"Are you better now?" asked Fanny, in a quavering voice.
No answer; no sign of recognition; but a faint pink colour returned to her lips, although the rest of her face was ashen pale.
Mrs. Thornton came hurriedly in, with the nearest surgeon she could find.
"How is she? Are you better, my dear?" as Margaret opened her filmy eyes, and gazed dreamily at her. "Here is Mr. Lowe come to see you."
Mrs. Thornton spoke loudly and distinctly, as to a deaf person. Margaret tried to rise, and drew her ruffled, luxuriant hair instinctively over the cut.

'Are you better now?' asked Fanny, in a quavering voice.
No answer; no sign of recognition; but a faint pink colour returned to her lips, although the rest of her face was ashen pale.
Mrs. Thornton came hurriedly in, with the nearest surgeon she could find. 'How is she? Are you better, my dear?' Margaret opened her filmy eyes, and gazed dreamily at her. 'Here is Mr. Lowe come to see you.' Mrs. Thornton spoke loudly and distinctly, as to a deaf person.
Margaret tried to rise, and drew her ruffled hair instinctively over the cut.


"I am better now," said she, in a very low, faint voice. "I was a little sick."
She let him take her hand and feel her pulse. The bright colour came for a moment into her face, when he asked to examine the wound in her forehead; and she glanced up at Jane, as if shrinking from her inspection more than from the doctor's.
"It is not much, I think. I am better now. I must go home."
"Not until I have applied some strips of plaster, and you have rested a little."
She sat down hastily, without another word, and allowed it to be bound up.

'I am better now,' said she, in a very low voice. 'I was a little sick.' She let the doctor take her hand and feel her pulse. When he asked to examine the wound in her forehead, she shrank from the inspection.
'It is not much, I think. I am better now. I must go home.'
'Not until I have applied some strips of plaster; and you have rested a little.'
She sat down, and allowed it to be bound up.


"Now, if you please," said she, "I must go. Mamma will not see it, I think. It is under the hair, is it not?"
"Quite; no one could tell."
"But you must not go," said Mrs. Thornton, impatiently. "You are not fit to go."

'Now, if you please,' said she, 'I must go. Mamma will not see it, I think. It is under the hair, is it not?'
'Quite; no one could tell.'
'But you are not fit to go,' said Mrs. Thornton.


"I must," said Margaret, decidedly. "Think of mamma. If they should hear---- Besides, I must go," said she, vehemently. "I cannot stay here. May I ask for a cab?"
"You are quite flushed and feverish," observed Mr. Lowe.
"It is only with being here, when I do so want to go. The air--getting away, would do me more good than anything," pleaded she.

'I must,' said Margaret, decidedly. 'Think of mamma. If they should hear - I cannot stay here. May I ask for a cab?'
'You are quite flushed and feverish,' observed Mr. Lowe.
'It is only because I do so want to go. The air would do me more good than anything.'


"I really believe it is as she says," Mr. Lowe replied. "If her mother is so ill as you told me on the way here, it may be very serious if she hears of this riot, and does not see her daughter back at the time she expects. The injury is not deep. I will fetch a cab, if your servants are still afraid to go out."
"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret. "It will do me more good than anything. It is the air of this room that makes me feel so miserable."

Mr. Lowe spoke to Mrs. Thornton. 'If her mother is so ill as you told me on the way here, it may be very serious if she hears of this riot, and does not see her daughter back at the time she expects. The injury is not deep. I will fetch a cab.'
'Oh, thank you!' said Margaret.


She leant back on the sofa, and closed her eyes. Fanny beckoned her mother out of the room, and told her something that made her equally anxious with Margaret for the departure of the latter. Not that she fully believed Fanny's statement; but she credited enough to make her manner to Margaret appear very much constrained, at wishing her good-bye.
Mr. Lowe returned in the cab.
"If you will allow me, I will see you home, Miss Hale. The streets are not very quiet yet."
Margaret's thoughts were quite alive enough to the present to make her desirous of getting rid of both Mr. Lowe and the cab before she reached Crampton Crescent, for fear of alarming her father and mother. Beyond that one aim she would not look. That ugly dream of insolent words spoken about herself, could never be forgotten--but could be put aside till she was stronger--for, oh! she was very weak; and her mind sought for some present fact to steady itself upon, and keep it from utterly losing consciousness in another hideous, sickly swoon.

She leant back on the sofa, and closed her eyes.
Fanny beckoned her mother out of the room, and told her something that made her equally anxious for Margaret to leave. Not that she fully believed Fanny's statement; but she believed enough to make her manner to Margaret appear very much constrained.
Mr. Lowe returned with the cab, saying, 'If you will allow me, I will see you home, Miss Hale. The streets are not quiet yet.'
Margaret thought only of getting home without alarming her father and mother. Beyond that aim she would not look. That ugly dream of insolent words spoken about herself could be put aside till she was stronger - for, oh! she was very weak; and her mind sought for some fact to steady itself upon, and keep it from utterly losing consciousness in another hideous, sickly swoon.


"On earth is known to none The smile that is not sister to a tear." ELLIOTT.
Margaret and her father walked home. The night was fine, the streets clean, and with her pretty white silk, like Leezie Lindsay's gown o' green satin, in the ballad, "kilted up to her knee," she was off with her father--ready to dance along with the excitement of the cool, fresh night air.
"I rather think Thornton is not quite easy in his mind about this strike. He seemed very anxious to-night."
"I should wonder if he were not. But he spoke with his usual coolness to the others, when they suggested different things, just before we came away."
"So he did after dinner as well. It would take a good deal to stir him from his cool manner of speaking; but his face strikes me as anxious."

Margaret and her father walked home. The night was fine, and with her pretty white silk hitched up, she was ready to dance along with the excitement of the cool, fresh night air.
'I rather think Thornton is not easy in his mind about this strike,' said Mr. Hale. 'He seemed very anxious tonight.'
'I should wonder if he were not. But he spoke with his usual coolness.'
'It would take a good deal to stir him from his cool manner; but his face strikes me as anxious.'


"I should be, if I were he. He must know of the growing anger and hardly smothered hatred of his workpeople, who all looked upon him as what the Bible calls a 'hard man,'--not so much unjust as unfeeling; clear in judgment, standing upon his 'rights' as no human being ought to stand, considering what we and all our petty rights are in the sight of the Almighty. I am glad you think he looks anxious. When I remember Boucher's half mad words and ways, I cannot bear to think how coolly Mr. Thornton spoke."
"In the first place, I am not so convinced as you are about that man Boucher's utter distress; for the moment, he was badly off, I don't doubt. But there is always a mysterious supply of money from these Unions; and, from what you said, it was evident the man was of a passionate, demonstrative nature, and gave strong expression to all he felt."
"Oh, papa!"
"Well! I only want you to do justice to Mr. Thornton, who is, I suspect, of an exactly opposite nature--a man who is far too proud to show his feelings. Just the character I should have thought beforehand, you would have admired, Margaret."

'He must know of the growing anger and hatred of his workpeople, who look upon him as what the Bible calls a "hard man" - not so much unjust as unfeeling; standing upon his "rights" as no human being ought to stand, considering what our petty rights are in the sight of the Almighty. I am glad you think he looks anxious. When I remember Boucher's half mad words, I cannot bear to think how coolly Mr. Thornton spoke.'
'I am not so convinced about that man Boucher's utter distress. For the moment, he was badly off, I don't doubt. But there is always a mysterious supply of money from these Unions; and it was evident the man was of a passionate nature, and gave strong expression to all he felt.'
'Oh, papa!'
'Well! I only want you to do justice to Mr. Thornton, who is, I suspect, exactly opposite - a man too proud to show his feelings. I should have thought you would admire that, Margaret.'


"So I do--so I should; but I don't feel quite so sure as you do of the existence of those feelings. He is a man of great strength of character--of unusual intellect, considering the few advantages he has had."
"Not so few. He has led a practical life from a very early age, has been called upon to exercise judgment and self-control. All that developes one part of the intellect. To be sure, he needs some of the knowledge of the past, which gives the truest basis for conjecture as to the future; but he knows this need--he perceives it, and that is something. You are quite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Margaret."

'So I do; but I don't feel quite so sure as you do of the existence of those feelings. He is a man of great strength of character - of unusual intellect, considering the few advantages he has had.'
'Not so few. He has led a practical life from a very early age; has been called upon to exercise judgment and self-control. To be sure, he needs some knowledge of the past, which gives the truest basis for conjecture as to the future; but he perceives this need. You are quite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Margaret.'


"He is the first specimen of a manufacturer--of a person engaged in trade--that I had ever the opportunity of studying, papa. He is my first olive: let me make a face while I swallow it. I know he is good of his kind, and by and by I shall like the kind. I rather think I am already beginning to do so. I was very much interested by what the gentlemen were talking about, although I did not understand half of it. I was quite sorry when Miss Thornton came to take me to the other end of the room, saying she was sure I should be uncomfortable at being the only lady among so many gentlemen. I had never thought about it, I was so busy listening; and the ladies were so dull, papa--oh, so dull! Yet I think it was clever too. It reminded me of our old game of having each so many nouns to introduce into a sentence."

'He is the first specimen of a manufacturer that I had ever the opportunity of studying, papa. He is my first olive: let me make a face while I swallow it. I know he is good of his kind, and by and by I shall like the kind. I think I am already beginning to do so. I was very much interested by what the gentlemen were talking about, although I did not understand half of it. I was quite sorry when Miss Thornton took me to the other end of the room, saying she was sure I was uncomfortable at being the only lady among so many gentlemen. I had never thought about it, I was so busy listening; and the ladies were so dull, papa! Yet clever too, at seeing how many nouns they could put into a sentence.'


"What do you mean, child?" asked Mr. Hale.
"Why, they took nouns that were signs of things which gave evidence of wealth,--housekeepers, under-gardeners, extent of glass, valuable lace, diamonds, and all such things; and each one formed her speech so as to bring them all in, in the prettiest accidental manner possible."
"You will be as proud of your one servant when you get her, if all is true about her that Mrs. Thornton says."
"To be sure, I shall. I felt like a great hypocrite to-night, sitting there in my white silk gown, with my idle hands before me, when I remembered all the good, thorough, house-work they had done to-day. They took me for a fine lady, I'm sure."
"Even I was mistaken enough to think you looked like a lady, my dear," said Mr. Hale, quietly smiling.
But smiles were changed to white and trembling looks when they saw Dixon's face, as she opened the door.

