said Mrs. Shaw.

'My son-in-law comes this evening to escort us,' said Mrs. Shaw.


Mr. Thornton turned away. He had not sat down, and now he seemed to be examining something on the table, almost as if he had discovered an unopened letter, which had made him forget the present company. He did not even seem to be aware when they got up to take leave. He started forwards, however, to hand Mrs. Shaw down to the carriage. As it drove up, he and Margaret stood close together on the door-step, and it was impossible but that the recollection of the day of the riot should force itself into both their minds. Into his it came associated with the speeches of the following day; her passionate declaration that there was not a man in all that violent and a desperate crowd, for whom she did not care as much as for him. And at the remembrance of her taunting words, his brow grew stern, though his heart beat thick with longing love. "No!" said he, "I put it to the touch once, and I lost it all. Let her go,--with her stony heart, and her beauty;--how set and terrible her look is now, for all her loveliness of feature! She is afraid I shall speak what will require some stern repression. Let her go. Beauty and heiress as she may be, she will find it hard to meet with a truer heart than mine. Let her go!"

Mr. Thornton turned away, and seemed to be examining something on the table, which had made him forget the present company. He did not even seem to be aware when they got up to take leave.
He started forwards, however, to hand Mrs. Shaw down to the carriage. As it drove up, he and Margaret stood close together on the doorstep, and the recollection of the day of the riot forced itself into both their minds. Into his, it came associated with his proposal the following day, and her passionate declaration that there was not a man in all that violent crowd for whom she did not care as much as for him. And at the memory, his brow grew stern, though his heart beat thick with longing love.
'No!' thought he. 'Let her go - with her stony heart, and her beauty - how set and terrible her look is now, for all her loveliness! Beauty and heiress as she may be, she will find it hard to meet with a truer heart than mine. Let her go!'


And there was no tone of regret, or emotion of any kind in the voice with which he said good-bye; and the offered hand was taken with a resolute calmness, and dropped as carelessly as if it had been a dead and withered flower. But none in his household saw Mr. Thornton again that day. He was busily engaged; or so he said.

And there was no tone of regret, or emotion of any kind in the voice with which he said good-bye; and her offered hand was taken with a resolute calmness, and dropped as carelessly as if it had been a withered flower. But none in his household saw Mr. Thornton again that day. He was busily engaged; or so he said.


Margaret's strength was so utterly exhausted by these visits, that she had to submit to much watching and petting, and sighing "I-told-you-so's," from her aunt. Dixon said she was quite as bad as she had been on the first day she heard of her father's death; and she and Mrs. Shaw consulted as to the desirableness of delaying the morrow's journey. But when her aunt reluctantly proposed a few days' delay to Margaret, the latter writhed her body as if in acute suffering, and said:

Margaret's strength was so utterly exhausted by these visits, that she had to submit to 'I-told-you-so's,' from her aunt. But when her aunt reluctantly proposed a few days' delay in their journey, Margaret said, agonised:


"Oh! let us go. I cannot be patient here. I shall not get well here. I want to forget."

'Oh! let us go. I shall not get well here. I want to forget.'


So the arrangements went on: and Captain Lennox came, and with him news of Edith and the little boy; and Margaret found that the indifferent, careless conversation of one who, however kind, was not too warm and anxious a sympathiser, did her good. She roused up; and by the time that she knew she might expect Higgins, she was able to leave the room quietly, and await in her own chamber the expected summons.

Captain Lennox came, and with him news of Edith and the little boy; and Margaret found that his careless conversation did her good. By the time that Higgins arrived at her house that evening, she was ready to greet him.


"Eh!" said he, as she came in, "to think of th' oud gentleman dropping off as he did! Yo' might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw when they telled me. 'Mr. Hale?' said I; 'him as was th' parson?' 'Ay,' said they. 'Then,' said I, 'there's as good a man gone as ever lived on this earth, let who will be t'other!' And I came to see yo', and tell yo' how grieved I were, but them women in th' kitchen wouldn't tell yo' I were there. They said yo' were ill,--and butter me, but yo' dunnot look like the same wench. And yo're going to be a grand lady up i' Lunnon, aren't yo'?"

'Eh!' said he, 'to think of th' oud gentleman dropping off as he did! Yo' might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw when they telled me. He were as good a man as ever lived. And I came to tell yo' how grieved I were, but them women in th' kitchen wouldn't tell yo' I were there. They said yo' were ill. And yo're going to be a grand lady up i' Lunnon, aren't yo'?'


"Not a grand lady," said Margaret, half smiling.

'Not a grand lady,' said Margaret, half smiling.


"Well! Thornton said--says he, a day or two ago, 'Higgins, have yo' seen Miss Hale?' 'No,' says I; 'there's a pack o' women who won't let me at her. But I can bide my time, if she's ill. She and I knows each other pretty well; and hoo'l not go doubting that I'm main sorry for th' oud gentleman's death, just because I can't get at her and tell her so.' And says he, 'Yo'll not have much time for to try and see her, my fine chap. She's not for staying with us a day longer nor she can help. She's got grand relations, and they're carrying her off; and we shan't see her no more.' 'Measter,' said I, 'if I dunnot see her afore hoo goes, I'll strive to get up to Lunnon next Whitsuntide, that I will. I'll not be baulked of saying her good-bye by any relations whatsomdever. But bless yo', I knowed yo'd come. It were only for to humour the measter, I let on as if I thought yo'd mappen leave Milton without seeing me."

