believe him to be.—Well, this once, if it will
please you, my dear.  Only remember, when
I come again, I come as a friend.  And you
must learn to look upon me as such, because
seeing each other—getting to know each other
at such times as these, is worth years of
morning calls."

Margaret could not speak for crying; but
she wrung his hand at parting.

"That's what I call a fine girl!" thought
Dr. Donaldson, when he was seated in his
carriage, and had time to examine his ringed
hand, which had slightly suffered from her
pressure.  "Who would have thought that
little hand could have given such a squeeze?
But the bones were well put together, and
that gives immense power.  What a queen
she is!   With her head thrown back at first
to force me into speaking the truth; and
then bent so eagerly forwards to listen.  Poor
thing!  I must see she does not overstrain
herself.  Though it's astonishing how much those
thorough-bred creatures can do and suffer.
That girl's game to the back-bone.  Another,
who had gone that deadly colour, could never
have come round without either fainting or
hysterics.  But she would not do either—not
she!  And the very force of her will brought
her round.  Such a girl as that would win
my heart, if I were thirty years younger.  It's
too late now.  Ah! here we are at the
Archers'."  So out he jumped, with thought,
wisdom, experience, sympathy, all prompt
and ready to attend to the calls made upon
them by this family, just as if there were
none other in the world.

Meanwhile, Margaret had returned into
her father's study for a moment, to recover
strength before going upstairs into her
mother's presence.

"Oh, my God, my God! but this is terrible.
How shall I bear it!  Such a deadly
disease!  no hope!  Oh, mamma, mamma, I
wish I had never gone to Aunt Shaw's, and
been all those precious years away from you!
Poor mamma!  how much she must have
borne!  Oh, I pray thee, my God, that her
sufferings may not be too acute, too dreadful.
How shall I bear to see them?  How can I
bear papa's agony?  He must not be told
yet; not all at once. It would kill him.
But I won't lose another moment of my own
dear precious mother."

She ran upstairs.  Dixon was not in the
room.  Mrs. Hale lay back in an easy chair,
with a soft white shawl wrapped around her,
and a becoming cap put on, in expectation
of the doctor's visit.  Her face had a little
faint colour in it, and the very exhaustion
after the examination gave it a peaceful
look. Margaret was surprised to see her
look so calm.

"Why, Margaret, how strange you look!
What is the matter?"  And then, as the idea
stole into her mind of what was indeed the
real state of the case, she added, as if a little
displeased: "you have not been seeing Dr.
Donaldson, and asking him any questions—
have you, child?"  Margaret did not reply—
only looked wistfully towards her.  Mrs.
Hale became more displeased.  "He would
not, surely, break his word to me, and"—

"Oh yes, mamma, he did.  I made him.  It
was I—blame me."  She knelt down by her
mother's side, and caught her hand—she
would not let it go, though Mrs. Hale tried
to pull it away.  She kept kissing it, and the
hot tears she shed bathed it.

"Margaret, it was very wrong of you.  You
know I did not wish you to know."  But, as
if tired with the contest, she left her hand in
Margaret's clasp, and by and by she
returned the pressure faintly.  That encouraged
Margaret to speak.

"Oh, mamma! let me be your nurse.  I
will learn anything Dixon can teach me.  But
you know I am your child, and I do think I
have a right to do everything for you."

"You don't know what you are asking,"
said Mrs. Hale, with a shudder.

"Yes, I do.  I know a great deal more than
you are aware of.  Let me be your nurse.
Let me try, at any rate.  No one has ever,
shall ever try so hard as I will do.  It will
be such a comfort, mamma."

"My poor child!  Well, you shall try.  Do
you know, Margaret, Dixon and I thought
you would quite shrink from me if you
knew—"

"Dixon thought! " said Margaret, her lip
curling.  "Dixon could not give me credit
for enough true love—for as much as herself!
She thought, I suppose, that I was one of
those poor sickly women who like to lie on
rose leaves, and be fanned all day.  Don't let
Dixon's fancies come any more between you
and me, mamma.  Don't, please!" implored
she.

"Don't be angry with Dixon," said Mrs.
Hale, anxiously.  Margaret recovered herself.

"No! I won't.  I will try and be humble,
and learn her ways, if you will only let me do
all I can for you.  Let me be in the first
place, mother—I am greedy of that.  I used
to fancy you would forget me while I was
away at Aunt Shaw's, and cry myself to sleep
at nights with that notion in my head."

"And I used to think, how will Margaret
bear our makeshift poverty after the thorough
comfort and luxury in Harley Street, till I
have many a time been more ashamed of your
seeing our contrivances at Helstone than of
any stranger finding them out."

"Oh, mamma! and I did so enjoy them.
They were so much more amusing than all
the jog-trot Harley Street ways.  The wardrobe
shelf with handles, that served as a
supper-tray on grand occasions!  And the
old tea-chests stuffed and covered for
ottomans!  I think what you call the makeshift
contrivances at dear Helstone were a charming
part of the life there."

"I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret,"
said Mrs. Hale, the tears welling up