'What do you mean, child?' asked Mr. Hale.
'Why, they took nouns that indicated wealth: housekeepers, under-gardeners, glass, lace, diamonds, and so on; and brought them all into their speches, in the prettiest accidental manner possible.'
'You will be as proud of your one servant when you get her.'
'To be sure, I shall. I felt like a great hypocrite tonight, sitting idle in my white silk gown, when I remembered all the house-work I had done today. They took me for a fine lady, I'm sure.'
'Even I thought you looked like a lady, my dear,' said Mr. Hale, smiling.
But smiles were changed to white and trembling looks, when they saw Dixon's face as she opened the door.


"Oh, master!--Oh, Miss Margaret! Thank God you are come! Dr. Donaldson is here. The servant next door went for him, for the charwoman is gone home. She's better now; but, oh sir! I thought she'd have died an hour ago."
Mr. Hale caught Margaret's arm to steady himself from falling. He looked at her face, and saw an expression upon it of surprise and extremest sorrow, but not the agony of terror that contracted his own unprepared heart. She knew more than he did, and yet she listened with that hopeless expression of awed apprehension.

'Oh, master! - Oh, Miss Margaret! Thank God you are come! Dr. Donaldson is here. She's better now; but, oh, sir! I thought she'd have died an hour ago.'
Mr. Hale caught Margaret's arm to steady himself. He looked at her face, and saw upon it surprise and extreme sorrow, but not the agony of terror that contracted his own heart. She knew more than he did.


"Oh! I should not have left her--wicked daughter that I am!" moaned forth Margaret, as she supported her trembling father's hasty steps upstairs. Dr. Donaldson met them on the landing.
"She is better now," he whispered. "The opiate has taken effect. The spasms were very bad: no wonder they frightened your maid; but she'll rally this time."
"This time! Let me go to her!" Half an hour ago Mr. Hale was a middle-aged man; now his sight was dim, his senses wavering, his walk tottering, as if he were seventy years of age.

'Oh! I should not have left her - wicked daughter that I am!' she moaned as she supported her trembling father's steps. Dr. Donaldson met them on the landing.
'She is better now,' he whispered. 'The opiate has taken effect. The spasms were very bad; but she'll rally this time.'
'This time! Let me go to her!' Mr. Hale tottered as if he were seventy.


Dr. Donaldson took his arm, and led him into the bedroom. Margaret followed close. There lay her mother, with an unmistakeable look on her face. She might be better now; she was sleeping, but Death had signed her for his own, and it was clear that ere long he would return to take possession. Mr. Hale looked at her for some time without a word. Then he began to shake all over, and, turning away from Dr. Donaldson's anxious care, he groped to find the door; he could not see it, although several candles, brought in the sudden affright, were burning and flaring there. He staggered into the drawing-room, and felt about for a chair. Dr. Donaldson wheeled one to him, and placed him in it. He felt his pulse.

Dr. Donaldson took his arm, and led him into the bedroom. Margaret followed.
There lay her mother, with an unmistakable look on her face. She was sleeping, but Death had signed her for his own, and it was clear that before long he would return to take possession. Mr. Hale looked at her for some time without a word. Then he began to shake all over, and, turning away from Dr. Donaldson, he groped blindly for the door. He staggered into the drawing-room, where Dr. Donaldson brought him a chair and felt his pulse.


"Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him."
"Papa!" said Margaret, with a crying voice that was wild with pain. "Papa! Speak to me!" The speculation came again into his eyes, and he made a great effort.
"Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it was cruel of you!"

'Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him.'
'Papa!' said Margaret, her voice wild with pain. 'Papa! Speak to me!'
He made a great effort. 'Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it was cruel of you!'


"No, sir, it was not cruel!" replied Dr. Donaldson, with quick decision. "Miss Hale acted under my directions. There may have been a mistake, but it was not cruel. Your wife will be a different creature to-morrow, I trust. She has had spasms, as I anticipated, though I did not tell Miss Hale of my apprehensions. She has taken the opiate I brought with me; she will have a good long sleep; and to-morrow that look which has alarmed you so much will have passed away."
"But not the disease?"
Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her bent head, her face raised with no appeal for a temporary reprieve, showed that quick observer of human nature that she thought it better that the whole truth should be told.

'No, sir, it was not cruel!' replied Dr. Donaldson quickly. 'Miss Hale acted under my directions. Your wife will be a different creature tomorrow, I trust. She has had spasms, as I anticipated, though I did not tell Miss Hale of my apprehensions. She will have a good long sleep; and tomorrow, that alarming look will have passed.'
'But not the disease?'
Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her bent head showed him that she thought it better that the whole truth should be told.


"Not the disease. We cannot touch the disease, with all our poor vaunted skill. We can only delay its progress--alleviate the pain it causes. Be a man, sir--a Christian. Have faith in the immortality of the soul, which no pain, no mortal disease, can assail or touch!"
But all the reply he got was in the choked words, "You have never been married, Dr. Donaldson; you don't know what it is," and in the deep, manly sobs, which went through the stillness of the night like heavy pulses of agony.
Margaret knelt by him, caressing him with tearful caresses. No one, not even Dr. Donaldson, knew how the time went by. Mr. Hale was the first to dare to speak of the necessities of the present moment.

'Not the disease. We cannot touch the disease. We can only delay its progress and alleviate the pain. Be a man, sir - be a Christian. Have faith in the immortality of the soul, which no disease can touch!'
'You have never been married, Dr. Donaldson; you do not know what it is.' Deep, manly sobs went through the stillness of the night like heavy pulses of agony. Margaret knelt by her father, caressing him tearfully. At last Mr. Hale spoke again.


"What must we do?" asked he. "Tell us both. Margaret is my staff--my right hand."
Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions. No fear for to-night--nay, even peace for to-morrow, and for many days yet. But no enduring hope of recovery. He advised Mr. Hale to go to bed, and leave only one to watch the slumber, which he hoped would be undisturbed. He promised to come again early in the morning. And, with a warm and kindly shake of the hand, he left them.

'What must we do? Tell us both. Margaret is my right hand.'
Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions. No fear for tonight - nay, even peace for many days yet. But no enduring hope of recovery. He advised Mr. Hale to go to bed, and leave only one person to watch the slumber, which he hoped would be undisturbed. He promised to come again early in the morning. And with a kindly shake of the hand, he left them.


They spoke but few words; they were too much exhausted by their terror to do more than decide upon the immediate course of action. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up through the night, and all that Margaret could do was to prevail upon him to rest on the drawing-room sofa. Dixon stoutly and bluntly refused to go to bed; and, as for Margaret, it was simply impossible that she should leave her mother, let all the doctors in the world speak of "husbanding resources," and "one watcher only being required." So, Dixon sat, and stared, and winked, and drooped, and picked herself up again with a jerk, and finally gave up the battle, and fairly snored. Margaret had taken off her gown and tossed it aside with a sort of impatient disgust, and put on her dressing-gown. She felt as if she never could sleep again; as if her whole senses were acutely vital, and all endued with double keenness, for the purpose of watching. Every sight and sound--nay, even every thought, touched some nerve to the very quick. For more than two hours, she heard her father's restless movements in the next room. He came perpetually to the door of her mother's chamber, pausing there to listen, till she, not hearing his close unseen presence, went and opened it to tell him how all went on, in reply to the questions his baked lips could hardly form. At last he, too, fell asleep, and all the house was still.

They spoke but few words; they were too exhausted by their terror to do more than decide upon the immediate course of action. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up through the night, and all that Margaret could do was to persuade him to rest on the drawing-room sofa. Dixon stoutly refused to go to bed; and, as for Margaret, it was simply impossible that she should leave her mother.
So Dixon sat, and stared, and drooped, and picked herself up again with a jerk, and finally gave up and fairly snored. Margaret, who had exchanged her gown for her dressing-gown, felt as if she never could sleep again; as if her senses were doubly keen. Every sight and sound touched some nerve to the very quick. She heard her father's restless movements in the next room, coming to the door of her mother's chamber, and pausing to listen, till she opened it to tell him how all went on.
At last he, too, fell asleep, and the house was still.


Margaret sat behind the curtain thinking. Far away in time, far away in space, seemed all the interests of past days. Not more than thirty-six hours ago, she cared for Bessy Higgins and her father, and her heart was wrung for Boucher; now, that was all like a dreaming memory of some former life;--everything that had passed out of doors seemed dissevered from her mother, and therefore unreal. Even Harley Street appeared more distinct; there she remembered, as if it were yesterday, how she had pleased herself with tracing out her mother's features in her Aunt Shaw's face,--and how letters had come, making her dwell on the thoughs of home with all the longing of love. Helstone, itself, was in the dim past. The dull gray days of the preceding winter and spring, so uneventless and monotonous, seemed more associated with what she cared for now above all price. She would fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued while it was yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed! How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! It was as if from some arial belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the earth, there was a bell continually tolling, "All are shadows!--all are passing!--all is past!"

Margaret sat thinking. Only thirty-six hours ago, her heart was wrung for Bessy and for Boucher; now, that was like a dreaming memory of some former life. Even Harley Street appeared more distinct; she remembered, as if it were yesterday, how she had pleased herself with tracing out her mother's features in her Aunt Shaw's face - and the letters that had come from home.
Helstone itself was in the dim past. She would fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued while she had it. What a vain show Life seemed! How unsubstantial, and flickering!


And when the morning dawned, cool and gray, like many a happier morning before--when Margaret looked one by one at the sleepers, it seemed as if the terrible night were unreal as a dream; it, too, was a shadow. It, too, was past.
Mrs. Hale herself was not aware when she awoke, how ill she had been the night before. She was rather surprised at Dr. Donaldson's early visit, and perplexed by the anxious faces of husband and child. She consented to remain in bed that day, saying she certainly was tired; but, the next, she insisted on getting up; and Dr. Donaldson gave his consent to her returning into the drawing-room. She was restless and uncomfortable in every position, and before night she became very feverish. Mr. Hale was utterly listless, and incapable of deciding on anything.
"What can we do to spare mamma such another night?" asked Margaret on the third day.

