himself, " how she loves her sister. I have
asked too much of her. Yet she shall
riot lose her."

"No, Margaret," whispered Ada, crying
bitterly, one hand on her lover's shoulder and
the other round her sister's waist, " it shall
be no pain, no sacrifice. Will you not still
love me, and shall I not always love you and
be near you ? Horace will not separate us."

A shudder ran through Margaret. This
blindness and unconscious egotism shocked
and chilled her. A moment more, and
the pain was pressed back with a strong
hand: the sacrifice was accepted with a firm
heart. She raised her head and looked up,
saying, " God be with you, dear ones, now
and ever!" as she joined their hands,
tears slowly filling her dark eyes, and
falling hot and heavy over her face.

Nothing could be done without Margaret.
Every inch of the way, to the steps of the
altar, she must walk hand in hand with Ada,
the little one never dreaming of the fiery
ordeal her love and childish weakness caused
that suffering spirit to endure. And even
when she had descended the altar-steps by
the side now of another guide, Margaret
was still her support, and her counsel the
favourite rule of her conduct. The loving gentle
child!—frightened somewhat at the new
duties she had undertaken, and feeling
that she could not fulfil them without
Margaret's help: believing that she could not
even please Horace unless Margaret taught
her how. When her sister remonstrated
with her, and endeavoured to give her
confidence in herself, and told her that she must
act more independently now, and not look for
advice in every small affair, but study to win
her husband's respect as well as to preserve
his love, Ada's only answer was a weary sigh,
or a flood of tears, and a sobbing complaint
that " Margaret no longer loved her, and
if she had known it would have changed
her so she would never have married,—
never."

What could the sister do? What only
great hearts can do; pity, be patient, and
learn from sorrow the nobleness not always
taught by happiness. Ada was too young for
her duties; and Margaret knew this, and had
said so; daring to be so brave to her own
heart, and to rely so wholly on her truth and
singleness of purpose, as to urge on Horace
her doubts respecting this marriage, telling
him she feared that its weight would crush
rather than ennoble the tender child, and
advising him to wait, and try to strengthen,
before he tried, her. Advice not much
regarded, how much soever it might be
repented of hereafter that it had not been
more respected, but falling, as all such counsels
generally do fall, on ears too fast closed by
love to receive it. All that Margaret
could do was to remain near them, and
help her sister to support the burden of her
existence; drinking daily draughts of agony
no one dreamed of, yet never once rejecting
the cup as too bitter or too full. She acted out
her life's tragedy bravely to the last, and was
more heroic in that small domestic circle
than many a martyr dying publicly before
men, rewarded by the knowledge that his
death helped forward Truth. With Margaret
there was no excitement, no reward, save
what suffering gives in nobleness and
worth.

Horace fell in with this kind of life
naturally enough. It was so pleasant to have
Margaret always with them—to appeal to
her strong sense and ready wit when he was
in any doubt himself, and to trust Ada to her
care—that he now asked whether it were not
rather a divided life he was leading, and
whether, between his wife and sister, it was
not the last who held the highest place?
This is scarcely what one looks for in a
perfect marriage. It was Margaret who was
his companion, his intellectual comrade; while
Ada played with the baby or botched
kettle-holders and urnstands; and they were
Margaret's thoughts which he sketched on the
canvas, Ada standing model for the heads
and hands.

It was Margaret too who taught the
children when they were old enough to learn,
and who calmed down their little storms, and
nursed them when they were ill. Ada only
romped with them, laughed with them, let
down her hair for their baby hands to ruffle
into a mesh of tiny ringlets, kissed them as
they rushed past, or stood terrified and weeping
by the cot where they lay sick and sad in
illness. But the real discipline and the real
work of life she never helped on. When
the eldest child died it was Margaret who
watched by his pillow the whole of that
fearful illness: it was Margaret who bathed
his fevered temples, placed the leeches on
his side, and dressed that red and angry sore:
it was Margaret who raised his dying head, and
laid him quietly to rest in the narrow coffin
for ever: it was Margaret, worn and weak
with watching as she was, who consoled
Horace and soothed Ada's tears to a sobbing
sleep; who ordered the details of the funeral,
and saw that they were properly performed.
All steadily and strongly done, although that
pretty boy had been her godson and her
favourite, had slept in her arms from the first
hour of his birth, and had learnt every
childish lesson from her lips. And it was only
at night, when the day's work was done and
all others had been comforted, that Margaret
suffered herself to sit down with her grief, and
give vent to the sorrows she had to strengthen
in action.

And when that debt, for which Horace had
been bound, became due; the friend to whom
he had lent his name failing him, and the
lawyers sent bailiffs into the house, it
was Margaret who calmed the frightened
servants; who restored Ada; fainting with