'Well! Thornton said, a day or two ago, "Higgins, have yo' seen Miss Hale?" "No," says I; "there's a pack o' women who won't let me at her. But she and I knows each other pretty well; and hoo'l not be doubting that I'm sorry for th' oud gentleman's death, just because I can't get at her and tell her so." And says he, "Yo'll not have much time for to try and see her. She's not staying with us a day longer nor she can help. She's got grand relations, and they're carrying her off; and we shan't see her no more." "Measter," said I, "if I dunnot see her afore hoo goes, I'll strive to get up to Lunnun next Whissuntide, that I will." But, bless yo', I knowed yo'd come.'


"You're quite right," said Margaret. "You only do me justice. And you'll not forget me, I'm sure. If no one else in Milton remembers me, I'm certain you will; and papa too. You know how good and tender he was. Look, Higgins! here is his bible. I have kept it for you. I can ill spare it; but I know he would have liked you to have it. I'm sure you'll care for it, and study what is in it, for his sake."

'You're quite right,' said Margaret. 'And you'll not forget me, I'm sure. If no one else in Milton remembers me, I'm certain you will; and papa too. Look, Higgins! here is his Bible. I know he would have liked you to have it. I'm sure you'll care for it, and study it, for his sake.'


"Yo' may say that. If it were the deuce's own scribble, and yo' axed me to read in it for yo'r sake and the oud gentleman's, I'd do it. Whatten's this, wench! I'm not going for to take yo'r brass, so dunnot think it. We've been great friends, 'bout the sound o' money passing between us."

'If it were the deuce's own scribble, and yo' axed me to read in it for your sake, and th' oud gentleman's, I'd do it. Whatten's this, wench? I'm not going to take your money, so dunnot think it.'


"For the children--for Boucher's children," said Margaret, hurriedly. "They may need it. You've no right to refuse it for them. I would not give you one penny," she said, smiling; "don't think there's any of it for you."

'For Boucher's children,' said Margaret, hurriedly. 'They may need it. I would not give you a penny,' she said, smiling; 'don't think there's any of it for you.'


"Well, wench! I can nobbut say, Bless yo'! and bless yo'!--and amen."

'Well, wench! I can nobbut say, Bless yo'! and bless yo'! - and amen.'


"And down the sunny beach she paces slowly, With many doubtful pauses by the way; Grief hath an influence so hushed and holy." HOOD.


"Is not Margaret the heiress?" whispered Edith to her husband, as they were in their room alone at night after the sad journey to Oxford. She had pulled his tall head down, and stood upon tiptoe, and implored him not to be shocked, before she ventured to ask this question. Captain Lennox was, however, quite in the dark; if he had ever heard, he had forgotten; it could not be much that a Fellow of a small College had to leave; but he had never wanted her to pay for her board; and two hundred and fifty pounds a year was something ridiculous, considering that she did not take wine. Edith came down upon her feet a little bit sadder; with a romance blown to pieces.

'Is not Margaret the heiress?' whispered Edith to her husband, as they were in their room that night. Captain Lennox was, however, quite in the dark; if he had ever heard, he had forgotten; and the Fellow of a small college could not have much to leave. Edith was a little sadder, with her romance blown to pieces.


A week afterwards, she came prancing towards her husband, and made him a low curtsey:


"I am right, and you are wrong, most noble Captain. Margaret has had a lawyer's letter, and she is residuary legatee--the legacies being about two thousand pounds, and the remainder about forty thousand, at the present value of property in Milton."

'I am right, and you are wrong, most noble Captain. Margaret has had a lawyer's letter, and she is legatee - the legacies being about two thousand pounds, and the remainder property in Milton worth about forty thousand.'


"Indeed! and how does she take her good fortune?"

'Indeed! and how does she take her good fortune?'


"Oh, it seems she knew she was to have it all along; only she had no idea it was so much. She looks very white and pale, and says she's afraid of it; but that's nonsense, you know, and will soon go off. I left mamma pouring congratulations down her throat, and stole away to tell you."

'Oh, it seems she knew all along; only she had no idea it was so much. She looks very white and pale, and says she's afraid of it; but that's nonsense, you know. I left mamma pouring congratulations down her throat.'


It seemed to be supposed, by general consent, that the most natural thing was to consider Mr. Lennox henceforward as Margaret's legal adviser. She was so entirely ignorant of all forms of business that in nearly everything she had to refer to him. He chose out her attorney; he came to her with papers to be signed. He was never so happy as when teaching her of what all these mysteries of the law were the signs and types.

It seemed to be supposed, by general consent, that Mr. Lennox would naturally be Margaret's legal adviser. She was so ignorant of all forms of business that in nearly everything she had to refer to him. He chose her attorney, and brought her papers to be signed. He was never so happy as when teaching her of these mysteries of the law.


