THE TALE OF AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE.

IN SiX WEEKLY PORTIONS. SIXTH PORTION.

CHAPTER XIII.

WEEKS and months had gathered into years,
since my sister and her husband went away
from England. Anna's life was as varied and
adventurous, as mine was monotonous and calm.
She wrote to me occasionally, but her letters
were brief, and far from frequent. I heard
more clear and detailed accounts of her life
from Madame de Beauguet than from herself,
as long as they remained near Quebec. But
soon commenced a series of wanderings and
changes, which took my sister and her husband
further and further out of our old friend's ken.
Things did not prosper with them. That much
I could discover to my sorrow. Horace had a
heavy burden on his shoulders now, and his
health was far from good. Poor little Lily
did not outlive her first Canadian winter, and
Anna gave birth to three more children, who
all, save the youngest, died in early infancy.
The surviving little one, a boy, was cherished
and watched over by his parents with great
anxiety. Madame de Beauguet wrote me that
it was piteous to see Anna's trembling
apprehension lest he too should be taken from them.
Old Mr. Lee had sunk into partial imbecility,
and needed tending like a child. All these
helpless beings had but Horace to lean on for
support. My heart bled for them. Sometimes
it seemed intolerable to me that I should be
surrounded by all the comforts of my home
at the Gable House, while they were facing
poverty in a foreign land. But I was not
allowed the solace of affording them any help.
My uncle from time to time gave me sums of
money "to do as I liked with;" and, as those
sums were invariably forthcoming whenever
there was news of difficulty and struggle from
Canada, I did not hesitate to send them to my
sister. But poverty and misfortune, far from
subduing, seemed but to heighten, her haughty
spirit. She sent back my offerings with a cold
assurance that they were not needed. I could
only forward the money to Madame de Beauguet,
and beg her, if she saw them in any sore
strait, to offer them assistance as though coming
from herself.

Time had been very good to me. I believe I
was, in some respects, older than my years.
Never very sprightly or vivacious, the great
sorrow of my life had sobered what youthful gaiety
I once possessed. But though outwardly,
perhaps, too staid and quiet for my age, I was not
without an inner peace and cheerfulness which
seldom deserted me. I suppose the secret of it
was the knowledge that I was dear and useful
to my uncle, and, perhaps, to others. Ah,
Lucy, you can never be quite unhappy, so long
as there is left to you one human being to whom
your affection is precious. Prize well this
inestimable privilege of loving. Love, love, my
child, abundantly, ungrudgingly; it shall be
given to you again ten thousand-fold.

Mr. Norcliffe was a frequent and welcome
guest at the Gable House. My uncle found great
pleasure and comfort in his society; and to me
he was what he had promised to be—a friend, a
brother. Once, since his first offer, he had
renewed his proposal; but my earnestness on
that occasion convinced him that his suit was
hopeless, and he made me a voluntary promise
never to address me on the subject again.
This promise he kept with the most loyal good
faith. "I cannot afford to lose your friendship,
Margaret," he said. "I may call you Margaret,
may I not? I am so many, many years older
than you, my child. I could not bear that
there should be any constraint or pain to you in
our intercourse, and yet to lose your kind
companionship and good will would be very hard to
me. Trust me that henceforward you shall never
more be pained by a word or look of mine. I
will put all that away—bury it in the Red Sea,
if you like. That is the place for laying unquiet
spirits, is it not? Mine, at all events, shall
disturb you no more." As I have said, he
was most loyal to his word. By this time, he
had come to be intimately acquainted with our
family history, and my uncle had acquired the
habit of appealing to his judgment on many
points. Although his home was still at
Beachington, he was much with us. As my uncle
said, the Gable House was large enough for
three, and it was a charity to come and cheer
us as often as he could.

The story of one day's life was, as nearly as
possible, the story of all the others in its
outward details. The circling seasons melted into
one another, and made us change, from time to
time, the fireside for the garden. But there was