And when the morning dawned, cool and grey, like many a happier morning before - when Margaret looked at the sleepers, it seemed as if the terrible night were as unreal as a dream; it, too, was a shadow. It, too, was past.
Mrs. Hale herself was not aware, when she awoke, of how ill she had been the night before. She was rather surprised at Dr. Donaldson's early visit, and perplexed by the anxious faces of husband and child. She consented to remain in bed, saying she certainly was tired; but the next day, she insisted on getting up; and Dr. Donaldson allowed her to return into the drawing-room. She was restless and uncomfortable, and before night she became very feverish. Mr. Hale was utterly listless, and incapable of deciding on anything.
'What can we do to spare mamma such another night?' Margaret asked the doctor on the third day.


"It is to a certain degree, the reaction after the powerful opiates I have been obliged to use. It is more painful for you to see than for her to bear, I believe. But, I think, if we could get a water-bed it might be a good thing. Not but what she will be better to-morrow; pretty much like herself as she was before this attack. Still, I should like her to have a water-bed. Mrs. Thornton has one, I know. I'll try and call there this afternoon. Stay," said he, his eye catching on Margaret's face, blanched with watching in a sick room, "I'm not sure whether I can go; I've a long round to take. It would do you no harm to have a brisk walk to Marlborough Street, and ask Mrs. Thornton if she can spare it."

'It is, to some degree, the reaction after the powerful opiates I have been obliged to use. It is more painful for you to see than for her to bear, I believe. But, I think, if we could get a water-bed it might be a good thing. Though she will be better tomorrow; pretty much like herself again. Still, I should like her to have a water-bed. Mrs. Thornton has one, I know, made of rubber-coated canvas. I'll try and call there this afternoon. Stay,' said he, seeing Margaret's pale face. 'I'm not sure whether I can go; I've a long round to take. It would do you no harm to have a brisk walk to Marlborough Street, and ask Mrs. Thornton if she can spare it.'


"Certainly," said Margaret. "I could go while mamma is asleep this afternoon. I'm sure Mrs. Thornton would lend it to us."
Dr. Donaldson's experience told him rightly. Mrs. Hale seemed to shake off the consequences of her attack, and looked brighter and better this afternoon than Margaret had ever hoped to see her again. Her daughter left her after dinner, sitting in her easy chair, with her hand lying in her husband's, who looked more worn and suffering than she by far. Still, he could smile now--rather slowly, rather faintly, it is true; but a day or two before, Margaret never thought to see him smile again.

'Certainly,' said Margaret.
That afternoon Mrs. Hale seemed to shake off the consequences of her attack, and looked brighter and better than Margaret had hoped to see her again. Her daughter left her after dinner, sitting in her easy chair beside her husband, who looked more worn and suffering than she. Still, he could smile now - if only faintly.


It was about two miles from their house in Crampton Crescent to Marlborough Street. It was too hot to walk very quickly. An August sun beat straight down into the street at three o'clock in the afternoon. Margaret went along, without noticing anything very different from usual in the first mile and a half of her journey; she was absorbed in her own thoughts, and had learnt by this time to thread her way through the irregular stream of human beings that flowed through Milton streets. But, by and by, she was struck with an unusual heaving among the mass of people in the crowded road on which she was entering. They did not appear to be moving on, so much as talking, and listening, and buzzing with excitement without much stirring from the spot where they might happen to be. Still, as they made way for her, and, wrapt up in the purpose of her errand, and the necessities that suggested it, she was less quick of observation than she might have been, if her mind had been at ease. She had got into Marlborough Street before the full conviction forced itself upon her, that there was a restless, oppressive sense of irritation abroad among the people; a thunderous atmosphere, morally as well as physically, around her. From every narrow lane opening out on Marlborough Street came up a low distant roar, as of myriads of fierce indignant voices. The inhabitants of each poor squalid dwelling were gathered round the doors and windows, if indeed they were not actually standing in the middle of the narrow ways--all with looks intent towards one point.

It was about two miles to Marlborough Street. It was too hot to walk very quickly; an August sun beat down. At first Margaret went along without noticing anything very different from usual; she was absorbed in her own thoughts. But, by and by, she was struck with an unusual heaving among the mass of people in the crowded road. They did not appear to be moving on, so much as talking, and listening, and buzzing with excitement, without stirring from the spot. Still, since they made way for her, and she was wrapped in her errand and so less observant than she might have been, she had got into Marlborough Street before she realised that there was a restless, oppressive sense of irritation among the people; a thunderous atmosphere around her.
From every narrow lane opening on to the street came a low distant roar of fierce indignant voices. The inhabitants of each squalid dwelling were gathered at the doors, or standing in the middle of the lane - all looking towards


Marlborough Street itself was the focus of all those human eyes, that betrayed intensest interest of various kinds; some fierce with anger, some lowering with relentless threats! some dilated with fear, or imploring entreaty; and as Margaret reached the small side-entrance by the folding doors, in the great dead wall of Marlborough mill-yard, and waited the porter's answer to the bell, she looked round and heard the first long far-off roll of the tempest;--saw the first slow-surging wave of the dark crowd come, with its threatening crest, tumble over, and retreat, at the far end of the street, which a moment ago seemed so full of repressed noise, but which now was ominously still; all these circumstances forced themselves on Margaret's notice, but did not sink down into her pre-occupied heart. She did not know what they meant--what was their deep significance; while she did know, did feel the keen sharp pressure of the knife that was soon to stab her through and through by leaving her motherless. She was trying to realise that, in order that, when it came, she might be ready to comfort her father.
The porter opened the door cautiously, not nearly wide enough to admit her.
"It's you, is it, ma'am?" said he, drawing a long breath, and widening the entrance, but still not opening it fully. Margaret went in. He hastily bolted it behind her.

 Marlborough Street with intense interest in their eyes; some fierce with anger, some threatening, some dilated with fear, or imploring.
As Margaret reached the small side-entrance in the great dead wall of the mill-yard and waited for the porter to answer the bell, she looked round and heard the first long roll of the tempest; - saw the first slow-surging wave of the dark crowd come and then retreat, at the far end of the street, which now seemed ominously still.
Although Margaret noticed all these things, she was still pre-occupied. She did not know what they meant; while she did know and feel the keen sharp pressure of the knife that was soon to stab her through by leaving her motherless. She was trying to realise that, so that she might be ready to comfort her father.
The porter opened the door cautiously.
'It's you, is it, ma'am?' said he, drawing a long breath, and widening the entrance a little. Margaret went in. He hastily bolted it behind her.


"Th' folk are all coming up here, I reckon?" asked he.
"I don't know. Something unusual seemed going on; but this street is quite empty, I think."
She went across the yard and put up the steps to the house door. There was no near sound,--no steam engine at work with beat and pant,--no click of machinery, no mingling and clashing of many sharp voices; but far away, the ominous gathering roar, deep-clamouring.

'Th' folk are all coming up here, I reckon?' asked he.
'I don't know. Something unusual seemed to be going on; but this street is quite empty, I think.'
She went across the yard to the house door. There was no beat and pant of the steam-engine - no click of machinery; but far away, the ominous gathering roar.


"Show not that manner, and these features all, The serpent's cunning, and the sinner's fall?" CRABBE.
The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning of the country, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the sunbeams that bring out all the gorgeous beauty of colouring, but the October morning of Milton, whose silvery mists were heavy fogs, and where the sun could only show long dusky streets when he did break through and shine. Margaret went languidly about, assisting Dixon in her task of arranging the house. Her eyes were continually blinded by tears, but she had no time to give way to regular crying. The father and brother depended upon her; while they were giving way to grief, she must be working, planning, considering. Even the necessary arrangements for the funeral seemed to devolve upon her.
When the fire was bright and crackling--when everything was ready for breakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret gave a last look round the room before going to summon Mr. Hale and Frederick. She wanted everything to look as cheerful as possible; and yet, when it did so, the contrast between it and her own thoughts forced her into sudden weeping. She was kneeling by the sofa, hiding her face in the cushions that no one might hear her cry, when she was touched on the shoulder by Dixon.

The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning of the country, with soft, silvery mists clearing before the sunbeams, but the October morning of Milton, whose silver mists were heavy fogs, and where the sun could only show long dusky streets when he did break through. Margaret went languidly about, helping Dixon. Her eyes were continually blinded by tears, but she had no time to cry. Her father and brother depended upon her; she must be working, planning, arranging the funeral.
When the fire was bright and crackling, and everything was ready for breakfast, and the tea-kettle was singing away, Margaret gave a last look round the room before going to summon Mr. Hale and Frederick. She wanted everything to look as cheerful as possible; and yet the contrast between it and her own thoughts forced her into sudden weeping. She was hiding her face so that no one might hear her cry, when she was touched on the shoulder by Dixon.

Chapter 31: 'SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?'


"Come, Miss Hale--come, my dear! You must not give way, or where shall we all be? There is not another person in the house fit to give a direction of any kind, and there is so much to be done. There's who's to manage the funeral; and who's to come to it; and where it's to be; and all to be settled: and Master Frederick's like one crazed with crying, and master never was a good one for settling; and, poor gentleman, he goes about now as if he was lost. It's bad enough, my dear, I know; but death comes to us all; and you're well off never to have lost any friend till now."
Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss by itself; not to bear comparison with any other event in the world. Margaret did not take any comfort from what Dixon said, but the unusual tenderness of the prim old servant's manner touched her to the heart; and, more from a desire to show her gratitude for this than for any other reason, she roused herself up, and smiled in answer to Dixon's anxious look at her; and went to tell her father and brother that breakfast was ready.

'Come, Miss Hale, my dear! You must not give way, or where shall we all be? There's the funeral to manage; and Master Frederick's crazed with crying, and master, poor gentleman, goes about as if he was lost. It's bad, my dear, I know; but death comes to us all; and you're well off never to have lost any friend till now.'
Perhaps so. But this seemed a loss not to be compared to any other. Nevertheless, the unusual tenderness of the prim old servant touched Margaret to the heart. She smiled at Dixon; and went to tell her father and brother that breakfast was ready.


