"I begin to understand now what heaven must be--and, oh! the grandeur and repose of the words--'The same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.' Everlasting! 'From everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God.' That beautiful sky above me looks as though it could not change, and yet it will. I am so tired--so tired of being whirled on through all these phases of my life, in which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place; it is like the circle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy continually. I am in the mood in which women of another religion take the veil. I seek heavenly steadfastness in earthly monotony. If I were a Roman Catholic and could deaden my heart, stun it with some great blow, I might become a nun. But I should pine after my kind; no, not my kind, for love for my species could never fill my heart to the utter exclusion of love for individuals. Perhaps it ought to be so, perhaps not; I cannot decide to-night."

'I begin to understand now what heaven must be - and, oh! the grandeur and repose of the words - "The same yesterday, today, and for ever." "From everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God." I am so tired - so tired of being whirled on through all these phases of my life, in which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place; it is like the circle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy continually. If I were a Roman Catholic and could deaden my heart, I might become a nun. But I should pine after my kind; no, not my kind, so much as individuals. Perhaps it ought to be so, perhaps not. I cannot decide tonight.'


Wearily she went to bed, wearily she arose in four or five hours' time. But with the morning came hope, and a brighter view of things.


"After all it is right," said she, hearing the voices of children at play while she was dressing. "If the world stood still, it would retrograde and become corrupt, if that is not Irish. Looking out of myself and my own painful sense of change, the progress of all around me is right and necessary. I must not think so much of how circumstances affect me myself, but how they affect others, if I wish to have a right judgment, or a hopeful trustful heart." And with a smile ready in her eyes to quiver down to her lips, she went into the parlour and greeted Mr. Bell.

'After all it is right,' said she, hearing the voices of children at play while she was dressing. 'If the world stood still, it would become corrupt. The progress all around me is right and necessary. I must not think so much of how circumstances affect me myself, but how they affect others, if I wish to have a right judgment, or a hopeful trustful heart.' And with a smile ready, she went into the parlour and greeted Mr. Bell.


"Ah, Missy! you were up late last night, and so you're late this morning. Now I've got a little piece of news for you. What do you think of an invitation to dinner? a morning call, literally in the dewy morning. Why, I've had the Vicar here already, on his way to the school. How much the desire of giving our hostess a teetotal lecture for the benefit of the hay-makers, had to do with his earliness, I don't know; but here he was, when I came down just before nine; and we are asked to dine there to-day."

'Ah, Missy! I've got a little piece of news for you. What do you think of an invitation to dinner? I've had the Vicar here already, in the dewy morning, on his way to the school, and we are asked to dine there today.'


"But Edith expects me back--I cannot go," said Margaret, thankful to have so good an excuse.

'But Edith expects me back - I cannot go,' said Margaret, thankful to have so good an excuse.


"Yes! I know; so I told him. I thought you would not want to go. Still it is open, if you would like it."

'Yes! I know; so I told him. Still it is open, if you would like it.'


"Oh, no!" said Margaret. "Let us keep to our plan. Let us start at twelve. It is very good and kind of them; but indeed I could not go."

'Oh, no!' said Margaret. 'Let us keep to our plan. It is very good and kind of them; but indeed I could not go.'


"Very well. Don't fidget yourself, and I'll arrange it all."


Before they left, Margaret stole round to the back of the Vicarage garden, and gathered a little straggling piece of honeysuckle. She would not take a flower the day before, for fear of being observed, and her motives and feelings commented upon. But as she returned across the common, the place was reinvested with the old enchanting atmosphere. The common sounds of life were more musical there than anywhere else in the whole world, the light more golden, the life more tranquil and full of dreamy delight. As Margaret remembered her feelings yesterday, she said to herself:

But before they left, she stole round to the back of the Vicarage garden, and gathered a little straggling piece of honeysuckle. As she returned across the common, the place was reinvested with the old enchanting atmosphere. The sounds of life were more musical than anywhere else in the whole world, the light more golden, the life more tranquil and full of dreamy delight. Margaret said to herself:


"And I too change perpetually--now this, now that--now disappointment and peevish because all is not exactly as I had pictured it, and now suddenly discovering that the reality is far more beautiful than I had imagined it. Oh, Helstone! I shall never love any place like you."

'And I too change perpetually - now disappointed and peevish, and now suddenly discovering the real beauty of the place. Oh, Helstone! I shall never love any place like you.'


A few days afterwards, she had found her level, and decided that she was very glad to have been there, and that she had seen it again, and that to her it would always be the prettiest spot in the world, but that it was so full of associations with former days, and especially with her father and mother, that if it were all to come over again, she should shrink back from such another visit as that which she had paid with Mr. Bell.

A few days afterwards, she had found her level, and decided that she was very glad to have seen it again, and that to her it would always be the prettiest spot in the world; but so full of associations that she would shrink back from such another visit as that which she had paid with Mr. Bell.


"Cast me upon some naked shore, Where I may tracke Only the print of some sad wracke, If thou be there though the seas roare, I shall no gentler calm implore." HABINGTON.


He was gone. The house was shut up for the evening. No more deep blue skies or crimson and amber tints. Margaret went up to dress for the early tea, finding Dixon in a pretty temper from the interruption which a visitor had naturally occasioned on a busy day. She showed it by brushing away viciously at Margaret's hair, under pretence of being in a great hurry to go to Mrs. Hale. Yet, after all, Margaret had to wait a long time in the drawing-room before her mother came down. She sat by herself at the fire, with unlighted candles on the table behind her, thinking over the day, the happy walk, happy sketching, cheerful pleasant dinner, and the uncomfortable, miserable walk in the garden.

He was gone. Margaret went to dress for tea. As she waited in the drawing-room for her mother to come down, she sat thinking over the day, the happy walk, the happy sketching, the cheerful pleasant dinner, and the uncomfortable, miserable walk in the garden.


How different men were to women! Here was she disturbed and unhappy, because her instinct had made anything but a refusal impossible; while he, not many minutes after he had met with a rejection of what ought to have been the deepest, holiest proposal of his life, could speak as if briefs, success, and all its superficial consequences of a good house, clever and agreeable society, were the sole avowed objects of his desires. Oh dear! how she could have loved him if he had but been different, with a difference which she felt, on reflection, to be one that went low--deep down. Then she took it into her head that, after all, his lightness might be but assumed, to cover a bitterness of disappointment which would have been stamped on her own heart if she had loved and been rejected.

How different men were to women! Here was she disturbed and unhappy, because her instinct had made her refuse him; while he, not many minutes after a rejection of what ought to have been the holiest proposal of his life, could speak as if law briefs, success, and agreeable society were the sole objects of his desires. Oh dear! how she could have loved him if he had only been different. Then she thought that, after all, his lightness might have been assumed to cover the bitter disappointment which would have been stamped on her own heart if she had loved and been rejected.


Her mother came into the room before this whirl of thoughts was adjusted into anything like order. Margaret had to shake off the recollections of what had been done and said through the day, and turn a sympathising listener to the account of how Dixon had complained that the ironing-blanket had been burnt again; and how Susan Lightfoot had been seen with artificial flowers in her bonnet, thereby giving evidence of a vain and giddy character. Mr. Hale sipped his tea in abstracted silence; Margaret had the responses all to herself. She wondered how her father and mother could be so forgetful, so regardless of their companion through the day, as never to mention his name. She forgot that he had not made them an offer.

Her mother came in before this whirl of thoughts was adjusted into anything like order. Margaret had to shake off her recollections, and listen sympathetically to the account of Dixon's complaints about the ironing, and how Susan Lightfoot had been seen with artificial flowers in her bonnet. Mr. Hale sipped his tea in abstracted silence; Margaret had the responses all to herself. She wondered how her father and mother could be so regardless of Mr. Lennox's visit as never to mention his name. She forgot that he had not made them an offer.


After tea Mr. Hale got up, and stood with his elbow on the chimney-piece, leaning his head on his hand, musing over something, and from time to time sighing deeply. Mrs. Hale went out to consult with Dixon about some winter clothing for the poor. Margaret was preparing her mother's worsted work, and rather shrinking from the thought of the long evening, and wishing bed-time were come that she might go over the events of the day again.

After tea Mr. Hale got up and stood by the chimney-piece, leaning his head on his hand, and from time to time sighing deeply. Mrs. Hale went out to consult with Dixon. Margaret was preparing her mother's wool-work, and rather shrinking from the thought of the long evening, and wishing bedtime were come.


"Margaret!" said Mr. Hale, at last, in a sort of sudden desperate way, that made her start. "Is that tapestry thing of immediate consequence? I mean, can you leave it and come into my study? I want to speak to you about something very serious to us all."

'Margaret!' said Mr. Hale in a sudden desperate way, that made her start. 'Is that tapestry thing of immediate consequence? Can you leave it and come into my study? I want to speak to you about something very serious.'


"Very serious to us all." Mr. Lennox had never had the opportunity of having any private conversation with her father after her refusal, or else that would indeed be a very serious affair. In the first place, Margaret felt guilty and ashamed of having grown so much into a woman as to be thought of in marriage; and secondly, she did not know if her father might not be displeased that she had taken upon herself to decline Mr. Lennox's proposal. But she soon felt it was not about anything, which having only lately and suddenly occurred, could have given rise to any complicated thoughts, that her father wished to speak to her. He made her take a chair by him; he stirred the fire, snuffed the candles, and sighed once or twice before he could make up his mind to say--and it came out with a jerk after all--"Margaret! I am going to leave Helstone."

Margaret immediately thought of Mr. Lennox, and felt guilty and ashamed of having grown so much into a woman as to be thought of in marriage. But she soon felt it was not about the day's events that her father wished to speak to her. He made her take a chair; he stirred the fire, snuffed the candles, and sighed once or twice before saying, with a jerk-
'Margaret! I am going to leave Helstone.'


Mr. Hale did not answer for a minute or two. He played with some papers on the table in a nervous and confused manner, opening his lips to speak several times, but closing them again without having the courage to utter a word. Margaret could not bear the sight of the suspense, which was even more distressing to her father than to herself.

