hurried tremulousness which startled
Charlotte within.

"Let me in! Let me in! It is only me,
Charlotte!" Her heart did not still its fluttering
till she was safe in the drawing-room,
with the windows fastened and bolted, and
the familiar walls hemming her round, and
shutting her in. She had pate down upon a
packing-case; cheerless, chill was the dreary
and dismantled room—no fire, nor other
light, but Charlotte's long unsnuffed candle.
Charlotte looked at Margaret with surprise;
and Margaret, feeling it rather than seeing it,
rose up.

"I was afraid you were shutting me out
altogether, Charlotte," said she, half-smiling.
"And then you would never have heard me
in the kitchen, and the doors into the lane and
churchyard are locked long ago."

"Oh, miss, I should have been sure to
have missed you soon. The men would have
wanted you to tell them how to go on. And
I have put tea in master's study, as being
the most comfortable room, so to speak."

"Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind
girl. I shall be sorry to leave you. You
must try and write to me, if I can ever give
you any little help or good advice. I shall
always be glad to get a letter from Helstone,
you know. I shall be sure and send you my
address when I know it."

The study was all ready for tea. There
was a good blazing fire, and unlighted candles
on the table. Margaret sat down on the rug,
partly to warm herself, for the dampness of
the evening hung about her dress, and over-
fatigue had made her chilly. She kept herself
balanced by clasping her hands together
round her knees; her head drooped a little
towards her chest; the attitude was one of
despondency, whatever her frame of mind
might be. But when she heard her father's
step on the gravel outside, she started up,
and hastily shaking her heavy black hair
back, and wiping a few tears away that had
come on her cheeks she knew not how, she
went out to open the door for him. He
showed far more depression than she did.
She could hardly get him to talk, although
she tried to speak on subjects that would
interest him, at the cost of an effort every
time which she thought would be her last.

"Have you been a very long walk to-day?"
asked she, on seeing his refusal to touch
food of any kind.

"As far as Fordham Beeches. I went to
see Widow Maltby; she is sadly grieved at
not having wished you good-bye. She says
little Susan has kept watch down the lane
for days past.—Nay, Margaret, what is the
matter, dear?" The thought of the little
child watching for her, and continually
disappointed from no forgetfulness on her
part, but from sheer inability to leave home
—was the last drop in poor Margaret's cup,
and she was sobbing away as if her heart
would break. Mr. Hale was distressingly
perplexed. He rose, and walked nervously up
and down the room. Margaret tried to check
herself, but would not speak until she could
do so with firmness. She heard him talking,
as if to himself.

"I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see
the sufferings of others. I think I could go
through my own with patience. Oh, is there
no going back?"

"No, father," said Margaret, looking
straight at him, and speaking low and
steadily. "It is bad to believe you in error.
It would be infinitely worse to have known
you a hypocrite." She dropped her voice at
the last few words, as if entertaining the idea
of hypocrisy for a moment in connection with
her father savoured of irreverence.

"Besides," she went on, "it is only that I
am tired to-night; don't think that I am
suffering from what you have done, dear
papa. We can't either of us talk about it
to-night, I believe," said she, finding that
tears and sobs would come in spite of herself.
"I had better go and take mamma up this
cup of tea. She had hers very early, when I
was too busy to go to her, and I am sure she
will be glad of another now."

Railroad time inexorably wrenched them
away from lovely, beloved Helstone, the next
morning. They were gone; they had seen
the last of the long low parsonage home,
half-covered with China-roses and
pyracanthus more homelike than ever in the
morning sun that glittered on its windows,
each belonging to some well-loved room.
Almost before they had settled themselves
into the car, sent from Southampton to fetch
them to the station, they were gone away
to return no more. A sting at Margaret's
heart made her strive to look out to catch the
last glimpse of the old church tower where
she knew it might be seen above a wave of
the forest trees; but her father remembered
this too, and she silently acknowledged his
greater right to the one window from which
it could be seen. She leant back and shut
her eyes, and the tears welled forth, and
hung glittering for an instant on the shadowing
eyelashes before rolling slowly down her
cheeks, and dropping, unheeded, on her dress.

They were to stop in London all night
at some quiet hotel. Poor Mrs. Hale had
cried in her way nearly all day long;
and Dixon showed her sorrow by extreme
crossness, and a continual irritable attempt
to keep her petticoats from even touching
the unconscious Mr. Hale, whom she regarded
as the origin of all this suffering.

They went through the well-known streets,
past houses which they had often visited,
past shops in which she had lounged,
impatient, by her aunt's side, while that lady was
making some important and interminable
decision—nay, absolutely past acquaintances
in the streets; for though the morning had
been of an incalcuable length to them, and
they felt as if it ought long ago to have closed