Mr. Hale came--as if in a dream, or rather with the unconscious motion of a sleep-walker, whose eyes and mind perceive other things than what are present. Frederick came briskly in, with a forced cheerfulness, grasped her hand, looked into her eyes and burst into tears. She had to try and think of little nothings to say all breakfast-time, in order to prevent the recurrence of her companions' thoughts too strongly to the last meal they had taken together, when there had been a continual strained listening for some sound or signal from the sick-room.
After breakfast, she resolved to speak to her father about the funeral. He shook his head, and assented to all she proposed, though many of her propositions absolutely contradicted one another. Margaret gained no real decision from him; and was leaving the room languidly, to have a consultation with Dixon, when Mr. Hale motioned her back to his side.
"Ask Mr. Bell," said he in a hollow voice.
"Mr. Bell!" said she, a little surprised. "Mr. Bell of Oxford?"

Mr. Hale came in like a sleep-walker. Frederick entered briskly, with a forced cheerfulness, grasped her hand, looked into her eyes, and burst into tears. She had to try and think of little nothings to say all breakfast-time, to prevent her companions from thinking too much about the last meal they had taken together.
After breakfast, she spoke to her father about the funeral. He shook his head, and agreed to all she proposed, though many of her propositions contradicted one another. Margaret was leaving the room when Mr. Hale beckoned her back.
'Ask Mr. Bell,' said he in a hollow voice.
'Mr. Bell of Oxford!' said she, a little surprised.


"Mr. Bell," he repeated. "Yes. He was my groom's-man."
Margaret understood the association.
"I will write to-day," said she. He sank again into listlessness. All morning she toiled on, longing for rest, but in a continual whirl of melancholy business.
Towards evening Dixon said to her:

'Yes. He was my grooms-man at our wedding.'
Margaret understood, and said, 'I will write today.' All morning she toiled on, longing for rest, but in a continual whirl of melancholy business.
Towards evening, Dixon said to her:


"I've done it, miss. I was really afraid for master, that he'd have a stroke with grief. He's been all this day with poor missus; and when I've listened at the door, I've heard him talking to her, and talking to her, as if she was alive. When I went in he would be quite quiet, but all in a maze like. So I thought to myself, he ought to be roused; and if it gives him a shock at first, it will, maybe, be the better for him afterwards. So I've been and told him, that I don't think it's safe for Master Frederick to be here. And I don't. It was only on Tuesday, when I was out, that I met a Southampton man--the first I've seen since I came to Milton; they don't make their way much up here, I think. Well, it was young Leonards, old Leonards the draper's son, as great a scamp as ever lived--who plagued his father almost to death, and then ran off to sea. I never could abide him.

'I've done it, miss. I was really afraid that master would have a stroke with grief. He's been all this day with poor missus; talking to her as if she was alive. When I went in he would be quiet, but all in a maze like. I thought to myself, he ought to be roused. So I've been and told him, that I don't think it's safe for Master Frederick to be here. And I don't. It was only on Tuesday, when I was out, that I met a Southampton man - young Leonards, old Leonards the draper's son, as great a scamp as ever lived - who plagued his father almost to death, and then ran off to sea. I never could abide him.


He was in the Orion at the same time as Frederick, I know; though I don't recollect if he was there at the mutiny."
"Did he know you?" said Margaret, eagerly.

He was on the Orion at the same time as Master Frederick, I know; though I don't recollect if he was there at the mutiny.'
'Did he recognise you?' said Margaret eagerly.


"Why, that's the worst of it. I don't believe he would have known me but for my being such a fool as to call out his name. He were a Southampton man, in a strange place, or else I should never have been so ready to call cousins with him, a nasty, good-for-nothing-fellow. Says he, 'Miss Dixon! who would ha' thought of seeing you here? But perhaps I mistake, and you're Miss Dixon no longer?' So I told him he might still address me as an unmarried lady, though if I hadn't been so particular, I'd had good chances of matrimony. He was polite enough: 'He couldn't look at me and doubt me.' But I were not to be caught with such chaff from such a fellow as him, and so I told him; and, by way of being even, I asked him after his father (who I knew had turned him out of doors), as if they were the best friends as ever was. So then, to spite me--for you see we were getting savage, for all we were so civil to each other--he began to inquire after Master Frederick, and said, what a scrape he'd got into (as if Master Frederick's scrapes would ever wash George Leonards white, or make 'em look otherwise than nasty, dirty black), and how he'd be hung for mutiny if ever he were caught, and how a hundred pound reward had been offered for catching him, and what a disgrace he had been to his family--all to spite me, you see, my dear, because before now I've helped old Mr. Leonards to give George a good rating, down in Southampton.

'Why, that's the worst of it. I don't believe he would have known me but for my being such a fool as to call out his name. Says he, "Miss Dixon! who would ha' thought of seeing you here? But perhaps I mistake, and you're Miss Dixon no longer?" So I told him he might still address me as an unmarried lady, though if I hadn't been so particular, I'd had good chances of matrimony. He was polite enough; but I asked after his father (who I knew had turned him out), as if they was best friends. So then, to spite me - for you see we were getting savage, for all we were so civil to each other - he began to inquire after Master Frederick, and said what a scrape he'd got into, and how he'd be hung for mutiny if ever he were caught, and how a hundred pound reward had been offered for catching him, and what a disgrace he had been to his family.


So I said, there were other families as I knew, who had far more cause to blush for their sons, and to be thankful if they could think they were earning an honest living far away from home. To which he made answer, like the impudent chap he is, that he were in a confidential situation, and if I knew of any young man who had been so unfortunate as to lead vicious courses, and wanted to turn steady, he'd have no objection to lend him his patronage. He, indeed! Why, he'd corrupt a saint. I've not felt so bad myself for years as when I were standing talking to him the other day. I could have cried to think I couldn't spite him better, for he kept smiling in my face, as if he took all my compliments for earnest; and I couldn't see that he minded what I said in the least, while I was mad with all his speeches."
"But you did not tell him anything about us--about Frederick?"

So I said, there were other families who had far more cause to blush for their sons. To which he made answer, like the impudent chap he is, that if I knew of any young man who had been leading vicious courses, and wanted to turn steady, he'd lend a hand. He, indeed! Why, he'd corrupt a saint. I've not felt so bad for years. I could have cried to think I couldn't spite him better, for he kept smiling in my face, while I was mad with him.'
'But you did not tell him anything about Frederick?'


"Not I," said Dixon. "He had never the grace to ask where I was staying; and I shouldn't have told him if he had asked. Nor did I ask him what his precious situation was. He was waiting for a bus, and just then it drove up, and he hailed it. But, to plague me to the last, he turned back before he got in, and said, 'If you can help me to trap Lieutenant Hale, Miss Dixon, we'll go partners in the reward. I know you'd like to be my partner, now wouldn't you? Don't be shy, but say yes.' And he jumped on the bus, and I saw his ugly face leering at me with a wicked smile to think how he'd had the last word of plaguing."
Margaret was made very uncomfortable by this account of Dixon's.

'Not I,' said Dixon. 'He had never the grace to ask where I was staying; and I shouldn't have told him if he had asked. He was waiting for a bus, and just then it drove up, and he hailed it. But he turned back before he got in, and said, "If you can help me to trap Lieutenant Hale, Miss Dixon, we'll go partners in the reward. I know you'd like to be my partner, wouldn't you? Don't be shy." And he jumped on the bus, and I saw his ugly face leering at me with a wicked smile.'
Margaret was made very uncomfortable by this account.


"Have you told Frederick?" asked she.
"No," said Dixon. "I were uneasy in my mind at knowing that bad Leonards was in town; but there was so much else to think about that I did not dwell on it all. But when I saw master sitting so stiff, and with his eyes so glazed and sad, I thought it might rouse him to have to think of Master Frederick in hiding, he would have to go, poor fellow, before Mr. Bell came."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am afraid of this Leonards. I must tell Frederick. What did Leonards look like?"

'Have you told Frederick?'
'No,' said Dixon. 'I were uneasy in my mind knowing that Leonards was in town; but there was so much else to think about that I did not dwell on it. But when I saw master sitting so stiff and sad, I thought it might rouse him to have to think of Master Frederick's safety. So I told him all; and it has done master good. And if we're to keep Master Frederick in hiding, he would have to go before Mr. Bell came.'
'Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am afraid of this Leonards. What did he look like?'


"A bad-looking fellow, I can assure you, miss. Whiskers such as I should be ashamed to wear--they are so red. And for all he said he'd got a confidential situation, he was dressed in fustian just like a working-man."
It was evident that Frederick must go. Go, too, when he had so completely vaulted into his place in the family, and promised to be such a stay and staff to his father and sister. Go, when his cares for the living mother, and sorrow for the dead, seemed to make him one of those peculiar people who are bound to us by a fellow-love for them that are taken away. Just as Margaret was thinking all this, sitting over the drawing-room fire--her father restless and uneasy under the pressure of this newly-aroused fear, of which he had not as yet spoken--Frederick came in, his brightness dimmed, but the extreme violence of his grief passed away. He came up to Margaret, and kissed her forehead.

'A bad-looking fellow, miss. Whiskers such as I should be ashamed to wear - they are so red. And he was dressed in coarse fustian just like a working-man.'
It was evident that Frederick must go. Go, too, when he had promised to be such a support to his father and sister. Just as Margaret was thinking this, sitting by the drawing-room fire - her father restless and uneasy with this newly-aroused fear - Frederick came in. He kissed her forehead.


"How wan you look, Margaret!" said he in a low voice. "You have been thinking of everybody, and no one has thought of you. Lie on this sofa--there is nothing for you to do."
"That is the worst," said Margaret, in a sad whisper. But she went and lay down, and her brother covered her feet with a shawl and then sate on the ground by her side; and the two began to talk together in a subdued tone.
Margaret told him all that Dixon had related of her interview with young Leonards. Frederick's lips closed with a long whew of dismay.

'How wan you look, Margaret! You have been thinking of everybody, and no one has thought of you. Lie on this sofa - there is nothing for you to do.'
'That is the worst thing,' said Margaret sadly. But she went and lay down, and her brother sat on the floor by her side.
The two began to talk in a subdued tone. Margaret told him all that Dixon had related of her interview with young Leonards. Frederick's lips closed with a long whew of dismay.