Mr. Hale did not answer for a minute or two. Nervous and confused, he opened his lips to speak several times, but closed them again without having the courage to utter a word. Margaret could not bear the suspense.


He looked up at her suddenly, and then said with a slow and enforced calmness,

He looked up at her suddenly, and then said with enforced calmness:


"Because I must no longer be a minister in the Church of England."

'Because I must no longer be a minister in the Church of England.'


Margaret had imagined nothing less than that some of the preferments which her mother had so much desired had befallen her father at last--something that would force him to leave beautiful, beloved Helstone, and perhaps compel him to go and live in some of the stately and silent Closes which Margaret had seen from time to time in Cathedral towns. They were grand and imposing places, but if, to go there, it was necessary to leave Helstone as a home for ever, that would have been a sad, long, lingering pain. But nothing to the shock she received from Mr. Hale's last speech. What could he mean? It was all the worse for being so mysterious. The aspect of piteous distress on his face, almost imploring a merciful and kind judgment from his child, gave her a sudden sickening. Could he have become implicated in anything Frederick had done? Frederick was an outlaw. Had her father, out of a natural love for his son, connived at any--

Margaret had imagined that the preferment which her mother so much desired had befallen her father at last - and would force him to leave beloved Helstone, to perhaps go and live in a stately Cathedral Close. That would have been a lingering pain; but nothing to the shock she received from Mr. Hale's last speech. What could he mean? The distress on his face gave her a sudden sickening. Could he have become implicated in anything Frederick had done? Frederick was an outlaw. Had her father, out of love for his son, connived at any-


"Oh! what is it? do speak, papa! tell me all! Why can you no longer be a clergyman? Surely, if the bishop were told all we know about Frederick, and the hard unjust--"

'Oh! what is it? do speak, papa! Why can you no longer be a clergyman? Surely, if the bishop were told all we know about Frederick-'


"It is nothing about Frederick; the bishop would have nothing to do with that. It is all myself. Margaret, I will tell you about it. I will answer any questions this once, but after to-night let us never speak of it again. I can meet the consequences of my painful, miserable doubts; but it is an effort beyond me to speak of what has caused me so much suffering."

'It is nothing about Frederick. It is all myself. Margaret, I will tell you, and answer any questions this once, but after tonight let us never speak of it again. I can meet the consequences of my painful, miserable doubts; but it is an effort beyond me to speak of what has caused me so much suffering.'


"Doubts, papa! Doubts as to religion?" asked Margaret, more shocked than ever.

'Doubts, papa! Doubts as to religion?' asked Margaret, more shocked than ever.


"No! not doubts as to religion; not the slightest injury to that."


He paused. Margaret sighed, as if standing on the verge of some new horror. He began again, speaking rapidly, as if to get over a set task:

He paused, and then began again, speaking rapidly, as if to get over a task:


"You could not understand it all, if I told you--my anxiety, for years past, to know whether I had any right to hold my living--my efforts to quench my smouldering doubts by the authority of the Church. Oh! Margaret, how I love the holy Church from which I am to be shut out!" He could not go on for a moment or two. Margaret could not tell what to say; it seemed to her as terribly mysterious as if her father were about to turn Mahometan.

'You could not understand it all, if I told you - my anxiety, for years, to know whether I had any right to hold my living - my efforts to quench my smouldering doubts by the authority of the Church. Oh! Margaret, how I love the holy Church from which I am to be shut out!' He could not go on for a moment. It seemed to Margaret as terribly mysterious as if her father were about to turn Mahometan.


"I have been reading to-day of the two thousand who were ejected from their churches,"--continued Mr. Hale, smiling faintly,--"trying to steal some of their bravery; but it is of no use--no use--I cannot help feeling it acutely."

'I have been reading today of the two thousand who were ejected from their churches,' continued Mr. Hale, smiling faintly, 'trying to steal some of their bravery; but I cannot help feeling it acutely.'


"But, papa, have you well considered? Oh! it seems so terrible, so shocking," said Margaret, suddenly bursting into tears. The one staid foundation of her home, of her idea of her beloved father, seemed reeling and rocking. What could she say? What was to be done? The sight of her distress made Mr. Hale nerve himself, in order to try and comfort her. He swallowed down the dry choking sobs which had been heaving up from his heart hitherto, and going to his bookcase he took down a volume, which he had often been reading lately, and from which he thought he had derived strength to enter upon the course in which he was now embarked.

'But, papa, have you considered? Oh! it seems so terrible, so shocking,' said Margaret, suddenly bursting into tears. The staid foundation of her home, of her idea of her beloved father, seemed reeling and rocking. What could she say? What was to be done?
Her distress made Mr. Hale nerve himself. He swallowed down the dry sobs which had been heaving up from his heart, and going to his bookcase, took down a volume which had lately given him strength.


"Listen, dear Margaret," said he, putting one arm round her waist. She took his hand in hers and grasped it tight, but she could not lift up her head; nor indeed could she attend to what he read, so great was her internal agitation.

'Listen, dear Margaret,' said he, putting one arm round her waist. She grasped his hand, but she could not lift up her head; nor indeed could she attend to what he read, so great was her agitation.


"This is the soliloquy of one who was once a clergyman in a country parish, like me; it was written by Mr. Oldfield, minister of Carsington, in Derbyshire, a hundred and sixty years ago, or more. His trials are over. He fought the good fight." These last two sentences he spoke low, as if to himself. Then he read aloud,--

'This is written by one who was once a clergyman in a country parish, like me; a Mr. Oldfield, a minister in Derbyshire, a hundred and sixty years ago. His trials are over. He fought the good fight.' These last two sentences he spoke low, as if to himself. Then he read aloud:


"When thou canst no longer continue in thy work without dishonour to God, discredit to religion, foregoing thy integrity, wounding conscience, spoiling thy peace, and hazarding the loss of thy salvation; in a word, when the conditions upon which thou must continue (if thou wilt continue) in thy employments are sinful, and unwarranted by the word of God, thou mayest, yea, thou must believe that God will turn thy very silence, suspension, deprivation, and laying aside, to His glory, and the advancement of the Gospel's interest. When God will not use thee in one kind, yet He will in another. A soul that desires to serve and honour Him shall never want opportunity to do it; nor must thou so limit the Holy One of Israel, as to think He hath but one way in which He can glorify Himself by thee. He can do it by thy silence as well as by thy preaching; the laying aside as well as thy continuance in thy work. It is not pretence of doing God the greatest service, or performing the weightiest duty, that will excuse the least sin, though that sin capacitated or gave us the opportunity for doing that duty. Thou wilt have little thanks, O my soul! if, when thou art charged with corrupting God's worship, falsifying thy vows, thou pretendest a necessity for it in order to a continuance in the ministry."

'"When thou canst no longer continue in thy work without dishonour to God, discredit to religion, foregoing thy integrity, wounding conscience, spoiling thy peace, and risking thy salvation; then thou must believe that God will turn thy very silence, deprivation, and laying aside, to His glory, and the advancement of the Gospel's interest. When God will not use thee in one kind, yet He will in another. A soul that desires to serve and honour Him shall never lack opportunity to do it; nor think He hath but one way in which He can glorify Himself by thee. Thou wilt have little thanks, O my soul! if, when thou art charged with corrupting God's worship, falsifying thy vows, thou pretendest a necessity for it in order to continue in the ministry."'


As he read this, and glanced at much more which he did not read, he gained resolution for himself, and felt as if he too could be brave and firm in doing what he believed to be right; but as he ceased he heard Margaret's low convulsive sob; and his courage sank down under the keen sense of suffering.

As he read this, he felt as if he too could be brave and firm in doing what he believed to be right; but as he ceased he heard Margaret's low convulsive sob; and his courage sank.


"Margaret, dear!" said he, drawing her closer, "think of the early martyrs; think of the thousands who have suffered."

'Margaret, dear!' said he, 'think of the early martyrs.'


"But, father," said she, suddenly lifting up her flushed, tear-wet face, "the early martyrs suffered for the truth, while you--oh! dear, dear papa!"

'But, father,' said she, lifting up her flushed, tear-wet face, 'the early martyrs suffered for the truth, while you - oh! dear papa!'


"I suffer for conscience' sake, my child," said he, with a dignity that was only tremulous from the acute sensitiveness of his character; "I must do what my conscience bids. I have borne long with self-reproach that would have roused any mind less torpid and cowardly than mine." He shook his head as he went on. "Your poor mother's fond wish, gratified at last in the mocking way in which over-fond wishes are too often fulfilled--Sodom apples as they are--has brought on this crisis, for which I ought to be, and I hope I am thankful. It is not a month since the bishop offered me another living; if I had accepted it, I should have had to make a fresh declaration of conformity to the Liturgy at my institution. Margaret, I tried to do it; I tried to content myself with simply refusing the additional preferment, and stopping quietly here,--strangling my conscience now, as I had strained it before. God forgive me!"

'I suffer for conscience' sake, my child,' said he, with tremulous dignity. 'I must do what my conscience bids. Your poor mother's fond wish has brought on this crisis, for which I hope I am thankful. A month ago the bishop offered me another living; if I had accepted it, I should have had to make a fresh declaration of conformity to the Liturgy. Margaret, I tried to do it; I tried to content myself with simply refusing the preferment, and staying quietly here - strangling my conscience. God forgive me!'


He rose and walked up and down the room, speaking low words of self-reproach and humiliation, of which Margaret was thankful to hear but few. At last he said,

He rose and walked up and down the room. At last he said,


"Margaret, I return to the old sad burden: we must leave Helstone."


"I have written to the bishop--I dare say I have told you so, but I forget things just now," said Mr. Hale, collapsing into his depressed manner as soon as he came to talk of hard matter-of-fact details, "informing him of my intention to resign this vicarage. He has been most kind; he has used arguments and expostulations, all in vain--in vain. They are but what I have tried upon myself, without avail. I shall have to take my deed of resignation, and wait upon the bishop myself, to bid him farewell. That will be a trial. But worse, far worse, will be the parting from my dear people. There is a curate appointed to read prayers--a Mr. Brown. He will come to stay with us to-morrow. Next Sunday I preach my farewell sermon."

