into her eyes.  Margaret could not reply.
Mrs. Hale went on.  "While I was there I
was for ever wanting to leave it.  Every
place seemed pleasanter.  And now I shall
die far away from it.  I am rightly punished."

"You must not talk so," said Margaret
impatiently."  He said you might live for
years.  Oh, mother! we will have you back
at Helstone yet."

"No, never!  That I must take as a just
penance.  But, Margaret—Frederick!"

At the mention of that one word, she
suddenly cried out loud, as in some sharp
agony. It seemed as if the thought of him
upset all her composure, destroyed the calm,
overcame the exhaustion.  Wild passionate
cry succeeded to cry—"Frederick! Frederick!
Come to me.  I am dying.  Little first-born
child, come to me once again!"

She was in violent hysterics.  Margaret
went and called Dixon in terror.  Dixon
came in a huff, and accused Margaret of
having over-excited her mother.  Margaret
bore all meekly, only trusting that her father
might not return.  In spite of her alarm,
which was even greater than the occasion
justified, she obeyed all Dixon's directions
promptly and well, without a word of self-
justification.  By so doing she mollified her
accuser.  They put her mother to bed, and
Margaret sate by her till she fell asleep, and
afterwards sate by her till Dixon beckoned
her out of the room, and, with a sour face,
as if doing something against the grain, she
bade her drink a cup of coffee which she had
prepared for her in the drawing-room, and
stood over her in a commanding attitude as
she did so.

"You should not have been so curious,
Miss, and then you would not have needed to
fret before your time.  It would have come
soon enough.  And now, I suppose, you'll tell
master, and a pretty household I shall have
of you!"

"No, Dixon," said Margaret, sorrowfully,
"I will not tell papa.  He could not bear it
as I can."  And by way of proving how well
she bore it, she burst into tears.

"Ay!  I knew how it would be.  Now
you'll waken your mamma, just after she's
gone to sleep so quietly.  Miss Margaret my
dear, I've had to keep it down this many a
week; and though I don't pretend I can love
her as you do, yet I loved her better than
any other man, woman, or child—no one but
Master Frederick ever came near her in my
mind.  Ever since Lady Beresford's maid
first took me in to see her dressed out in
white crape, and corn-ears, and scarlet
poppies, and I ran a needle down into my finger,
and broke it in, and she tore up her worked
pocket handkerchief after they'd cut it out,
and came in to wet the bandages again with
lotion when she returned from the ball, where
she'd been the prettiest young lady of all,
I've never loved any one like her.  I little
thought then that I should live to see her
brought so low.  I don't moan no reproach
to nobody.  Many a one calls you pretty and
handsome, and what not.  Even in this smoky
place, enough to blind one's eyes, the owls
can see that.  But you'll never be like your
mother for beauty—never; not if you live
to be a hundred."

"Mamma is very pretty still.  Poor
mamma!"

"Now don't ye set off again, or I shall
give way at last." (whimpering)  "You'll
never stand master's coming home, and
questioning, at this rate.  Go out and take a
walk, and come in something-like.  Manv's
the time I've longed to walk it off—the
thought of what was the matter with her,
and how it must all end."

"Oh, Dixon!" said Margaret, "how often
I've been cross with you, not knowing what
a terrible secret you had to bear!"

"Bless you, child!  I like to see you showing
a bit of spirit.  It's the good old Beresford
blood.  Why, the last Sir John but two
shot his steward down there where he stood,
for just telling him that he'd racked the
tenants, and he'd racked the tenants till he
could get no more money off them than he
could get skin off a flint."

"Well, Dixon, I won't shoot you, and I'll
try not to be cross again."

"You never have.  If I've said it at times,
it has always been to myself, just in private,
by way of making a little, agreeable conversation,
for there's no one here fit to talk to.
And when you fire up, you're the very image
of Master Frederick.  I could find in my
heart to put you in a passion any day, just to
see his stormy look coming like a great cloud
over your face.  But now you go out, Miss.
I'll watch over missus; and as for master,
his books are company enough for him if he
should come in."

"I will go," said Margaret.  She hung
about Dixon for a minute or so, as if afraid
and irresolute; then suddenly kissing her,
she went quickly out of the room.

"Bless her!" said Dixon.  "She's as sweet
as a nut.  There are three people I love: it's
missus, Master Frederick, and her.  Just
them three.  That's all.  The rest be hanged,
for I don't know what they're in the world
for.  Master was born, I suppose, for to
marry missus.  If I thought he loved her
properly, I might get to love him in time.
But he should ha' made a deal more on her,
and not been always reading, reading, thinking,
thinking.  See what it has brought him
to!  Many a one who never reads nor thinks
either, gets to be Rector, and Dean, and what
not; and I dare say master might if he'd
just minded missus, and let the weary reading
and think ing alone.—There she goes" (looking
out of the window as she hoard the front
door shut).  "Poor young lady! her clothes
look shabby to what they did when she came
to Helstone a year ago.  Then she had
not so much as a darned stocking or a