"I should just like to have it out with that young fellow. A worse sailor was never on board ship--nor a much worse man either. I declare, Margaret--you know the circumstances of the whole affair?"
"Yes, mamma told me."
"Well, when all the sailors who were good for anything were indignant with our captain, this fellow to curry favour--pah! And to think of his being here! Oh, if he'd a notion I was within twenty miles of him, he'd ferret me out to pay all old grudges. I'd rather anybody had the hundred pounds they think I am worth than that rascal. What a pity poor old Dixon could not be persuaded to give me up, and make a provision for her old age!"

'A worse sailor was never on board ship - nor a much worse man either. You know the whole affair?'
'Yes, mamma told me.'
'Well, when all the sailors who were good for anything were indignant with our captain, this fellow, to curry favour - pah! And to think of his being here! If he knew I was within twenty miles of him, he'd ferret me out to pay off old grudges. I'd rather anybody had the hundred pounds reward than that rascal. What a pity poor old Dixon could not be persuaded to give me up, and provide for her old age!'


"Oh, Frederick, hush! Don't talk so."
Mr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He had overheard what they were saying. He took Frederick's hand in both of his:
"My boy, you must go. It is very bad--but I see you must. You have done all you could--you have been a comfort to her."
"Oh, papa, must he go?" said Margaret, pleading against her own conviction of necessity.

'Oh, Frederick, hush! Don't talk so.'
Mr. Hale came towards them, eager and trembling. He had overheard, and took Frederick's hand, saying:
'My boy, you must go. You have done all you could - you have been a comfort to her.'


"I declare, I've a good mind to face it out, and stand my trial. If I could only pick up my evidence! I cannot endure the thought of being in the power of such a blackguard as Leonards. I could almost have enjoyed--in other circumstances--this stolen visit: it has had all the charm which the Frenchwoman attributed to forbidden pleasures."
"One of the earliest things I can remember," said Margaret, "was your being in some great disgrace, Fred, for stealing apples. We had plenty of our own--trees loaded with them; but some one had told you that stolen fruit tasted sweetest, which you took au pied de la lettre, and off you went a-robbing. You have not changed your feelings much since then."
"Yes--you must go," repeated Mr. Hale, answering Margaret's question, which she had asked some time ago. His thoughts were fixed on one subject, and it was an effort to him to follow the zigzag remarks of his children--an effort which he did not make.

'I declare, I've a good mind to face it out, and stand my trial,' said Frederick. 'If I could only pick up my evidence! I cannot endure the thought of being in the power of a blackguard like Leonards. I could almost have enjoyed - in other circumstances - this stolen visit: it has had all the charm of forbidden pleasures.'
'One of the earliest things I can remember,' said Margaret, 'was your being in great disgrace, Fred, for stealing apples. We had plenty of our own, but someone had told you that stolen fruit tasted sweetest, and off you went a-robbing. You have not changed much since then.'
'Yes - you must go,' repeated Mr. Hale, not following the zig-zag remarks of his children.


Margaret and Frederick looked at each other. That quick momentary sympathy would be theirs no longer if he went away. So much was understood through eyes that could not be put into words. Both coursed the same thought till it was lost in sadness. Frederick shook it off first:
"Do you know, Margaret, I was very nearly giving both Dixon and myself a good fright this afternoon. I was in my bedroom; I had heard a ring at the front door, but I thought the ringer must have done his business and gone away long ago; so I was on the point of making my appearance in the passage, when, as I opened my room door, I saw Dixon coming downstairs; and she frowned and kicked me into hiding again. I kept the door open, and heard a message given to some man that was in my father's study, and that then went away. What could it have been? Some of the shopmen?"

Margaret and Frederick looked at each other with quick sympathy. So much was understood that could not be put into words. Frederick said:
'Do you know, Margaret, I nearly gave both Dixon and myself a good fright this afternoon. I was in my bedroom; I had heard a ring at the front door, but I thought the ringer must have gone away; so I was just coming out into the passage, when I saw Dixon; and she frowned and kicked me into hiding again. I kept the door open, and heard a message given to some man in my father's study, who then went away. Who could it have been? Some shopman?


"Very likely," said Margaret indifferently. "There was a little quiet man who came up for orders about two o'clock."
"But this was not a little man--a great powerful fellow; and it was past four when he was here."
"It was Mr. Thornton," said Mr. Hale. They were glad to have drawn him into the conversation.
"Mr. Thornton!" said Margaret, a little surprised. "I thought----"
"Well, little one, what did you think?" asked Frederick, as she did not finish her sentence.

It was a great powerful fellow.'
'It was Mr. Thornton,' said Mr. Hale.
'Mr. Thornton!' said Margaret, a little surprised. 'I thought-'
'Well, little one, what did you think?' asked Frederick.


"Oh, only," said she, reddening and looking straight at him, "I fancied you meant some one of a different class, not a gentleman; somebody come on an errand."
"He looked like someone of that kind," said Frederick, carelessly. "I took him for a shopman, and he turns out a manufacturer."
Margaret was silent. She remembered how at first, before she knew his character, she had spoken and thought of him just as Frederick was doing. It was but a natural impression that was made upon him, and yet she was a little annoyed by it. She was unwilling to speak; she wanted to make Frederick understand what kind of person Mr. Thornton was--but she was tongue-tied.

'Oh, only,' said she, reddening, 'I thought you meant someone come on an errand, not a gentleman.'
'I took him for a shopman,' said Frederick, carelessly.
Margaret was silent. She remembered how at first she had spoken of Mr. Thornton just as Frederick was doing. It was only natural, and yet she was a little annoyed by it. She wanted to make Frederick understand what kind of person Mr. Thornton was - but she was tongue-tied.


Mr. Hale went on. "He came to offer any assistance in his power, I believe. But I could not see him. I told Dixon to ask him if he would like to see you--I think I asked her to find you, and you would go to him. I don't know what I said."
"He has been a very agreeable acquaintance, has he not?" asked Frederick, throwing the question like a ball for any one to catch who chose.
"A very kind friend," said Margaret, when her father did not answer.
Frederick was silent for a time. At last he spoke:

Mr. Hale went on. 'He came to offer any assistance in his power. But I could not see him. I told Dixon to ask him if he would like to see you.'
'He has been a very agreeable acquaintance, has he not?' asked Frederick.
'A very kind friend,' said Margaret, when her father did not answer.
Frederick was silent for a time. At last he spoke:


"Margaret, it is painful to think I can never thank those who have shown you kindness. Your acquaintances and mine must be separate. Unless, indeed, I run the chances of a court-martial, or unless you and my father would come to Spain." He threw out this last suggestion as a kind of feeler; and then suddenly made the plunge. "You don't know how I wish you would. I have a good position--the chance of a better," continued he, reddening like a girl. "That Dolores Barbour that I was telling you of, Margaret--I only wish you knew her; I am sure you would like--no, love is the right word, like is so poor--you would love her, father, if you knew her. She is not eighteen; but if she is in the same mind another year, she is to be my wife. Mr. Barbour won't let us call it an engagement. But if you would come you would find friends everywhere, besides Dolores.

'Margaret, it is painful to think I can never thank those who have shown you kindness. Your acquaintances and mine must be separate - unless I run the chances of a court-martial, or you both come to Spain.' He threw out this last suggestion as a kind of feeler; and then suddenly made the plunge.
'I wish you would. I have a good position,' continued he, reddening. 'That Dolores Barbour that I was telling you of, Margaret - I only wish you knew her; I am sure you would like - no, love is the right word - you would love her, father, if you knew her. She is not eighteen; but if she is in the same mind next year, she is to be my wife. Mr. Barbour won't let us call it an engagement. But if you would come, you would find friends everywhere, besides Dolores.


Think of it, father. Margaret be on my side."
"No--no more removals for me," said Mr. Hale. "One has cost me my wife. No more removals in this life. She will be here; and here will I stay out my appointed time."
"Oh, Frederick," said Margaret, "tell us more about her. I never thought of this; but I am so glad. You will have some one to love and care for you out there. Tell us all about it."

Think of it, father.'
'No more removals for me,' said Mr. Hale. 'One removal has cost me my wife. No more removals. She will be here; and here will I stay.'
'Oh, Frederick,' said Margaret, 'tell us more about Dolores. I am so glad. You will have someone to love and care for you out there.'


"In the first place, she is a Roman Catholic. That's the only objection I anticipated. But my father's change of opinion--nay, Margaret, don't sigh."
Margaret had reason to sigh a little more before the conversation ended. Frederick himself was Roman Catholic in fact, though not in profession as yet. This was, then, the reason why his sympathy in her extreme distress at her father's leaving the church had been so faintly expressed in his letters. She had thought it was the carelessness of a sailor; but the truth was, that even then he was himself inclined to give up the form of religion into which had been baptized, only that his opinions were tending in exactly the opposite direction to those of his father. How much love had to do with this change not even Frederick himself could have told. Margaret gave up talking about this branch of the subject at last; and, returning to the fact of the engagement, she began to consider it in some fresh light.

'In the first place, she is a Roman Catholic. But my father's change of opinion - nay, Margaret, don't sigh.'
Margaret had reason to sigh a little more before long. Frederick himself was Roman Catholic, though not officially as yet. This, then, was the reason why he had shown so little distress at her father's leaving the Anglican Church. Margaret gave up talking about this subject. Returning to the engagement, she began to see it in a fresh light:


"But for her sake, Fred, you surely will try and clear yourself of the exaggerated charges brought against you, even if the charge of mutiny itself be true. If there were to be a court-martial, and you could find your witnesses, you might, at any rate, show your disobedience to authority was because that authority was unworthily exercised."
Mr. Hale roused himself up to listen to his son's answer.
"In the first place, Margaret, who is to hunt up my witnesses? All of them are sailors, drafted off to other ships, except those whose evidence would go for very little, as they took part or sympathised in the affair. In the next place allow me to tell you, you don't know what a court-martial is, and consider it as an assembly where justice is administered, instead of what it really is--a court where authority weighs nine-tenths in the balance, and evidence forms only the other tenth. In such cases, evidence itself can hardly escape being influenced by the prestige of authority."

