had told me his doubts at the first I could
have nipped them in 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, that might be cowardly, but was
not unfeeling.

"I almost hoped you might have been glad
to leave Helstone, mamma," said she, after a
pause. ' 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 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," said Mrs. Hale, almost indignantly,
"but, at any rate, the Gormans made carriages
for half the gentry 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 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."

Margaret was inexpressibly relieved to find
that her mother's anxiety and distress was
lowered to this point, so insignificant to
her, 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 definitively what Mr. Hale
intended to do. All through 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
then that 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 grey 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:—

"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
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 the candle a little
behind her, for fear of the effect on Miss Hale's
startled 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