'I have written to the bishop,' said Mr. Hale, collapsing into his depressed manner as soon as he came to talk of hard matter-of-fact details, 'informing him of my intention to resign this vicarage. He has been most kind; he has argued with me in vain. I shall have to take my resignation to him in person. That will be a trial, but far worse will be the parting from my dear people. There is a curate appointed to read prayers. He will come tomorrow. Next Sunday I preach my farewell sermon.'


Was it to be so sudden then? thought Margaret; and yet perhaps it was as well. Lingering would only add stings to the pain; it was better to be stunned into numbness by hearing of all these arrangements, which seemed to be nearly completed before she had been told. "What does mamma say?" asked she, with a deep sigh.

So sudden? thought Margaret; and yet perhaps it was as well. Lingering would only add stings to the pain. 'What does mamma say?' asked she.


To her surprise, her father began to walk about again before he answered. At length he stopped and replied:

Her father began to walk about again before he answered.


"Margaret, I am a poor coward after all. I cannot bear to give pain. I know so well your mother's married life has not been all she hoped--all she had a right to expect--and this will be such a blow to her, that I have never had the heart, the power to tell her. She must be told though, now," said he, looking wistfully at his daughter. Margaret was almost overpowered with the idea that her mother knew nothing of it all, and yet the affair was so far advanced!

'Margaret, I am a poor coward after all. I cannot bear to give pain. I know your mother's married life has not been all she hoped - and this will be such a blow to her, that I have not had the heart to tell her. She must be told though, now,' said he, looking wistfully at his daughter.
Margaret was almost overpowered with the idea that her mother knew nothing of it.


"Yes, indeed she must," said Margaret. "Perhaps, after all, she may not--Oh yes! she will, she must be shocked"--as the force of the blow returned upon herself in trying to realise how another would take it. "Where are we to go to?" said she at last, struck with a fresh wonder as to their future plans, if plans indeed her father had.

'Yes, indeed she must. She will be shocked - where are we to go?' said she, struck with fresh wonder as to their future plans.


"To Milton-Northern," he answered, with a dull indifference, for he had perceived that, although his daughter's love had made her cling to him, and for a moment strive to soothe him with her love, yet the keenness of the pain was as fresh as ever in her mind.

'To Milton-Northern,' he answered, with a dull indifference, perceiving his daughter's pain.


"Milton-Northern! The manufacturing town in Darkshire?"

'Milton-Northern! The manufacturing town in Darkshire?


"Yes," said he, in the same despondent, indifferent way.


"Because there I can earn bread for my family. Because I know no one there, and no one knows Helstone, or can ever talk to me about it."

'Because there I can earn bread for my family. Because I know no one there, and no one knows Helstone, or can ever talk to me about it.'


"Bread for your family! I thought you and mamma had"--and then she stopped, checking her natural interest regarding their future life, as she saw the gathering gloom on her father's brow. But he, with his quick intuitive sympathy, read in her face, as in a mirror, the reflections of his own moody depression, and turned it off with an effort.

'Bread for your family! I thought you and mamma had-' She stopped as she saw the gathering gloom on her father's brow. But he turned it off with an effort.


"You shall be told all, Margaret. Only help me to tell your mother. I think I could do anything but that: the idea of her distress turns me sick with dread. If I tell you all, perhaps you could break it to her to-morrow. I am going out for the day, to bid farmer Dobson and the poor people on Bracy Common good-bye. Would you dislike breaking it to her very much, Margaret?"

'You shall be told all, Margaret. Only help me to tell your mother. The idea of her distress turns me sick with dread. Perhaps you could break it to her tomorrow. I will be going out for the day, to bid people good-bye. Would you dislike breaking it to her very much?'


Margaret did dislike it, did shrink from it more than from anything she had ever had to do in her life before. She could not speak, all at once. Her father said, "You dislike it very much don't you, Margaret?" Then she conquered herself, and said, with a bright strong look on her face:

Margaret did dislike it, did shrink from it more than from anything she had ever had to do in her life before. She could not speak. Then she conquered herself, and said, with a bright strong look on her face:


"It is a painful thing, but it must be done, and I will do it as well as ever I can. You must have many painful things to do."

'It is a painful thing, but it must be done, and I will do it as well as I can. You must have many painful things to do.'


Mr. Hale shook his head despondingly: he pressed her hand in token of gratitude. Margaret was nearly upset again into a burst of crying. To turn her thoughts, she said: "Now tell me, papa, what our plans are. You and mamma have some money, independent of the income from the living, have you not? Aunt Shaw has, I know."

Mr. Hale shook his head: he pressed her hand in gratitude. Margaret nearly burst out crying again. To turn her thoughts, she said: 'Now tell me, papa, what our plans are. You and mamma have some money of your own, have you not?'


"Yes. I suppose we have about a hundred and twenty pounds a year of our own. Seventy of that has always gone to Frederick, since he has been abroad. I don't know if he wants it all," he continued in a hesitating manner. "He must have some pay for serving with the Spanish army."

'Yes. I suppose we have about a hundred and seventy pounds a year. Seventy of that has always gone to Frederick, since he has been abroad. I don't know if he wants it all. He must have some pay for serving with the Spanish army.'


"Frederick must not suffer," said Margaret, decidedly; "in a foreign country; so unjustly treated by his own. A hundred is left. Could not you, and I, and mamma live on a hundred a year in some very cheap--very quiet part of England? Oh! I think we could."

'Frederick must not suffer,' said Margaret decidedly, 'in a foreign country; so unjustly treated by his own. A hundred is left. Could not we live on a hundred a year in some very quiet part of England?'


"No!" said Mr. Hale. "That would not answer. I must do something! I must make myself busy, to keep off morbid thoughts. Besides, in a country parish I should be so painfully reminded of Helstone, and my duties here. I could not bear it, Margaret. And a hundred a year would go a very little way, after the necessary wants of housekeeping are met, towards providing your mother with all the comforts she has been accustomed to, and ought to have. No: we must go to Milton. That is settled. I can always decide better by myself, and not influenced by those whom I love," said he, as a half apology for having arranged so much before he had told any one of his family of his intentions. "I cannot stand objections. They make me so undecided."

'No!' said Mr. Hale. 'That would not answer. I must do something. I must make myself busy, to keep off morbid thoughts. But in a country parish I should be so painfully reminded of Helstone, I could not bear it, Margaret. And a hundred a year would not go far towards providing your mother with all the comforts she ought to have. No: we must go to Milton. That is settled. I can always decide better by myself,' said he, as a half apology for having arranged it already.


Margaret resolved to keep silence. After all, what did it signify where they went, compared to the one terrible change?


Mr. Hale continued: "A few months ago, when my misery of doubt became more than I could bear without speaking, I wrote to Mr. Bell--you remember Mr. Bell, Margaret?"

Mr. Hale continued: 'A few months ago, when my misery of doubt became more than I could bear, I wrote to Mr. Bell - you remember Mr. Bell, Margaret?'


"No; I never saw him, I think. But I know who he is. Frederick's godfather--your old tutor at Oxford, don't you mean?"

'I never saw him, but I know who he is. Frederick's godfather - your old tutor at Oxford, don't you mean?'


"Yes. He is a Fellow of Plymouth College there. He is a native of Milton-Northern, I believe. At any rate he has property there, which has very much increased in value since Milton has become such a large manufacturing town. Well; I had reason to suspect--to imagine--I had better say nothing about it, however. But I felt sure of sympathy from Mr. Bell. I don't know that he gave me much strength. He has lived an easy life in his college all his days. But he has been as kind as can be. And it is owing to him we are going to Milton."

'Yes. He is a Fellow of Plymouth College. He is a native of Milton-Northern, and has property there. Well, I felt sure of sympathy from Mr. Bell. I don't know that he gave me much strength; he has always lived an easy life in his college. But he has been as kind as can be. And it is owing to him we are going to Milton.


"Why he has tenants, and houses, and mills there; so, though he dislikes the place--too bustling for one of his habits--he is obliged to keep up some sort of connection; and he tells me that he hears there is a good opening for a private tutor there."

He has tenants and houses there; so, though the place is too bustling for him, he keeps up the connection; and he tells me that there is a good opening for a private tutor.'


"A private tutor!" said Margaret, looking scornful: "What in the world do manufacturers want with the classics, or literature, or the accomplishments of a gentleman?"

'A private tutor!' said Margaret scornfully. 'What do manufacturers want with the classics, or literature, or the accomplishments of a gentleman?'


"Oh," said her father, "some of them really seem to be fine fellows, conscious of their own deficiencies, which is more than many a man at Oxford is. Some want resolutely to learn, though they have come to man's estate. Some want their children to be better instructed than they themselves have been. At any rate, there is an opening, as I have said, for a private tutor. Mr. Bell has recommended me to a Mr. Thornton, a tenant of his, and a very intelligent man, as far as I can judge from his letters. And in Milton, Margaret, I shall find a busy life, if not a happy one, and people and scenes so different that I shall never be reminded of Helstone."

'Oh,' said her father, 'some of them seem to be fine fellows, conscious of their own deficiencies, which is more than many a man at Oxford is. Some want to learn themselves; some want their children to be better instructed than they themselves have been. Mr. Bell has recommended me to a Mr. Thornton, a tenant of his, and a very intelligent man, as far as I can judge from his letters. And in Milton, Margaret, I shall find a busy life, if not a happy one, and I shall never be reminded of Helstone.'


There was the secret motive, as Margaret knew from her own feelings. It would be different. Discordant as it was--with almost a detestation for all she had ever heard of the North of England, the manufacturers, the people, the wild and bleak country--there was this one recommendation--it would be different to Helstone, and could never remind them of that beloved place.

There was the secret motive, as Margaret knew from her own feelings. It would be different. Although she almost detested all she had ever heard of the North of England - the manufacturers, the people, the wild, bleak country - there was this one recommendation: it would be different from Helstone, and could never remind them of that beloved place.


"When do we go?" asked Margaret, after a short silence.