'But for her sake, Fred, you surely will try and clear yourself of the charges brought against you. If there were to be a court-martial, and you could find your witnesses, you might show how your disobedience to authority was because that authority was unworthily exercised.'
'Who is to hunt up my witnesses?' responded Frederick. 'All of them are sailors, drafted off to other ships, except those whose evidence would go for very little, as they took part in the affair. And you don't know what a court-martial is. You consider it as an assembly where justice is administered, but really it is a court where authority weighs nine-tenths in the balance, and evidence forms only the other tenth.'


"But is it not worth trying, to see how much evidence might be discovered and arrayed on your behalf? At present, all those who knew you formerly, believe you guilty without any shadow of excuse. You have never tried to justify yourself, and we have never known where to seek for proofs of your justification. Now, for Miss Barbour's sake, make your conduct as clear as you can in the eye of the world. She may not care for it; she has, I am sure, that trust in you that we all have; but you ought not to let her ally herself to one under such a serious charge, without showing the world exactly how it is you stand. You disobeyed authority--that was bad; but to have stood by, without word or act, while the authority was brutally used, would have been infinitely worse. People know what you did; but not the motives that elevate it out of a crime into an heroic protection of the weak. For Dolores' sake, they ought to know."

'But is it not worth trying, to see how much evidence might be discovered and arrayed on your behalf? At present, you are believed guilty without any shadow of excuse. You have never tried to justify yourself. Now, for Miss Barbour's sake, make your conduct as clear as you can in the eye of the world. She trusts in you, I am sure; but you ought not to let her ally herself to one under such a serious charge, without showing the world exactly how you stand. You disobeyed authority - that was bad; but to have stood by passively while the authority was brutally used, would have been infinitely worse. For Dolores' sake, people ought to know your motives.'


"But how must I make them know? I am not sufficiently sure of the purity and justice of those who would be my judges, to give myself up to a court-martial, even if I could bring a whole array of truth-speaking witnesses. I can't send a bell-man about, to cry aloud and proclaim in the streets what you are pleased to call my heroism. No one would read a pamphlet of self-justification so long after the deed, even if I put one out."
"Will you consult a lawyer as to your chances of exculpation?" asked Margaret, looking up, and turning very red.
"I must first catch my lawyer, and have a look at him, and see how I like him, before I make him into my confidant. Many a briefless barrister might twist his conscience into thinking, that he could earn a hundred pounds very easily by doing a good action--in giving me, a criminal up to justice."
"Nonsense, Frederick!--because I know a lawyer on whose honour I can rely; of whose cleverness in his profession people speak very highly; and who would, I think, take a good deal of trouble for any of--Aunt Shaw's relations. Mr. Henry Lennox, papa."

'But I am not sure enough of the purity of my judges to give myself up to a court-martial, even if I could bring a whole array of witnesses.'
'Will you consult a lawyer as to your chances?' asked Margaret, turning red.
'I must first catch my lawyer, and have a look at him, before I confide in him. Many a briefless barrister might decide he could earn a hundred pounds very easily by giving me up to justice.'
'I know a lawyer on whose honour I can rely; people speak very highly of his cleverness; and I think he would take a good deal of trouble for any of - of Aunt Shaw's relations. Mr. Henry Lennox, papa.'


"I think it is a good idea," said Mr. Hale. "But don't propose anything which will detain Frederick in England. Don't, for your mother's sake."
"You could go to London by a night-train," continued Margaret, warming up into her plan. "He must go to-morrow, I'm afraid, papa," said she, tenderly; "we fixed that, because of Mr. Bell, and Dixon's disagreeable acquaintance."
"Yes; I must go to-morrow," said Frederick, decidedly.
Mr. Hale groaned. "I can't bear to part with you, and yet I am miserable with anxiety as long as you stop here."

'It is a good idea,' said Mr. Hale. 'But don't propose anything which will detain Frederick in England.'
'You could go to London tomorrow evening by overnight train,' suggested Margaret.
Mr. Hale groaned. 'I can't bear to part with you, and yet I am miserable with anxiety as long as you stop here.'


"Well then," said Margaret, "listen to my plan. He gets to London on Friday morning. I will--you might--no! it would be better to give him a note to Mr. Lennox. You will find him at his chambers in the Temple."

'Well then,' said Margaret, 'listen to my plan. He gets to London on Friday morning. I will give him a note to Mr. Lennox; his chambers are in the Temple.'


"I will write down a list of all the names I can remember on board the Orion. I could leave it with him to ferret them out. He is Edith's husband's brother, isn't he? I remember your naming him in your letters. I have money in Barbour's hands. I can pay a pretty long bill, if there's any chance of success. Money, dear father, that I had meant for a different purpose; so I shall only consider it as borrowed from you and Margaret."

'I will write down a list of all the names I can remember on board the Orion, and leave it with him to ferret them out. He is Edith's husband's brother, isn't he? I remember him from your letters. I have money in Barbour's hands. I can pay a pretty long bill, if there is any chance of success.'


"Don't do that," said Margaret. "You won't risk it if you do. And it will be as risk; only it is worth trying. You can sail from London as well as from Liverpool?"
"To be sure, little goose. Wherever I feel water heaving under a plank, there I feel at home. I'll pick up some craft or other to take me off, never fear. I won't stay twenty-four hours in London, away from you on the one hand, and from somebody else on the other."

'You can sail from London as well as from Liverpool?' asked Margaret.
'To be sure, little goose. Wherever I feel water heaving under a plank, there I feel at home. I'll pick up some craft or other to take me off, never fear. I won't stay twenty-four hours in London.'


It was rather a comfort to Margaret that Frederick took it into his head to look over her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. Lennox. If she had not been thus compelled to write steadily and concisely on, she might have hesitated over many a word, and been puzzled to choose between many an expression, in the awkwardness of being the first to resume the intercourse of which the concluding event had been so unpleasant to both sides. However, the note was taken from her before she had even had time to look it over, and treasured up in a pocket-book, out of which fell a long lock of black hair, the sight of which caused Frederick's eyes to glow with pleasure.
"Now you would like to see that, wouldn't you?" said he. "No! you must wait till you see her herself. She is too perfect to be known by fragments. No mean brick shall be a specimen of the building of my palace."

It was rather a comfort to Margaret that Frederick looked over her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. Lennox. It made her write steadily and concisely, despite the awkwardness of being the first to resume communications after his proposal. The note was taken from her before she had even had time to look it over, and treasured up in a pocket-book, out of which fell a long lock of black hair, which caused Frederick's eyes to glow with pleasure.
'Now you would like to see that, wouldn't you?' said he. 'No! you must wait till you see her herself.'


"I ask Thee for a thoughtful love, Through constant watching wise, To meet the glad with joyful smiles, And to wipe the weeping eyes; And a heart at leisure from itself To soothe and sympathise." ANON.
Margaret made a good listener to all her mother's little plans for adding some small comforts to the lot of the poorest parishioners. She could not help listening, though each new project was a stab to her heart. By the time the frost had set in, they should be far away from Helstone. Old Simon's rheumatism might be bad and his eyesight worse; there would be no one to go and read to him, and comfort him with little porringers of broth and good red flannel; or if there was, it would be a stranger, and the old man would watch in vain for her. Mary Domville's little crippled boy would crawl in vain to the door and look for her coming through the forest. These poor friends would never understand why she had forsaken them; and there were many others besides. "Papa has always spent the income he derived from his living in the parish. I am, perhaps, encroaching upon the next dues, but the winter is likely to be severe, and our poor people must be helped."

Margaret made a good listener to all her mother's little plans for helping the poorer parishioners, though each new project was a stab to her heart. Old Simon's rheumatism might be bad and his eyesight worse; there would be no one to go and read to him, and take him broth. Mary Domville's little crippled boy would crawl in vain to the door and look for her coming through the forest. These poor friends, and many others, would never understand why she had forsaken them.
'The winter is likely to be severe,' said her mother, 'and the old people must be helped.'


"Oh, mamma, let us do all we can," said Margaret eagerly, not seeing the prudential side of the question, only grasping at the idea that they were rendering such help for the last time; "we may not be here long."
"Do you feel ill, my darling?" asks Mrs. Hale, anxiously, misunderstanding Margaret's hint of the uncertainty of their stay at Helstone. "You look pale and tired. It is this soft, damp, unhealthy air."
"No--no, mamma, it is not that: it is delicious air. It smells of the freshest, purest fragrance, after the smokiness of Harley Street. But I am tired: it surely must be near bedtime."

'Oh, mamma, let us do all we can,' said Margaret eagerly; 'we may not be here long.'
'Do you feel ill, my darling?' asked Mrs. Hale. 'You look pale and tired. It is this damp, unhealthy air.'
'No. no, mamma: it is delicious air. It smells fresh and pure after the smokiness of Harley Street. But I am tired: it must be near bedtime.'


"Not far off--it is half-past nine. You had better go to bed at once, dear. Ask Dixon for some gruel. I will come and see you as soon as you are in bed. I am afraid you have taken cold; or the bad air from some of the stagnant ponds--"
"Oh, mamma," said Margaret, faintly smiling as she kissed her mother, "I am quite well--don't alarm yourself about me; I am only tired."

'You had better go to bed, dear. Ask Dixon for some gruel. I am afraid you have taken cold.'
'Oh, mamma,' said Margaret, faintly smiling as she kissed her mother, 'I am quite well - don't alarm yourself.'


Margaret went up stairs. To soothe her mother's anxiety she submitted to a basin of gruel. She was lying languidly in bed when Mrs. Hale came up to make some last inquiries and kiss her before going to her own room for the night. But the instant she heard her mother's door locked, she sprang out of bed, and throwing her dressing-gown on, she began to pace up and down the room, until the creaking of one of the boards reminded her that she must make no noise. She went and curled herself upon the window-seat in the small, deeply-recessed window. That morning when she had looked out, her heart had danced at seeing the bright clear lights on the church tower, which foretold a fine and sunny day. This evening--sixteen hours at most had past by--she sat down, too full of sorrow to cry, but with a cold dull pain, which seemed to have pressed the youth and buoyancy out of her heart, never to return. Mr. Henry Lennox's visit--his offer--was like a dream, a thing beside her actual life. The hard reality was, that her father had so admitted tempting doubts into his mind as to become a schismatic--an outcast; all the changes consequent upon this grouped themselves around that one great blighting fact.