"Henry," said Edith, one day, archly; "do you know what I hope and expect all these long conversations with Margaret will end in?"

'Henry,' said Edith one day, archly; 'do you know what I hope and expect all these long conversations with Margaret will end in?'


"No, I don't," said he, reddening. "And I desire you not to tell me."


"Oh, very well; then I need not tell Sholto not to ask Mr. Montagu so often to the house."


"Just as you choose," said he with forced coolness. "What you are thinking of may or may not happen; but this time, before I commit myself, I will see my ground clear. Ask whom you choose. It may not be very civil, Edith, but if you meddle in it you will mar it. She has been very farouche with me for a long time; and is only just beginning to thaw a little from her Zenobia ways. She has the making of a Cleopatra in her, if only she were a little more pagan."

but speaking coolly. 'What you are thinking of, may or may not happen; but this time, before I commit myself, I will see my ground clear. It may not be very civil, Edith, but if you meddle in it you will mar it. She is only just beginning to thaw a little towards me. She has the making of a Cleopatra in her, if only she were more pagan.'


"For my part," said Edith, a little maliciously, "I am very glad she is a Christian. I know so very few!"


There was no Spain for Margaret that autumn; although to the last she hoped that some fortunate occasion would call Frederick to Paris, whither she could easily have met with a convoy. Instead of Cadiz, she had to content herself with Cromer. To that place her aunt Shaw and the Lennoxes were bound. They had all along wished her to accompany them, and, consequently, with their characters, they made but lazy efforts to forward her own separate wish. Perhaps Cromer was, in one sense of the expression, the best for her. She needed bodily strengthening and bracing as well as rest.

There was no Spain for Margaret that autumn. Instead of Cadiz, she had to content herself with Cromer, where her aunt Shaw and the Lennoxes were bound. They wished her to accompany them, and made only lazy efforts to consider her own separate wish. Perhaps Cromer would be best: she needed bodily strengthening.


Among other hopes that had vanished, was the hope, the trust she had had, that Mr. Bell would have given Mr. Thornton the simple facts of the family circumstances which had preceded the unfortunate accident that led to Leonards' death. Whatever opinion--however changed it might be from what Mr. Thornton had once entertained, she had wished it to be based upon a true understanding of what she had done, and why she had done it. It would have been a pleasure to her: would have given her rest on a point on which she should now all her life be restless, unless she could resolve not to think upon it. It was now so long after the time of these occurrences, that there was no possible way of explaining them save the one which she had lost by Mr. Bell's death. She might just submit, like many another, to be misunderstood; but, though reasoning herself into the belief that in this hers was no uncommon lot, her heart did not ache the less with longing that some time--years and years hence--before he died at any rate, he might know how much she had been tempted. She thought that she did not want to hear that all was explained to him, if only she could be sure that he would know. But this wish was vain, like so many others; and when she had schooled herself into this conviction, she turned with all her heart and strength to the life that lay immediately before her, and resolved to strive and make the best of that.

Among other hopes that had vanished, was the hope that Mr. Bell would have given Mr. Thornton the facts of the family circumstances which had preceded Leonards' unfortunate accident and death. Whatever opinion Mr. Thornton held of her, she had wished it to be based upon a true understanding of what she had done, and why she had done it. It would have given her rest on a point on which she should now all her life be restless.
It was now so long since these occurrences, that there was no way of explaining them save the one which she had lost by Mr. Bell's death. She must just submit, like many another, to be misunderstood; but her heart did not ache the less with longing that some time, he might know the truth. But this wish was vain; and when she had schooled herself into this conviction, she turned with all her heart and strength to the life that lay immediately before her, and resolved to strive and make the best of that.


She used to sit long hours upon the beach, gazing intently on the waves as they chafed with perpetual motion against the pebbly shore,--or she looked out upon the more distant heave, and sparkle against the sky, and heard, without being conscious of hearing, the eternal psalm, which went up continually. She was soothed without knowing how or why. Listlessly she sat there, on the ground, her hands clasped round her knees, while her aunt Shaw did small shoppings, and Edith and Captain Lennox rode far and wide on shore and inland. The nurses, sauntering on with their charges, would pass and repass her, and wonder in whispers what she could find to look at so long, day after day. And when the family gathered at dinner-time, Margaret was so silent and absorbed that Edith voted her moped, and hailed a proposal of her husband's with great satisfaction, that Mr. Henry Lennox should be asked to take Cromer for a week, on his return from Scotland in October.

She used to sit long hours upon the beach at Cromer, gazing intently on the waves as they chafed against the pebbly shore - or she looked out upon the more distant heave, and sparkle against the sky, and was soothed without knowing how. She sat there, on the ground, her hands clasped round her knees, while her aunt Shaw went shopping, and Edith and Captain Lennox rode far and wide. When the family gathered at dinner-time, Margaret was so silent and absorbed that Edith agreed with her husband that Mr. Henry Lennox should be asked to visit Cromer for a week in October.