"I do not know exactly. I wanted to talk it over with you. You see, your mother knows nothing about it yet: but I think, in a fortnight;--after my deed of resignation is sent in, I shall have no right to remain."

'In a fortnight; after my resignation is sent in, I shall have no right to remain.'


"No--no, not exactly to a day. Nothing is fixed," said her father, with anxious hesitation, as he noticed the filmy sorrow that came over her eyes, and the sudden change in her complexion. But she recovered herself immediately.

'Nothing is fixed,' said her father anxiously. But she recovered herself immediately.


"Yes, papa, it had better be fixed soon and decidedly, as you say. Only mamma to know nothing about it! It is that that is the great perplexity."

'Yes, papa, it had better be fixed soon. Only mamma knows nothing about it! That is the great perplexity.'


"Poor Maria!" replied Mr. Hale tenderly. "Poor, poor Maria! Oh, if I were not married--if I were but myself in the world, how easy it would be! As it is--Margaret, I dare not tell her!"

'Poor Maria!' replied Mr. Hale. 'I dare not tell her!'


"No," said Margaret, sadly, "I will do it. Give me till to-morrow evening to choose my time. Oh, papa," cried she with sudden passionate entreaty, "say--tell me it is a nightmare--a horrid dream--not the real waking truth! You cannot mean that you are really going to leave the Church--to give up Helstone--to be for ever separate from me, from mamma--led away by some delusion--some temptation! You do not really mean it!"

'No,' said Margaret, sadly. 'I will do it. Give me till tomorrow evening to choose my time. Oh, papa,' cried she, with sudden passionate entreaty, 'say it is a nightmare - not the waking truth! You cannot mean that you are really going to leave the Church - to give up Helstone - led away by some delusion!'


Mr. Hale sat in rigid stillness while she spoke.


Then he looked her in the face, and said in a slow, hoarse, measured way--"I do mean it, Margaret. You must not deceive yourself in doubting the reality of my words--my fixed intention and resolve." He looked at her in the same steady, stony manner, for some moments after he had done speaking. She, too, gazed back with pleading eyes before she would believe it was irrevocable. Then she arose and went, without another word or look, towards the door. As her fingers were on the handle he called her back. He was standing by the fireplace, shrunk and stooping; but as she came near he drew himself up to his full height, and, placing his hands on her head, he said, solemnly:

Then he said in a slow, hoarse, measured way:
'I do mean it, Margaret. Do not doubt the reality of my words and my resolve.' He looked at her in a steady, stony manner.
She gazed back with pleading eyes before she would believe that it was irrevocable. Then she arose and went, without another word, towards the door.
As her fingers were on the handle he called her back. He was standing by the fireplace, shrunk and stooping; but as she came near he drew himself up to his full height, and, placing his hands on her head, he said solemnly:


"The blessing of God be upon thee, my child!"

'The blessing of God be upon thee, my child!'


"And may He restore you to His Church," responded she, out of the fulness of her heart. The next moment she feared lest this answer to his blessing might be irreverent, wrong--might hurt him as coming from his daughter, and she threw her arms round his neck. He held her to him for a minute or two. She heard him murmur to himself, "The martyrs and confessors had even more pain to bear--I will not shrink."

'And may He restore you to His Church,' responded she. The next moment she feared lest this answer might hurt him, and she threw her arms round his neck. He held her for a minute. She heard him murmur to himself, 'The martyrs and confessors had more pain to bear - I will not shrink.'


They were startled by hearing Mrs. Hale inquiring for her daughter. They started asunder in the full consciousness of all that was before them. Mr. Hale hurriedly said "Go, Margaret, go. I shall be out all to-morrow. Before night you will have told your mother."

They were startled by hearing Mrs. Hale inquiring for her daughter. Mr. Hale hurriedly said:
'Go, Margaret, go. I shall be out all tomorrow. Before night you will have told your mother.'


"Yes," she replied, and she returned to the drawing-room in a stunned and dizzy state.

'Yes,' she replied, and returned to the drawing-room in a stunned and dizzy state.


"Truth will fail thee never, never! Though thy bark be tempest-driven, Though each plank be rent and riven, Truth will bear thee on for ever!" ANON.


The "bearing up better than likely" was a terrible strain upon Margaret. Sometimes she thought she must give way, and cry out with pain, as the sudden sharp thought came across her, even during her apparently cheerful conversations with her father, that she had no longer a mother. About Frederick, too, there was great uneasiness. The Sunday post intervened, and interfered with their London letters; and on Tuesday Margaret was surprised and disheartened to find that there was still no letter. She was quite in the dark as to his plans, and her father was miserable at all this uncertainty. It broke in upon his lately acquired habit of sitting still in one easy chair for half a day together. He kept pacing up and down the room; then out of it; and she heard him upon the landing opening and shutting the bed-room doors, without any apparent object. She tried to tranquillise him by reading aloud; but it was evident he could not listen for long together. How thankful she was then, that she had kept to herself the additional cause for anxiety produced by their encounter with Leonards. She was thankful to hear Mr. Thornton announced. His visit would force her father's thoughts into another channel.

The 'bearing up better than likely' was a terrible strain upon Margaret. Sometimes she thought she must give way, and cry out with pain, as the sudden sharp thought came across her, even during her apparently cheerful conversations with her father, that she no longer had a mother.
About Frederick, too, there was great uneasiness. By Tuesday Margaret was surprised and disheartened to find that there was still no letter. She was quite in the dark as to his plans, and her father was miserable, and kept pacing up and down the room. She tried to tranquillise him by reading aloud; but he could not listen for long. She was glad that she had not told him about their encounter with Leonards.
She was thankful to hear Mr. Thornton announced. His visit would force her father's thoughts into another channel.


He came up straight to her father, whose hands he took and wrung without a word--holding them in his for a minute or two, during which time his face, his eyes, his look, told of more sympathy than could be put into words. Then he turned to Margaret. Not "better than likely" did she look. Her stately beauty was dimmed with much watching and with many tears. The expression on her countenance was of gentle patient sadness--nay of positive present suffering. He had not meant to greet her otherwise than with his late studied coldness of demeanour; but he could not help going up to her, as she stood a little aside, rendered timid by the uncertainty of his manner of late, and saying the few necessary common-place words in so tender a voice, that her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away to hide her emotion. She took her work and sate down very quiet and silent. Mr. Thornton's heart beat quick and strong, and for the time he utterly forgot the Outwood lane. He tried to talk to Mr. Hale: and--his presence always a certain kind of pleasure to Mr. Hale, as his power and decision made him, and his opinions, a safe, sure port--was unusually agreeable to her father, as Margaret saw.

He came straight up to her father, whose hands he took silently - holding them in his for a minute or two, while his look told of more sympathy than could be put into words. Then he turned to Margaret. She did not look 'better than likely'. Her stately beauty was dimmed with much watching and with many tears. The expression on her face was of gentle patient sadness, nay, of positive suffering. He had meant to greet her coldly; but he could not help going up to her, and saying the few necessary commonplace words in so tender a voice, that her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away to hide her emotion. She took her needlework and sat down very quiet.
Mr. Thornton's heart beat quick and strong, and for the time he utterly forgot the Outwood lane. He tried to talk to Mr. Hale: and his presence gave her father pleasure, Margaret saw.


Presently Dixon came to the door and said, "Miss Hale, you are wanted."

Presently Dixon came to the door and said, 'Miss Hale, you are wanted.'


Dixon's manner was so flurried that Margaret turned sick at heart. Something had happened to Fred. She had no doubt of that. It was well that her father and Mr. Thornton were so much occupied by their conversation.

Dixon's manner was so flurried that Margaret turned sick at heart. Something had happened to Fred. She had no doubt of that. It was well that her father and Mr. Thornton were busy talking.


"What is it, Dixon?" asked Margaret, the moment she had shut the drawing-room door.

'What is it, Dixon?' asked Margaret, after shutting the drawing-room door.


"Come this way, miss," said Dixon, opening the door of what had been Mrs. Hale's bed-chamber, now Margaret's, for her father refused to sleep there again after his wife's death. "It's nothing, miss," said Dixon, choking a little. "Only a police-inspector. He wants to see you, miss. But I dare say, it's about nothing at all."

'It's nothing, miss,' said Dixon, choking a little. 'Only a police-inspector. He wants to see you, miss. But I dare say, it's about nothing at all.'


"Did he name--" asked Margaret, almost inaudibly.

'Did he name-' asked Margaret, almost inaudibly.


"No, miss; he named nothing. He only asked if you lived here, and if he could speak to you. Martha went to the door, and let him in; she has shown him into master's study. I went to him myself, to try if that would do; but no--it's you, miss, he wants."

'No, miss; he named nothing. He only asked if you lived here, and if he could speak to you. Martha let him in; she has shown him into master's study.'


Margaret did not speak again till her hand was on the lock of the study door. Here she turned round and said, "Take care papa does not come down. Mr. Thornton is with him now."

Margaret did not speak again till her hand was on the study door. Then she turned and said, 'Take care papa does not come down. Mr. Thornton is with him now.'


The inspector was almost daunted by the haughtiness of her manner as she entered. There was something of indignation expressed in her countenance, but so kept down and controlled, that it gave her a superb air of disdain. There was no surprise, no curiosity. She stood awaiting the opening of his business there. Not a question did she ask.

The inspector was almost daunted by the haughtiness of her manner as she entered. There was a controlled indignation in her face that gave her a superb air of disdain. She showed no surprise, no curiosity, but stood waiting for him to speak.


"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but my duty obliges me to ask you a few plain questions. A man has died at the Infirmary, in consequence of a fall, received at Outwood station, between the hours of five and six on Thursday evening, the twenty-sixth instant. At the time, this fall did not seem of much consequence; but it was rendered fatal, the doctors say, by the presence of some internal complaint, and the man's own habit of drinking."

'I beg your pardon, ma'am, but my duty obliges me to ask you a few plain questions. A man has died at the Infirmary, in consequence of a fall received at Outwood station, between the hours of five and six on Thursday evening. At the time, this fall did not seem of much consequence; but it was rendered fatal, the doctors say, by the presence of some internal complaint, and the man's own habit of drinking.'