To soothe her mother's anxiety, she submitted to a basin of gruel. She was lying in bed when Mrs. Hale came up to kiss her good-night. But the instant she heard her mother's door locked, she sprang out of bed, and throwing her dressing-gown on, began to pace up and down the room, until the creaking of the boards reminded her that she must make no noise.
She went and curled up on the window-seat. That morning when she had looked out, her heart had danced at seeing the sunlight on the church tower. This evening she sat down with a dull cold pain, which seemed to have pressed the youth and buoyancy out of her heart. Mr. Henry Lennox's visit was like a dream. The hard reality was that her father had made himself an outcast; all the resulting changes grouped themselves around that one great blighting fact.


She looked out upon the dark-grey lines of the church towers, square and straight in the centre of the view, cutting against the deep blue transparent depths beyond, into which she gazed, and felt that she might gaze for ever, seeing at every moment some farther distance, and yet no sign of God! It seemed to her at the moment, as if the earth was more utterly desolate than if girt in by an iron dome, behind which there might be the ineffaceable peace and glory of the Almighty: those never-ending depths of space, in their still serenity, were more mocking to her than any material bounds could be--shutting in the cries of earth's sufferers, which now might ascend into that infinite splendour of vastness and be lost--lost for ever, before they reached His throne. In this mood her father came in unheard. The moonlight was strong enough to let him see his daughter in her unusual place and attitude. He came to her and touched her shoulder before she was aware that he was there.
"Margaret, I heard you were up. I could not help coming in to ask you to pray with me--to say the Lord's Prayer; that will do good to both of us."

She looked out upon the dark-grey lines of the church tower, square and straight, cutting against the deep blue transparent depths beyond, into which she gazed, and felt that she might gaze for ever, seeing at every moment some farther distance, and yet no sign of God! It seemed to her as if the earth was utterly desolate. Those never-ending depths of space, in their still serenity, were mocking to her. The cries of earth's sufferers might ascend into that infinite splendour of vastness and be lost for ever, before they reached His throne.
Her father came in unheard, and touched her shoulder.
'Margaret, I heard you were up. I could not help coming in to ask you to pray with me - to say the Lord's Prayer; that will do us both good.'


Mr. Hale and Margaret knelt by the window-seat--he looking up, she bowed down in humble shame. God was there, close around them, hearing her father's whispered words. Her father might be a heretic; but had not she, in her despairing doubts not five minutes before, shown herself a far more utter sceptic? She spoke not a word, but stole to bed after her father had left her, like a child ashamed of its fault. If the world was full of perplexing problems she would trust, and only ask to see the one step needful for the hour. Mr. Lennox--his visit, his proposal--the remembrance of which had been so rudely pushed aside by the subsequent events of the day--haunted her dreams that night. He was climbing up some tree of fabulous height to reach the branch whereon was slung her bonnet: he was falling and she was struggling to save him, but held back by some invisible powerful hand. He was dead. And yet, with a shifting of the scene, she was once more in the Harley Street drawing-room, talking to him as of old, and still with a consciousness all the time that she had seen him killed by that terrible fall.

They knelt by the window-seat - he looking up, she bowed in humble shame. God was there, hearing her father's whispered words. Her father might be a heretic; but had not she, in her despair five minutes before, shown herself a far more utter sceptic?
After her father left her, she stole to bed like a child ashamed of its fault. If the world was full of perplexing problems, she would only ask to see the one step needful for the hour.
Mr. Lennox's proposal - the memory of which had been so rudely pushed aside by the day's events - haunted her dreams that night. He was climbing up some tall tree to reach the branch whereon was slung her bonnet: he was falling, and she was struggling to save him, but held back by some invisible powerful hand. He was dead. And then she was once more in the Harley Street drawing-room, talking to him as of old, and yet knowing that she had seen him killed by that terrible fall.


Miserable, unresting night! Ill preparation for the coming day! She awoke with a start, unrefreshed, and conscious of some reality worse even than her feverish dreams. It all came back upon her; not merely the sorrow, but the terrible discord in the sorrow. Where, to what distance apart, had her father wandered, led by doubts which were to her temptations of the Evil One? She longed to ask, and yet would not have heard for all the world.
The fine crisp morning made her mother feel particularly well and happy at breakfast-time. She talked on, planning village kindness, unheeding the silence of her husband and the monosyllabic answers of Margaret. Before the things were cleared away, Mr. Hale got up; he leaned one hand on the table, as if to support himself:

Miserable night! She awoke with a start, unrefreshed, and conscious of a reality worse even than her feverish dreams. It all came back upon her; the sorrow and the terrible discord. Where had her father wandered, led by doubts which were to her temptations of the Evil One? She longed to ask, and yet did not want to hear.
The fine crisp morning made her mother particularly happy at breakfast-time. She talked on, not heeding her husband's silence and Margaret's monosyllabic answers. Before the things were cleared away, Mr. Hale got up.


"I shall not be home till evening. I am going to Bracy Common, and will ask Farmer Dobson to give me something for dinner. I shall be back to tea at seven."
He did not look at either of them, but Margaret knew what he meant. By seven the announcement must be made to her mother. Mr. Hale would have delayed making it, but Margaret was of different stuff. She could not bear the impending weight on her mind all day long: better get the worst over; the day would be too short to comfort her mother. But while she stood by the window, thinking how to begin, and waiting for the servant to have left the room, her mother had gone up stairs to put on her things to go to the school. She came down ready equipped, in a brisker mood than usual.
"Mother, come round the garden with me this morning; just one turn," said Margaret, putting her arm round Mrs. Hale's waist.

'I shall not be at home till evening. I am going to Bracy Common, and will be back to tea at seven.'
Margaret knew what he meant. By seven the announcement must be made to her mother. Mr. Hale would have delayed making it till half-past six, but Margaret was of different stuff. She could not bear the weight on her mind all day long: better get it over. But while she stood by the window, waiting for the servant to leave the room, her mother had gone upstairs to put on her things to go to the school. She came down briskly, ready equipped.
'Mother, come round the garden with me this morning,' said Margaret, putting her arm round Mrs. Hale's waist.


They passed through the open window. Mrs. Hale spoke--said something--Margaret could not tell what. Her eye caught on a bee entering a deep-belled flower: when that bee flew forth with his spoil she would begin--that should be the sign. Out he came.
"Mamma! Papa is going to leave Helstone!" she blurted forth. "He's going to leave the Church, and live in Milton-Northern." There were the three hard facts hardly spoken.

They went outside. Mrs. Hale said something - Margaret could not tell what. Her eye caught on a bee entering a deep-belled flower: when that bee flew forth she would begin. Out he came.
'Mamma! Papa is going to leave Helstone!' she blurted. 'He's going to leave the Church, and live in Milton-Northern.'


"What makes you say so?" asked Mrs. Hale, in a surprised, incredulous voice. "Who has been telling you such nonsense?"
"Papa himself," said Margaret, longing to say something gentle and consoling, but literally not knowing how. They were close to a garden-bench. Mrs. Hale sat down and began to cry.
"I don't understand you," she said. "Either you have made some great mistake, or I don't quite understand you."

'What makes you say so?' asked Mrs. Hale, in an incredulous voice. 'Who has been telling you such nonsense?'
'Papa himself,' said Margaret, longing to say something gentle and consoling, but not knowing how. Mrs. Hale sat down on a garden bench, and began to cry.
'I don't understand you,' she said. 'You have made some great mistake.'


"No, mother, I have made no mistake. Papa has written to the bishop, saying that he has such doubts that he cannot conscientiously remain a priest of the Church of England, and that he must give up Helstone. He has also consulted Mr. Bell--Frederick's godfather, you know, mamma; and it is arranged that we go to live at Milton-Northern." Mrs. Hale looked up in Margaret's face all the time she was speaking these words: the shadow on her countenance told that she, at least, believed in the truth of what she said.
"I don't think it can be true," said Mrs. Hale, at length. "He would surely have told me before it came to this."
It came strongly upon Margaret's mind that her mother ought to have been told: that whatever her faults of discontent and repining might have been, it was an error in her father to have left her to learn his change of opinion, and his approaching change of life, from her better-informed child. Margaret sat down by her mother, and took her unresisting head on her breast, bending her own soft cheeks down caressingly to touch her face.

'No, mother, I have made no mistake. Papa has written to the bishop, saying that he has such doubts that he cannot remain a priest of the Church of England, and that he must give up Helstone. He has also consulted Mr. Bell - Frederick's godfather, you know; and it is arranged that we shall go to live in Milton-Northern.'
Mrs. Hale looked up in Margaret's face. 'I don't think it can be true,' said she, at length. 'He would surely have told me.'
It came strongly upon Margaret's mind that her mother ought to have been told: that whatever her faults of discontent, it was an error in her father to have left her to learn of this change from her child. She sat down by her mother, and took her unresisting head on her breast, bending her own soft cheeks down caressingly to touch her face.


"Dear, darling mamma! we were so afraid of giving you pain. Papa felt so acutely--you know you are not strong, and there must have been such terrible suspense to go through."
"When did he tell you, Margaret?"
"Yesterday, only yesterday," replied Margaret, detecting the jealousy which prompted the inquiry. "Poor papa!"--trying to divert her mother's thoughts into compassionate sympathy for all her father had gone through. Mrs. Hale raised her head.

'Darling mamma! we were so afraid of giving you pain. Papa felt so acutely - you know you are not strong, and there would have been terrible suspense to go through.'
'When did he tell you, Margaret?'
'Yesterday, only yesterday,' replied Margaret, detecting the jealousy which prompted the inquiry. 'Poor papa!' - trying to divert her mother's thoughts into compassion for all her father had gone through. Mrs. Hale raised her head.


"What does he mean by having doubts?" she asked. "Surely, he does not mean that he thinks differently--that he knows better than the Church."
Margaret shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes, as her mother touched the bare nerve of her own regret.
"Can't the bishop set him right?" asked Mrs. Hale half impatiently.

'What does he mean by having doubts?' she asked. 'Surely, he does not mean that he knows better than the Church.'
Margaret shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes.
'Can't the bishop set him right?' asked Mrs. Hale, half impatiently.


