They were silent for a long time.

"And Frederick was in South America
for several years, was he not?"

"Yes. And now he is in Spain. At Cadiz,
or somewhere near it. If he comes to
England he will be hung. I shall never see his
face again—for if he comes to England he
will be hung."

There was no comfort to be given. Mrs.
Hale turned her face to the wall, and lay
perfectly still in her mother's despair.
Nothing could be said to console her. She took
her hand out of Margaret's with a little
impatient movement, as if she would fain be
left alone with the recollection of her son.
When Mr. Hale came in, Margaret went out,
oppressed with gloom, and seeing no promise
of brightness on any side of the horizon.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

"MARGARET," said her father, the next day,
"we must return Mrs. Thornton's call. Your
mother is not very well, and thinks she
cannot walk so far; but you and I will go
this afternoon."

As they went, Mr. Hale began about his
wife's health, with a kind of veiled anxiety,
which Margaret was glad to see awakened at
last.

''Did you consult the doctor, Margaret?
Did you send for him?"

"No, papa, you spoke of his coming to see
me. Now I was well. But if I only knew
of some good doctor, I would go this afternoon,
and ask him to come, for I am sure
mamma is seriously indisposed."

She put the truth thus plainly and strongly
because her father had so completely shut his
mind against the idea when she had last
named her fears. But now the case was
changed. He answered in a despondent
tone:

"Do you think she has any hidden complaint?
Do you think she is really very ill?
Has Dixon said anything? Oh, Margaret!
I am haunted by the fear that our coming to
Milton has killed her. My poor Maria!"

"Oh, papa! don't imagine such things,"
said Margaret, shocked. "She is not well,
that is all. Many a one is not well for a time;
and with good advice gets better and stronger
than ever."

"But has Dixon said anything about
her?"

"No! You know Dixon enjoys making a
mystery out of trifles; and she has been a
little mysterious about mamma's health, which
has alarmed me rather, that is all. Without
any reason, I dare say. You know, papa,
you said the other day I was getting
fanciful."

"I hope and trust you are. But don't
think of what I said then. I like you to be
fanciful about your mother's health. Don't
be afraid of telling me your fancies. I like
to hear them, though, I dare say, I spoke as
if I was annoyed. But we will ask Mrs.
Thornton if she can tell us of a good
doctor. We won't throw away our money
on any but some one first-rate. Stay, we
turn up this street."

The street did not look as if it could contain
any house large enough for Mrs. Thornton's
habitation. Her son's presence never
gave any impression as to the kind of
house he lived in; but, unconsciously,
Margaret had imagined that tall, massive,
handsomely dressed Mrs. Thornton must live in a
house of the same character as herself.
Now Marlborough Street consisted of long
rows of small houses, with a blank wall
here and there; at least that was all they
could see from the point at which they
entered it.

"He told me he lived in Marlborough
Street, I'm sure," said Mr. Hale, with a much
perplexed air.

"Perhaps it is one of the economies he
still practises, to live in a very small house.
But here are plenty of people about; let me
ask."

She accordingly inquired of a passer-by,
and was informed that Mr. Thornton lived
close to the mill, and had the factory lodge-door
pointed out to her, at the end of the long
dead wall they had noticed.

The lodge-door was like a common garden-door;
on one side of it were great closed
gates for the ingress and egress of lurries and
wagons. The lodge-keeper admitted them
into a great oblong yard, on one side of
which were offices for the transaction of
business; on the opposite, an immense
many-windowed mill, whence proceeded the
continual clack of machinery and the long
groaning roar of the steam-engine, enough to
deafen those who lived within the enclosure.
Opposite to the wall, along which the street
ran, on one of the narrow sides of the oblong,
was a handsome stone-coped house,—
blackened, to be sure, by the smoke, but
with paint, windows, and steps kept
scrupulously clean. It was evidently a house
which had been built some fifty or sixty
years. The stone facings—the long, narrow
windows, and the number of them—the
flights of steps up to the front door, ascending
from either side, and guarded by railing
—all witnessed to its age. Margaret only
wondered why people who could afford to
live in so good a house, and keep it in such
perfect order, did not prefer a much smaller
dwelling in the country, or even some
suburb; not in the continual whirl and din
of the factory. Her unaccustomed ears could
hardly catch her father's voice as they stood
on the steps awaiting the opening of the
door. The yard, too, with the great doors in
the dead wall as a boundary, was but a
dismal look-out for the sitting-rooms of
the house—as Margaret found when they
had mounted the old-fashioned stairs, and
been ushered into the drawing-room, the
three windows of which went over the front