The large dark eyes, gazing straight into the inspector's face, dilated a little. Otherwise there was no motion perceptible to his experienced observation. Her lips swelled out into a richer curve than ordinary, owing to the enforced tension of the muscles, but he did not know what was their usual appearance, so as to recognise the unwonted sullen defiance of the firm sweeping lines. She never blenched or trembled. She fixed him with her eye. Now--as he paused before going on, she said, almost as if she would encourage him in telling his tale--"Well--go on!"

The large dark eyes, gazing straight into the inspector's face, dilated a little. Otherwise he observed no motion. She never trembled, but fixed him with her eye. Now, as he paused, she said, 'Well - go on!'


"It is supposed that an inquest will have to be held; there is some slight evidence to prove that the blow, or push, or scuffle that caused the fall, was provoked by this poor fellow's half-tipsy impertinence to a young lady, walking with the man who pushed the deceased over the edge of the platform. This much was observed by some one on the platform, who, however, thought no more about the matter, as the blow seemed of slight consequence. There is also some reason to identify the lady with yourself; in which case--"

'An inquest will have to be held; there is some slight evidence that the blow, or push, or scuffle that caused the fall, was provoked by this poor fellow's tipsy impertinence to a young lady, walking with a man who pushed the deceased over the edge of the platform. This much was observed by someone on the platform, who, however, thought no more about the matter, as the blow seemed of slight consequence. There is some reason to identify the lady with yourself; in which case-'


"I was not there," said Margaret, still keeping her expressionless eyes fixed on his face, with the unconscious look of a sleep-walker.

'I was not there,' said Margaret, still keeping her expressionless eyes fixed on his face.


The inspector bowed but did not speak. The lady standing before him showed no emotion, no fluttering fear, no anxiety, no desire to end the interview. The information he had received was very vague; one of the porters, rushing out to be in readiness for the train, had seen a scuffle, at the other end of the platform, between Leonards and a gentleman accompanied by a lady, but heard no noise; and before the train had got to its full speed after starting, he had been almost knocked down by the headlong run of the enraged half-intoxicated Leonards, swearing and cursing awfully. He had not thought any more about it, till his evidence was routed out by the inspector, who, on making some farther inquiry at the railroad station, had heard from the station-master that a young lady and gentleman had been there about that hour--the lady remarkably handsome--and said, by some grocer's assistant present at the time, to be a Miss Hale, living at Crampton, whose family dealt at his shop. There was no certainty that the one lady and gentleman were identical with the other pair, but there was great probability. Leonards himself had gone, half-mad with rage and pain, to the nearest gin-palace for comfort; and his tipsy words had not been attended to by the busy waiters there; they, however, remembered his starting up and cursing himself for not having sooner thought of the electric telegraph, for some purpose unknown; and they believed that he left with the idea of going there. On his way, overcome by pain or drink, he had lain down in the road, where the police had found him and taken him to the Infirmary: there he had never recovered sufficient consciousness to give any distinct account of his fall, although once or twice he had had glimmerings of sense sufficient to make the authorities send for the nearest magistrate, in hopes that he might be able to take down the dying man's deposition of the cause of his death. But when the magistrate had come, he was rambling about being at sea, and mixing up names of captains and lieutenants in an indistinct manner with those of his fellow porters at the railway; and his last words were a curse on the "Cornish trick" which had, he said, made him a hundred pounds poorer than he ought to have been. The inspector ran all this over in his mind--the vagueness of the evidence to prove that Margaret had been at the station--the unflinching, calm denial which she gave to such a supposition. She stood awaiting his next word with a composure that appeared supreme.

The inspector bowed but did not speak. The lady before him showed no emotion, no fluttering fear, no desire to end the interview. The information he had received was very vague; one of the porters had seen a scuffle at the other end of the platform, between Leonards and a gentleman with a lady, but heard no noise; and soon after the train had started, he had been almost knocked down by the headlong run of the enraged Leonards, who was cursing awfully. The station-master had told the inspector that a young lady and gentleman had been there about that hour - the lady remarkably handsome, and said by a grocer's assistant who was there to be a Miss Hale of Crampton.
Leonards himself, half-mad with rage and pain, had gone to the nearest gin-palace, where the busy waiters did not attend much to his tipsy words. However, they remembered his starting up and cursing himself for not having thought of the electric telegraph, for some purpose unknown. They believed that he was going to telegraph when, overcome by pain or drink, he had lain down in the road, where the police had found him and taken him to the Infirmary.
There he had never recovered full consciousness, although a magistrate was fetched in case he spoke; but he was rambling about being at sea, and mixing up names of captains and lieutenants in an indistinct manner with those of his fellow porters. His last words were a curse on the 'Cornish trick' which had, he said, made him a hundred pounds poorer than he ought to have been. The inspector ran over all this in his mind while Margaret stood awaiting his next words with supreme composure.


"Then, madam, I have your denial that you were the lady accompanying the gentleman who struck the blow, or gave the push, which caused the death of this poor man?"

'Then, madam, I have your denial that you were the lady accompanying the gentleman who struck the blow, or gave the push, which caused the death of this poor man?'


A quick, sharp pain went through Margaret's brain. "Oh God! that I knew Frederick were safe!" A deep observer of human countenances might have seen the momentary agony shoot out of her great gloomy eyes, like the torture of some creature brought to bay. But the inspector though a very keen, was not a very deep observer. He was a little struck, notwithstanding, by the form of the answer, which sounded like a mechanical repetition of her first reply--not changed and modified in shape so as to meet his last question.

A quick, sharp pain went through Margaret's brain. 'Oh God! that I knew Frederick were safe!' The inspector was a little struck by the form of her answer, which sounded like a mechanical repetition of her first reply.


"I was not there," said she, slowly and heavily. And all this time she never closed her eyes, or ceased from that glassy, dream-like stare. His quick suspicions were aroused by this dull echo of her former denial. It was as if she had forced herself to one untruth, and had been stunned out of all power of varying it.

'I was not there,' said she, slowly and heavily, never ceasing from that glassy, dream-like stare. His quick suspicions were aroused by this dull echo of her former denial.


He put up his book of notes in a very deliberate manner. Then he looked up; she had not moved any more than if she had been some great Egyptian statue.

He put away his notebook in a very deliberate manner. Still she did not move.


"I hope you will not think me impertinent when I say, that I may have to call on you again. I may have to summon you to appear on the inquest, and prove an alibi, if my witnesses" (it was but one who had recognised her) "persist in deposing to your presence at the unfortunate event." He looked at her sharply. She was still perfectly quiet--no change of colour, or darker shadow of guilt, on her proud face. He thought to have seen her wince: he did not know Margaret Hale. He was a little abashed by her real composure. It must have been a mistake of identity. He went on:

'Miss Hale, I may have to call on you again. I may have to summon you to appear at the inquest, and prove an alibi, if my witnesses persist in deposing to your presence at the unfortunate event.' He looked at her sharply. She was still perfectly quiet, with no change of colour, and he was a little abashed by her regal composure. His one witness must have mistaken her identity. He went on:


"It is very unlikely, ma'am, that I shall have to do anything of the kind. I hope you will excuse me for doing what is only my duty, although it may appear impertinent."

'It is very unlikely, ma'am, that I shall have to do anything of the kind. I hope you will excuse me for doing what is only my duty.'


Margaret bowed her head as he went towards the door. Her lips were stiff and dry. She could not speak even the common words of farewell. But suddenly she walked forwards, and opened the study door, and preceded him to the door of the house, which she threw wide open for his exit. She kept her eyes upon him in the same dull, fixed manner, until he was fairly out of the house. She shut the door, and went half-way into the study; then turned back, as if moved by some passionate impulse, and locked the door inside.

Margaret bowed her head as he went towards the door. Her lips were stiff and dry. She could not speak. But she walked before him to the door of the house, which she threw wide for his exit. Once he was out, she shut the door, and locked it.


Then she went into the study, paused--tottered forward--paused again--swayed for an instant where she stood, and fell prone on the floor in a dead swoon.

Then she went into the study, paused - tottered forward - swayed for an instant, and fell on the floor in a dead swoon.


"I have found that holy place of rest Still changeless." MRS. HEMANS.


When Mr. Thornton had left the house that morning he was almost blinded by his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret, instead of looking, and speaking, and moving like a tender graceful woman, had been a sturdy fish-wife, and given him a sound blow with her fists. He had positive bodily pain--a violent headache, and a throbbing intermittent pulse. He could not bear the noise, the garish light, the continued rumble and movement of the street. He called himself a fool for suffering so; and yet he could not, at the moment, recollect the cause of his suffering, and whether it was adequate to the consequences it had produced. It would have been a relief to him, if he could have sat down and cried on a door-step by a little child, who was raging and storming, through his passionate tears, at some injury he had received. He said to himself, that he hated Margaret, but a wild, sharp sensation of love cleft his dull, thunderous feeling like lightning, even as he shaped the words expressive of hatred. His greatest comfort was in hugging his torment and in feeling, as he had indeed said to her, that though she might despise him, contemn him, treat him with her proud sovereign indifference, he did not change one whit. She could not make him change. He loved her, and would love her; and defy her, and this miserable bodily pain.

When Mr. Thornton had left the Hales' house that morning he was almost blinded by his baffled passion. He was as dizzy as if Margaret, instead of speaking like a tender graceful woman, had been a sturdy fish-wife, and given him a sound blow with her fists. He had a violent headache, and a throbbing pulse. He could not bear the noise, the garish light, the rumble and movement of the street. He called himself a fool for suffering so; and yet it would have been a relief if he could have sat down and cried on a door-step beside a little child who was raging and storming there.
He said to himself that he hated Margaret - but a wild, sharp sensation of love cleft his thunderous feeling like lightning, even as he shaped the words. His greatest comfort was in thinking that though she might despise him and treat him with proud indifference, he did not change one whit. She could not make him change. He loved her, and would love her; and defy her, and this miserable pain.


He stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm and clear. There was an omnibus passing--going into the country; the conductor thought he was wishing for a place, and stopped near the pavement. It was too much trouble to apologise and explain; so he mounted upon it, and was borne away--past long rows of houses--then past detached villas with trim gardens, till they came to real country hedge-rows, and, by-and-by, to a small country town. Then everybody got down; and so did Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away he did so too. He went into the fields, walking briskly, because the sharp motion relieved his mind. He could remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he must have cut; the absurd way in which he had gone and done the very thing he had so often agreed with himself in thinking would be the most foolish thing in the world; and had met with exactly the consequences which, in these wise moods, he had always foretold were certain to follow, if he ever did make such a fool of himself. Was he bewitched by those beautiful eyes, that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his shoulder only yesterday? He could not even shake off the recollection that she had been there; that her arms had been round him, once--if never again. He only caught glimpses of her; he did not understand her altogether. At one time she was so brave, and at another so timid; now so tender, and then so haughty and regal proud. And then he thought over every time he had ever seen her once again, by way of finally forgetting her. He saw her in every dress, in every mood, and did not know which became her best. Even this morning how magnificent she had looked--her eyes flashing out upon him at the idea that, because she had shared his danger yesterday, she had cared for him the least!

He stood still for a moment, to make this resolution firm and clear. There was an omnibus passing; the conductor thought he wished to get on, and stopped. It was too much trouble to apologise and explain, so he mounted upon it, and was borne away - past long rows of houses - then past detached villas with trim gardens, till they came to real country hedge-rows, and a small country town. Then everybody got down; and so did Mr. Thornton, and because they walked away he did so too.
He went into the fields, walking briskly to relieve his mind. He remembered the pitiful figure he must have cut; the absurd way in which he had gone and done the very thing he had told himself would be the most foolish thing in the world; and had met with exactly the result which he might have expected.
Was he bewitched by those beautiful eyes, that soft, half-open, sighing mouth which lay so close upon his shoulder only yesterday? He could not even shake off the recollection that she had been there; that her arms had been round him, once - if never again. He only caught glimpses of her nature; he did not understand her altogether. At one time she was so brave, and at another so timid; now so tender, and then so haughty. And then he thought over every time he had ever seen her, by way of finally forgetting her. Even this morning, how magnificent she had looked - her eyes flashing at the idea that she cared for him!


If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he assured himself at least twenty times he was, he did not grow much wiser in the afternoon. All that he gained for his sixpenny omnibus ride, was a more vivid conviction that there never was, never could be, any one like Margaret; that she did not love him and never would; but that she--no! nor the whole world--should never hinder him from loving her. And so he returned to the little market-place, and remounted the omnibus to return to Milton.

If Mr. Thornton was a fool in the morning, as he told himself twenty times, he did not grow much wiser in the afternoon. All that he gained in return for his omnibus ride was a conviction that there never could be anyone like Margaret; that she did not love him; but that she should never prevent him from loving her. And so he returned to the little market-place, and remounted the omnibus to Milton.


It was late in the afternoon when he was set down, near his warehouse. The accustomed places brought back the accustomed habits and trains of thought. He knew how much he had to do--more than his usual work, owing to the commotion of the day before. He had to see his brother magistrates; he had to complete the arrangements, only half made in the morning, for the comfort and safety of his newly imported Irish hands; he had to secure them from all chance of communication with the discontented workpeople of Milton. Last of all, he had to go home and encounter his mother.

It was late in the afternoon when he was set down near his warehouse. He knew he had much work to do, after the commotion of the day before. He had to see his brother magistrates; he had to complete arrangements for the safety of his new Irish hands; he had to ensure they could not communicate with the discontented work-people of Milton. Last of all, he had to go home and meet his mother.


Mrs. Thornton had sat in the dining-room all day, every moment expecting the news of her son's acceptance by Miss Hale. She had braced herself up many and many a time, at some sudden noise in the house; had caught up the half-dropped work, and begun to ply her needle diligently, though through dimmed spectacles, and with an unsteady hand! and many times had the door opened, and some indifferent person entered on some insignificant errand. Then her rigid face unstiffened from its gray frost-bound expression, and the features dropped into the relaxed look of despondency, so unusual to their sternness. She wrenched herself away from the contemplation of all the dreary changes that would be brought about to herself by her son's marriage; she forced her thoughts into the accustomed household grooves. The newly-married couple-to-be would need fresh household stocks of linen: and Mrs. Thornton had clothes-basket upon clothes-basket, full of table-cloths and napkins, brought in, and began to reckon up the store. There was some confusion between what was hers, and consequently marked G. H. T. (for George and Hannah Thornton), and what was her son's--bought with his money, marked with his initials. Some of those marked G. H. T. were Dutch damask of the old kind, exquisitely fine; none were like them now. Mrs. Thornton stood looking at them long,--they had been her pride when she was first married. Then she knit her brows, and pinched and compressed her lips tight, and carefully unpicked the G.H. She went so far as to search for the Turkey-red marking-thread to put in the new initials; but it was all used,--and she had no heart to send for any more just yet. So she looked fixedly at vacancy; a series of visions passing before her, in all of which her son was the principal, the sole object,--her son, her pride, her property. Still he did not come. Doubtless he was with Miss Hale. The new love was displacing her already from her place as first in his heart. A terrible pain--a pang of vain jealousy--shot through her: she hardly knew whether it was more physical or mental; but it forced her to sit down. In a moment, she was up again as straight as ever,--a grim smile upon her face for the first time that day, ready for the door opening, and the rejoicing triumphant one, who should never know the sore regret his mother felt at his marriage. In all this, there was little thought enough of the future daughter-in-law as an individual. She was to be John's wife. To take Mrs. Thornton's place as mistress of the house, was only one of the rich consequences which decked out the supreme glory: all household plenty and comfort, all purple and fine linen, honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, would all come as naturally as jewels on a king's robe, and be as little thought of for their separate value. To be chosen by John, would separate a kitchen-wench from the rest of the world. And Miss Hale was not so bad. If she had been a Milton lass, Mrs. Thornton would have positively liked her. She was pungent, and had taste, and spirit, and flavour in her. True, she was sadly prejudiced, and very ignorant; but that was to be expected from her southern breeding. A strange sort of mortified comparison of Fanny with her, went on in Mrs. Thornton's mind; and for once she spoke harshly to her daughter; abused her roundly; and then, by way of penance, she took up Henry's Commentaries, and tried to fix her attention on it, instead of pursuing the employment she took pride in, and continuing her inspection of the table-linen.

Mrs. Thornton had sat in the dining-room all day, every moment expecting the news of her son's acceptance by Miss Hale. She had braced herself up many a time, at some sudden noise; had caught up the half-dropped work, and begun to ply her needle diligently, though unsteadily. Many times had the door opened, and somebody entered on some insignificant errand. Then her rigid face had relaxed into despondency.
She wrenched herself away from contemplating all the dreary changes that her son's marriage would bring; she forced her thoughts into the accustomed household grooves. The newly-married couple-to-be would need fresh stocks of linen; so Mrs. Thornton had clothes-baskets full of table-cloths and napkins brought in, and began to reckon up the store. Some were hers, and marked G. H. T. (for George and Hannah Thornton), and some were her son's, marked with his initials. Her own were old Dutch damask, exquisitely fine; they had been her pride when she was first married. Mrs. Thornton knit her brows, and pinched her lips tight, and carefully unpicked the G. H.
Still her son did not come. Doubtless he was with Miss Hale. The new love was displacing her already. A terrible pang of vain jealousy shot through her, forcing her to sit down; but in a moment, she was up again as straight as ever - a grim smile upon her face, ready for the door opening. Her triumphant son should never know the sore regret his mother felt at his marriage.
In all this, there was little thought of the future daughter-in-law as an individual. She was to be John's wife. She would take Mrs. Thornton's place as mistress of the house; all household plenty and comfort, all purple and fine linen, honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, would come as naturally as jewels on a king's robe. To be chosen by John would separate a kitchen-wench from the rest of the world.
And Miss Hale was not so bad. If she had been a Milton lass, Mrs. Thornton would have positively liked her. She had taste, and spirit, and flavour. True, she was sadly prejudiced, and very ignorant; but that was to be expected from her southern breeding. A strange sort of mortified comparison of Fanny with her, went on in Mrs. Thornton's mind; and for once she spoke harshly to her daughter. Then, by way of penance, she took up Henry's Bible Commentaries, and tried to fix her attention on it.


_His_ step at last! She heard him, even while she thought she was finishing a sentence; while her eye did pass over it, and her memory could mechanically have repeated it word for word, she heard him come in at the hall-door. Her quickened sense could interpret every sound of motion: now he was at the hat-stand--now at the very room-door. Why did he pause? Let her know the worst.

His step at last! Her quickened sense could interpret every sound: now he was at the hat-stand - now at the very room-door. Why did he pause?


Yet her head was down over the book; she did not look up. He came close to the table, and stood still there, waiting till she should have finished the paragraph which apparently absorbed her. By an effort she looked up. "Well, John?"

Yet her head was still down over the book. He came close to the table, and stood there, waiting till she should have finished her paragraph. With an effort she looked up.
'Well, John?'


He knew what that little speech meant. But he had steeled himself. He longed to reply with a jest; the bitterness of his heart could have uttered one, but his mother deserved better of him. He came round behind her, so that she could not see his looks, and, bending back her gray, stony face, he kissed it, murmuring:

He had steeled himself. He longed to reply with a jest; the bitterness of his heart could have uttered one, but his mother deserved better of him. He came round behind her, so that she could not see his looks, and, bending back her grey, stony face, he kissed it, murmuring:


"No one loves me,--no one cares for me, but you, mother."

'No one loves me - no one cares for me, but you, mother.'


He turned away and stood leaning his head against the mantelpiece, tears forcing themselves into his manly eyes. She stood up,--she tottered. For the first time in her life, the strong woman tottered. She put her hands on his shoulders; she was a tall woman. She looked into his face: she made him look at her.

He turned away and stood leaning his head against the mantel-piece, tears forcing themselves into his manly eyes. She stood up - she tottered, for the first time in her life. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his face; she made him look at her.