"I'm afraid not," said Margaret. "But I did not ask. I could not bear to hear what he might answer. It is all settled at any rate. He is going to leave Helstone in a fortnight. I am not sure if he did not say he had sent in his deed of resignation."

'I'm afraid not,' said Margaret. 'But I did not ask. It is all settled at any rate. He is going to leave Helstone in a fortnight.'


"In a fortnight!" exclaimed Mrs. Hale, "I do think this is very strange--not at all right. I call it very unfeeling," said she, beginning to take relief in tears. "He has doubts you say, and gives up his living, and all without consulting me. I dare say, if he had told me his doubts at the first I could have nipped them in the bud."
Mistaken as Margaret felt her father's conduct to have been, she could not bear to hear it blamed by her mother. She knew that his very reserve had originated in a tenderness for her, which might be cowardly, but was not unfeeling.
"I almost hoped you might be glad to leave Helstone, mamma," said she, after a pause. "You have never been well in this air, you know."

'In a fortnight!' exclaimed Mrs. Hale, beginning to take relief in tears. 'This is very strange - very unfeeling. He has doubts, and gives up his living, all without consulting me. If he had told me his doubts at the start I could have nipped them in the bud.'
Mistaken as Margaret felt her father's conduct to have been, she could not bear to hear it blamed by her mother.
'I hoped you might have been glad to leave Helstone, mamma,' said she. 'You have never been well in this air, you know.'


"You can't think the smoky air of a manufacturing town, all chimneys and dirt like Milton-Northern, would be better than this air, which is pure and sweet, if it is too soft and relaxing. Fancy living in the middle of factories, and factory people! Though, of course, if your father leaves the Church, we shall not be admitted into society anywhere. It will be such a disgrace to us! Poor dear Sir John! It is well he is not alive to see what your father has come to! Every day after dinner, when I was a girl, living with your Aunt Shaw, at Beresford Court, Sir John used to give for the first toast--'Church and King, and down with the Rump.'"
Margaret was glad that her mother's thoughts were turned away from the fact of her husband's silence to her on the point which must have been so near his heart. Next to the serious vital anxiety as to the nature of her father's doubts, this was the one circumstance of the case that gave Margaret the most pain.

'You can't think the smoky air of a manufacturing town, all chimneys and dirt, would be better than this air, which is pure and sweet, even if it is too soft. Fancy living in the middle of factories, and factory people! Though if your father leaves the Church, we shall not be admitted into society anywhere. It will be such a disgrace! Poor dear Sir John! It is well he is not alive to see this! Every day after dinner, when I was a girl at Beresford Court, Sir John used to give the first toast - "Church and King, and down with the Rump."'
Margaret was glad that her mother's thoughts were turned away from the fact of her husband's silence.


"You know, we have very little society here, mamma. The Gormans, who are our nearest neighbours (to call society--and we hardly ever see them), have been in trade just as much as these Milton-Northern people."
"Yes," says Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly, "but at any rate, the Gormans made carriages for half the gentlemen of the county, and were brought into some kind of intercourse with them; but these factory people, who on earth wears cotton that can afford linen?"
"Well, mamma, I give up the cotton-spinners; I am not standing up for them, any more than for any other trades-people. Only we shall have little enough to do with them."
"Why on earth has your father fixed on Milton-Northern to live in?"
"Partly," said Margaret, sighing, "because it is so very different from Helstone--partly because Mr. Bell says there is an opening there for a private tutor."
"Private tutor in Milton! Why can't he go to Oxford, and be a tutor to gentlemen?"

'You know, we have very little society here, mamma. The Gormans, who are our nearest neighbours, have been in trade just as much as these Milton-Northern people.'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly, 'but the Gormans made carriages for half the gentry of the county; but these factory people - who on earth wears cotton that can afford linen?'
'Well, mamma, I am not standing up for the cotton-spinners, any more than for any other trades-people. We shall have little enough to do with them.'
'Why on earth has your father fixed on Milton-Northern to live in?'
'Partly,' said Margaret, sighing, 'because it is so very different from Helstone - partly because Mr. Bell says there is an opening there for a private tutor.'
'Why can't he go to Oxford, and be a tutor to gentlemen?'


"You forget, mamma! He is leaving the Church on account of his opinions--his doubts would do him no good at Oxford."
Mrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly crying. At last she said:--
"And the furniture--How in the world are we to manage the removal? I never removed in my life, and only a fortnight to think about it!"

'You forget, mamma! His doubts would do him no good at Oxford.'
Mrs. Hale was silent for some time, quietly crying. At last she said:
'And the furniture - how in the world are we to manage the removal? We have only a fortnight to think about it!'


Margaret was inexpressibly relieved to find that her mother's anxiety and distress was lowered to this point, so insignificant to herself, and on which she could do so much to help. She planned and promised, and led her mother on to arrange fully as much as could be fixed before they knew somewhat more definitely what Mr. Hale intended to do. Throughout the day Margaret never left her mother; bending her whole soul to sympathise in all the various turns her feelings took; towards evening especially, as she became more and more anxious that her father should find a soothing welcome home awaiting him, after his return from his day of fatigue and distress. She dwelt upon what he must have borne in secret for long; her mother only replied coldly that he ought to have told her, and that then at any rate he would have had an adviser to give him counsel; and Margaret turned faint at heart when she heard her father's step in the hall. She dared not go to meet him, and tell him what she had done all day, for fear of her mother's jealous annoyance. She heard him linger, as if awaiting her, or some sign of her; and she dared not stir; she saw by her mother's twitching lips, and changing colour, that she too was aware that her husband had returned. Presently he opened the room-door, and stood there uncertain whether to come in. His face was gray and pale; he had a timid fearful look in his eyes; something almost pitiful to see in a man's face; but that look of despondent uncertainty, of mental and bodily languor, touched his wife's heart. She went to him, and threw herself on his breast, crying out:--

Margaret was inexpressibly relieved to find that her mother's distress was lowered to this point, on which she could do so much to help. She promised to arrange as much as could be fixed before they knew more definitively what Mr. Hale intended to do.
Throughout the day Margaret never left her mother; bending her whole soul to sympathise in all the various turns her feelings took. Towards evening, she became anxious that her father should find a soothing welcome awaiting him, after his day of fatigue and distress. She dwelt upon what he must have borne in secret for long; her mother only replied coldly that he ought to have told her; and Margaret turned faint at heart when she heard her father's step in the hall. She dared not go to meet him, for fear of her mother's jealous annoyance. She heard him linger, as if awaiting her, and she dared not stir; she saw by her mother's twitching lips that she too was aware that her husband had returned.
Presently he opened the door, and stood there uncertain whether to come in. His face was pale; his eyes were timid; but that look of despondent uncertainty touched his wife's heart. She went to him, and threw herself on his breast, crying out-


"Oh! Richard, Richard, you should have told me sooner!"
And then, in tears, Margaret left her, as she rushed up stairs to throw herself on her bed, and hide her face in the pillows to stifle the hysteric sobs that would force their way out at last, after the rigid self-control of the whole day.
How long she lay thus she could not tell. She heard no noise, though the housemaid came in to arrange the room. The affrighted girl stole out again on tip-toe, and went and told Mrs. Dixon that Miss Hale was crying as if her heart would break: she was sure she would make herself deadly ill if she went on at that rate. In consequence of this, Margaret felt herself touched, and started up into a sitting posture; she saw the accustomed room, the figure of Dixon in shadow, as the latter stood holding a candle a little behind her, for fear of the effect on Miss Hale's startled eyes, swollen and blinded as they were.

'Oh! Richard, Richard, you should have told me sooner!'
And then Margaret left her, and rushed upstairs to throw herself on her bed, and hide her face in the pillows to stifle the hysteric sobs that would force their way out at last, after the rigid self-control of the day. How long she lay thus she could not tell. She heard no noise, though the housemaid came in to arrange the room. The affrighted girl stole out again on tip-toe, and told Mrs. Dixon that Miss Hale was crying as if her heart would break.
Margaret felt herself touched, and started up; she saw the figure of Dixon in shadow, holding the candle away from her eyes, swollen and blinded as they were.


"Oh, Dixon! I did not hear you come into the room!" said Margaret, resuming her trembling self-restraint. "Is it very late?" continued she, lifting herself languidly off the bed, yet letting her feet touch the ground without fairly standing down, as she shaded her wet ruffled hair off her face, and tried to look as though nothing were the matter; as if she had been asleep.

'Oh, Dixon! I did not hear you come in!' said Margaret, resuming her trembling self-restraint. 'Is it very late?' She moved her wet ruffled hair off her face, and tried to look as though nothing were the matter; as if she had only been asleep.


"I can hardly tell what time it is," replied Dixon in an aggrieved tone of voice. "Since your mamma told me this terrible news, when I dressed her for tea, I've lost all count of time. I'm sure I don't know what is to become of us all. When Charlotte told me just now you were sobbing, Miss Hale, I thought, no wonder, poor thing! And master thinking of turning Dissenter at his time of life, when, if it is not to be said he's done well in the Church, he's not done badly after all. I had a cousin, miss, who turned Methodist preacher after he was fifty years of age, and a tailor all his life; but then he had never been able to make a pair of trousers to fit, for as long as he had been in the trade, so it was no wonder; but for master! as I said to missus, 'What would poor Sir John have said? he never liked your marrying Mr. Hale, but if he could have known it would have come to this, he would have sworn worse oaths than ever, if that was possible!'"
Dixon had been so much accustomed to comment upon Mr. Hale's proceedings to her mistress (who listened to her, or not, as she was in the humour), that she never noticed Margaret's flashing eye and dilating nostril. To hear her father talked of in this way by a servant to her face!

'I hardly can tell what time it is,' replied Dixon, in an aggrieved tone. 'Since your mamma told me this terrible news, I've lost all count of time. I'm sure I don't know what is to become of us all. When Charlotte told me you were sobbing, Miss Hale, I thought, no wonder, poor thing! And master turning Dissenter at his time of life! As I said to missus, "What would poor Sir John have said? He never liked your marrying Mr. Hale, but if he could have known it would come to this, he would have sworn worse oaths than ever!"'
Dixon was so used to commenting upon Mr. Hale's proceedings to her mistress that she never noticed Margaret's flashing eye. To hear her father talked of in this way by a servant!