"Mother's love is given by God, John. It holds fast for ever and ever. A girl's love is like a puff of smoke,--it changes with every wind. And she would not have you, my own lad, would not she?" She set her teeth; she showed them like a dog for the whole length of her mouth. He shook his head.

'Mother's love is given by God, John. It holds fast for ever and ever. A girl's love is like a puff of smoke - it changes with every wind. And she would not have you, my own lad, would not she?' She set her teeth, showing them like a dog.


"I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not."

'I am not fit for her, mother; I knew I was not.'


She ground out words between her closed teeth. He could not hear what she said; but the look in her eyes interpreted it to be a curse,--if not as coarsely worded, as fell in intent as ever was uttered. And yet her heart leapt up light, to know he was her own again.

She ground out words between her closed teeth. And yet her heart leapt up light, to know he was her own again.
'Mother!'


"Mother!" said he, hurriedly, "I cannot hear a word against her. Spare me,--spare me! I am very weak in my sore heart;--I love her yet; I love her more than ever."

said he. 'I cannot hear a word against her. Spare my sore heart - I love her yet; I love her more than ever.'


"And I hate her," said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce voice. "I tried not to hate her, when she stood between you and me, because,--I said to myself,--she will make him happy; and I would give my heart's blood to do that. But now, I hate her for your misery's sake. Yes, John, it's no use hiding up your aching heart from me. I am the mother that bore you, and your sorrow is my agony; and if you don't hate her, I do."

'And I hate her,' said Mrs. Thornton, in a low fierce voice. 'I tried not to hate her, because - I said to myself - she will make him happy. But now, I hate her for your misery's sake. I am the mother that bore you, and your sorrow is my agony; and if you don't hate her, I do.'


"Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated by you, and I must make the balance even. But why do we talk of love or hatred? She does not care for me, and that is enough, too much. Let us never name the subject again. It is the only thing you can do for me in the matter. Let us never name her."

'Then, mother, you make me love her more. She is unjustly treated by you, and I must make the balance even. But why do we talk of love or hatred? She does not care for me, and that is enough - too much. Let us never name the subject again.'


"With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all belonging to her, were swept back to the place they came from."

'With all my heart. I only wish that she, and all belonging to her, were swept back to the place they came from.'


He stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two longer. Her dry dim eyes filled with unwonted tears as she looked at him; but she seemed just as grim and quiet as usual when he next spoke.

He stood still, gazing into the fire for a minute or two longer. Her dim eyes filled with unwonted tears as she looked at him; but she seemed just as grim as usual when he next spoke.


"Warrants are out against three men for conspiracy, mother. The riot yesterday helped to knock up the strike."

'Warrants are out against three men for conspiracy, mother. The riot yesterday helped to knock up the strike.'


And Margaret's name was no more mentioned between Mrs. Thornton and her son. They fell back into their usual mode of talk,--about facts, not opinions, far less feelings. Their voices and tones were calm and cold; a stranger might have gone away and thought that he had never seen such frigid indifference of demeanour between such near relations.

And Margaret's name was no more mentioned. They fell back into their usual mode of talk - about facts, not opinions or feelings. Their voices were calm and cold; a stranger might have thought that he had never seen such frigid indifference between such near relations.


"Trust in that veiled hand, which leads None by the path that he would go; And always be for change prepared, For the world's law is ebb and flow." FROM THE ARABIC.


The next afternoon Dr. Donaldson came to pay his first visit to Mrs. Hale. The mystery that Margaret hoped their late habits of intimacy had broken through was resumed. She was excluded from the room, while Dixon was admitted. Margaret was not a ready lover, but where she loved she loved passionately, and with no small degree of jealousy.

The next afternoon Dr. Donaldson came to visit Mrs. Hale. Margaret was excluded from the room, though Dixon was admitted. Margaret was not a ready lover, but where she loved she loved passionately, and with no small degree of jealousy.


She went into her mother's bed-room, just behind the drawing-room, and paced it up and down, while awaiting the doctor's coming out. Every now and then she stopped to listen; she fancied she heard a moan. She clenched her hands tight, and held her breath. She was sure she heard a moan. Then all was still for a few minutes more; and then there was the moving of chairs, the raised voices, all the little disturbances of leave-taking.

She paced up and down in the next room, awaiting the doctor's coming out. Every now and then she fancied she heard a moan. She clenched her hands tight, and held her breath. All was still for a few minutes more; and then there was the moving of chairs, and the raised voices of leave-taking.


When she heard the door open, she went quickly out of the bedroom.

When she heard the door open, she went quickly to meet him.


"My father is from home, Dr. Donaldson; he has to attend a pupil at this hour. May I trouble you to come into his room downstairs?"

'My father is out with a pupil, Dr. Donaldson. May I trouble you to come into his room downstairs?'


She saw, and triumphed over all the obstacles which Dixon threw in her way; assuming her rightful position as daughter of the house in something of the spirit of the Elder Brother, which quelled the old servant's officiousness very effectually. Margaret's conscious assumption of this unusual dignity of demeanour towards Dixon, gave her an instant's amusement in the midst of her anxiety. She knew, from the surprised expression on Dixon's face, how ridiculously grand she herself must be looking; and the idea carried her downstairs into the room; it gave her that length of oblivion from the keen sharpness of the recollection of the actual business in hand. Now, that came back, and seemed to take away her breath. It was a moment or two before she could utter a word.

She saw and triumphed over all the obstacles which Dixon threw in her way; assuming her position as daughter of the house with a conscious dignity, which gave her an instant's amusement in the midst of her anxiety. She knew, from the surprised expression on Dixon's face, how ridiculously grand she must be looking; and the idea carried her downstairs into the room. But then recollection of the actual business in hand seemed to take away her breath. It was a moment or two before she could speak.


But she spoke with an air of command, as she asked--


"What is the matter with mamma? You will oblige me by telling the simple truth." Then, seeing a slight hesitation on the doctor's part, she added--

'What is the matter with mamma? Please tell the simple truth.' Seeing the doctor hesitate, she added,


"I am the only child she has--here, I mean. My father is not sufficiently alarmed, I fear: and, therefore, if there is any serious apprehension, it must be broken to him gently. I can do this. I can nurse my mother. Pray, speak, sir; to see your face, and not be able to read it, gives me a worse dread than I trust any words of yours will justify."

'I am the only child she has here. My father is not alarmed, and if there is any serious cause for fear, it must be broken to him gently. I can do this. I can nurse my mother. Pray speak, sir.'


"My dear young lady, your mother seems to have a most attentive and efficient servant, who is more like her friend----"


"But when I tell you she expressly desired that you might not be told----"

expressly desired that you might not be told.'


"I am not good or patient enough to submit to the prohibition. Besides, I am sure, you are too wise--too experienced to have promised to keep the secret."

'I am sure you are too wise - too experienced to have promised to keep the secret.'


"Well," said he, half-smiling, though sadly enough, "there you are right. I did not promise. In fact, I fear, the secret will be known soon enough without my revealing it."

'Well,' said he, half-smiling, though sadly, 'there you are right. I did not promise. In fact, I fear the secret will be known soon enough without my revealing it.'


He paused. Margaret then went very white, and compressed her lips a little more. Otherwise not a feature moved. With the quick insight into character, without which no medical man can rise to the eminence of Dr. Donaldson, he saw that she would exact the full truth; that she would know if one iota was withheld; and that the withholding would be torture more acute than the knowledge of it. He spoke two short sentences in a low voice, watching her all the time; for the pupils of her eyes dilated into a black horror, and the whiteness of her complexion became livid. He ceased speaking. He waited for that look to go off,--for her gasping breath to come. Then she said:--

He paused. Margaret went very white. Dr. Donaldson saw that she would know if one iota of the truth was withheld; and that the withholding would be worse torture than the knowledge.
He spoke two short sentences in a low voice, watching her pupils dilate into a black horror. Then she said:


"I thank you most truly, sir, for your confidence. That dread has haunted me for many weeks. It is a true, real agony. My poor, poor mother!" Her lips now began to quiver, and he let her have the relief of tears, sure of her power of self-control to check them.

'I thank you most truly, sir, for your confidence. That dread has haunted me for many weeks. My poor, poor mother!' Her lips began to quiver, and he let her have the relief of tears.


A few tears--those were all she shed, before she recollected the many questions she longed to ask.

She shed only a few, before she recollected the many questions she longed to ask.


He shook his head. "That we cannot tell. It depends on constitution; on a thousand things. But the late discoveries of medical science have given us large power of alleviation."

He shook his head. 'That we cannot tell. It depends on a thousand things. But the discoveries of medical science have given us large power of alleviating pain.'


"My father!" said Margaret, trembling all over.


"I do not know Mr. Hale. I mean, it is difficult to give advice. But I should say, bear on, with the knowledge you have forced me to give you so abruptly, till the fact which I could not withhold has become in some degree familiar to you, so that you may without too great an effort, be able to give what comfort you can to your father. Before then,--my visits, which of course, I shall repeat from time to time, although I fear I can do nothing but alleviate,--a thousand little circumstances will have occurred to awaken his alarm, to deepen it--so that he will be all the better prepared.--Nay, my dear young lady--nay, my dear--I saw Mr. Thornton, and I honour your father for the sacrifice he has made, however mistaken I may believe him to be.--Well, this once, if it will please you, my dear. Only remember, when I come again, I come as a friend. And you must learn to look upon me as such, because seeing each other--getting to know each other at such times as these, is worth years of morning calls."

'I do not know Mr. Hale. But I should say, wait until the fact has become more familiar to you, so that you may be able to comfort your father. I will visit, although I fear I can do nothing but alleviate; and some symptoms will have awakened his alarm, so that he will be better prepared. My dear - I saw Mr. Thornton, and I honour your father for the sacrifice he has made. Remember, when I come again, I come as a friend. And you must learn to look upon me as such, because getting to know each other at such times as these, is worth years of morning calls.'


Margaret could not speak for crying; but she wrang his hand at parting.

Margaret could not speak for crying: but she wrung his hand at parting.


"That's what I call a fine girl!" thought Dr. Donaldson, when he was seated in his carriage, and had time to examine his ringed hand, which had slightly suffered from her pressure. "Who would have thought that little hand could have given such a squeeze? But the bones were well put together, and that gives immense power. What a queen she is! With her head thrown back at first, to force me into speaking the truth; and then bent so eagerly forward to listen. Poor thing! I must see she does not overstrain herself. Though it's astonishing how much these thorough-bred creatures can do and suffer. That girl's game to the back-bone. Another, who had gone that deadly colour, could never have come round without either fainting or hysterics. But she wouldn't do either--not she! And the very force of her will brought her round. Such a girl as that would win my heart, if I were thirty years younger. It's too late now. Ah; here we are at the Archers'." So out he jumped, with thought, wisdom, experience, sympathy, and ready to attend to any of the calls made upon them by this family, just as if there were none other in the world.

'That's what I call a fine girl!' thought Dr. Donaldson, when he was in his carriage. 'What a queen she is! With her head thrown back at first, to force me into speaking the truth; and then bent so eagerly forward to listen. Poor thing! I must see she does not overstrain herself. Though that girl's game to the back-bone. No fainting or hysterics - not she! The very force of her will brought her round. Such a girl as that would win my heart, if I were thirty years younger. It's too late now. Ah! here we are.' So out he jumped, ready to attend fully to this next family, as if there were none other in the world.


Meanwhile, Margaret had returned into her father's study for a moment, to recover strength before going upstairs into her mother's presence.

Meanwhile, Margaret had returned to her father's study to recover strength before going up to her mother.


"Oh, my God, my God! but this is terrible. How shall I bear it? Such a deadly disease! no hope! Oh, mamma, mamma, I wish I had never gone to aunt Shaw's, and been all those precious years away from you! Poor mamma! how much she must have borne! Oh, pray thee, my God, that her sufferings may not be too acute, too dreadful. How shall I bear to see them? How can I bear papa's agony? He must not be told yet; not all at once. It would kill him. But I won't lose another moment of my own dear, precious mother."

'Oh, my God, my God! but this is terrible. How shall I bear it? Such a deadly disease! no hope! Oh, mamma, I wish I had never been all those precious years away from you! Poor mamma! how much she must have borne! Oh, I pray thee, my God, that her sufferings may not be too dreadful. How shall I bear to see them? How can I bear papa's agony? He must not be told yet. It would kill him. But I won't lose another moment of my own dear, precious mother.'


She ran upstairs. Dixon was not in the room. Mrs. Hale lay back in an easy chair, with a soft white shawl wrapped around her, and a becoming cap put on, in expectation of the doctor's visit. Her face had a little faint colour in it, and the very exhaustion after the examination gave it a peaceful look. Margaret was surprised to see her look so calm.

She ran upstairs. Dixon was not in the room. Mrs. Hale lay back in an easy chair, with a soft white shawl wrapped around her. Her face had a little faint colour in it, and her very exhaustion gave it a peaceful look. Margaret was surprised to see her so calm.


"Why, Margaret, how strange you look! What is the matter?" And then, as the idea stole into her mind of what was indeed the real state of the case, she added, as if a little displeased: "you have not been seeing Dr. Donaldson, and asking him any questions--have you child?" Margaret did not reply--only looked wistfully towards her. Mrs. Hale became more displeased. "He would not surely break his word to me, and"--

'Why, Margaret, how strange you look! What is the matter?' And then she added, as if a little displeased, 'You have not been seeing Dr. Donaldson, and asking him any questions, have you, child?'
Margaret did not reply; only looked wistful. Mrs. Hale became more displeased. 'He would not, surely, break his word to me!'


"Oh yes, mamma, he did. I made him. It was I--blame me." She knelt down by her mother's side, and caught her hand--she would not let it go, though Mrs. Hale tried to pull it away. She kept kissing it, and the hot tears she shed bathed it.

'Mamma, he did. I made him. Blame me.' She knelt down by her mother's side, and caught her hand. She would not let it go, though Mrs. Hale tried to pull it away. She kept kissing it, and shed hot tears.


"Margaret, it was very wrong of you. You knew I did not wish you to know." But, as if tired with the contest, she left her hand in Margaret's clasp, and by-and-by she returned the pressure faintly. That encouraged Margaret to speak.

'Margaret, it was very wrong of you. You knew I did not wish you to know.' But she left her hand in Margaret's clasp.


"Oh, mamma! let me be your nurse. I will learn anything Dixon can teach me. But you know I am your child, and I do think I have a right to do everything for you."

'Oh, mamma! let me be your nurse. I will learn anything Dixon can teach me.'


"You don't know what you are asking," said Mrs. Hale, with a shudder.

'You don't know what you are asking,' said Mrs. Hale, with a shudder.


"Yes, I do. I know a great deal more than you are aware of. Let me be your nurse. Let me try, at any rate. No one has ever, shall ever try so hard as I will do. It will be such a comfort, mamma."

'Yes, I do. I know a great deal more than you are aware of. Let me be your nurse. Let me try, at any rate. It will be such a comfort, mamma.'


"My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do you know, Margaret, Dixon and I thought you would quite shrink from me if you knew--"

'My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do you know, Margaret, Dixon and I thought you would quite shrink from me if you knew-'


"Dixon thought!" said Margaret, her lip curling. "Dixon could not give me credit for enough true love--for as much as herself! She thought, I suppose, that I was one of those poor sickly women who like to lie on rose leaves, and be fanned all day. Don't let Dixon's fancies come any more between you and me, mamma. Don't please!" implored she.

'Dixon thought!' said Margaret, her lip curling. 'Dixon could not give me credit for as much love as herself! She thought, I suppose, that I was one of those poor women who like to lie on rose leaves, and be fanned all day. Don't let Dixon's fancies come any more between you and me, mamma!'


"Don't be angry with Dixon," said Mrs. Hale, anxiously. Margaret recovered herself.

'Don't be angry with Dixon,' said Mrs. Hale anxiously.


"No! I won't. I will try and be humble, and learn her ways, if you will only let me do all I can for you. Let me be in the first place, mother--I am greedy of that. I used to fancy you would forget me while I was away at aunt Shaw's, and cry myself to sleep at nights with that notion in my head."

'No! I won't. I will try and learn her ways, if you will only let me do all I can for you. I used to fancy you would forget me while I was away at aunt Shaw's, and cry myself to sleep at nights.'


"And I used to think, how will Margaret bear our make-shift poverty after the thorough comfort and luxury in Harley Street, till I have many a time been more ashamed of your seeing our contrivances at Helstone than of any stranger finding them out."

'And I used to think, how will Margaret bear our poverty after the luxury in Harley Street? - till I have been more ashamed of your seeing our contrivances at Helstone than of any stranger finding them out.'


"Oh, mamma! and I did so enjoy them. They were so much more amusing than all the jog-trot Harley Street ways. The wardrobe shelf with handles that served as a supper-tray on grand occasions! And the old tea-chests stuffed and covered for ottomans! I think what you call the make-shift contrivances at dear Helstone were a charming part of the life there."

'Oh, mamma! and I did so enjoy them. The wardrobe shelf with handles, that served as a supper-tray on grand occasions! And the old tea-chests stuffed and covered for ottomans! I think the contrivances at dear Helstone were charming.'


"I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret," said Mrs. Hale, the tears welling up into her eyes. Margaret could not reply. Mrs. Hale went on. "While I was there, I was for ever wanting to leave it. Every place seemed pleasanter. And now I shall die far away from it. I am rightly punished."

'I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret,' said Mrs. Hale, the tears welling up into her eyes. 'While I was there, I was for ever wanting to leave. And now I shall die far away from it. I am rightly punished.'


"You must not talk so," said Margaret impatiently. "He said you might live for years. Oh, mother! we will have you back at Helstone yet."

'You must not talk so,' said Margaret. 'He said you might live for years. Oh, mother! we will have you back at Helstone yet.'


"No, never! That I must take as a just penance. But, Margaret--Frederick!"


At the mention of that one word, she suddenly cried out loud, as in some sharp agony. It seemed as if the thought of him upset all her composure, destroyed the calm, overcame the exhaustion. Wild passionate cry succeeded to cry--"Frederick! Frederick! Come to me. I am dying. Little first-born child, come to me once again!"

She suddenly cried out loud, as in some sharp agony; the thought of him upset all her calm composure. There came wild passionate cry after cry - 'Frederick! Frederick! Come to me. I am dying. Little first-born child, come to me once again!'


She was in violent hysterics. Margaret went and called Dixon in terror. Dixon came in a huff, and accused Margaret of having over-excited her mother. Margaret bore all meekly, only trusting that her father might not return. In spite of her alarm, which was even greater than the occasion warranted, she obeyed all Dixon's directions promptly and well without a word of self-justification. By so doing she mollified her accuser. They put her mother to bed, and Margaret sate by her till she fell asleep, and afterwards till Dixon beckoned her out of the room, and, with a sour face, as if doing something against the grain, she bade her drink a cup of coffee which she had prepared for her in the drawing-room, and stood over her in a commanding attitude as she did so.

She was in violent hysterics. In terror, Margaret went and called Dixon, who came in a huff, and accused Margaret of over-exciting her mother.
Margaret bore all meekly, and obeyed Dixon's directions promptly and well, without a word of self-justification. By so doing she mollified her accuser. They put her mother to bed, and Margaret sat by her till she fell asleep. Then Dixon beckoned her out of the room, and with a sour face bade her drink a cup of coffee in the drawing-room, standing over her as she did so.


"You shouldn't have been so curious, Miss, and then you wouldn't have needed to fret before your time. It would have come soon enough. And now, I suppose, you'll tell master, and a pretty household I shall have of you!"

'You shouldn't have been so curious, Miss, and then you wouldn't have needed to fret. And now, I suppose, you'll tell master, and a pretty household I shall have!'


"No, Dixon," said Margaret, sorrowfully, "I will not tell papa. He could not bear it as I can." And by way of proving how well she bore it, she burst into tears.

'No, Dixon,' said Margaret sorrowfully, 'I will not tell papa. He could not bear it as I can.' And to prove how well she bore it, she burst into tears.