"Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it
was cruel of you!"

"'No, sir, it was not cruel! " replied Dr.
Donaldson, with quick decision. "Miss
Hale acted under my directions. There may
have been a mistake, but it was not cruel.
Your wife will be a different creature
tomorrow, I trust. She has had spasms, as I
anticipated, though I did not tell Miss Hale
of my apprehensions. She has taken the
opiate I brought with me; she will have a
good long sleep; and to-morrow, that look
which has alarmed you so much will have
passed away."

"But not the disease?"

Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her
bent head, her face raised with no appeal for
a temporary reprieve, showed that quick
observer of human nature that she thought
it better that the whole truth should be
told.

"Not the disease. We cannot touch the
disease, with all our poor vaunted skill. We
can only delay its progress—alleviate the
pain it causes. Be a man, sir—a Christian.
Have faith in the immortality of the soul,
which no pain, no mortal disease, can assail
or touch!"

But all the reply he got was in the choked
words, "You have never been married, Dr.
Donaldson; you do not know what it is,"
and in deep, manly sobs, which went through
the stillness of the night like heavy pulses of
agony.

Margaret knelt by him, caressing him with
tearful caresses. No one, not even Dr.
Donaldson, knew how the time went by.
Mr. Hale was the first to dare to speak of
the necessities of the present moment.

"What must we do?" asked he. Tell
us both. Margaret is my staff—my right
hand."

Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible
directions. No fear for to-night—nay, even
peace for to-morrow, and for many days yet.
But no enduring hope of recovery. He
advised Mr. Hale to go to bed, and leave only
one to watch the slumber, which he hoped
would be undisturbed. He promised to
come again early in the morning. And, with
a warm and kindly shake of the hand, he left
them.

They spoke but few words; they were too
much exhausted by their terror to do more
than decide upon the immediate course of
action. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up
through the night, and all that Margaret
could do was to prevail upon him to rest on
the drawing-room sofa. Dixon stoutly and
bluntly refused to go to bed; and, as for
Margaret, it was simply impossible that she
should leave her mother, let all the doctors
in the world speak of "husbanding resources,"
and "one watcher only being required."  So
Dixon sat, and stared, and winked, and
drooped, and picked herself up again with a
jerk, and finally gave up the battle, and
fairly snored. Margaret had taken off her
gown and tossed it aside with a sort of
impatient disgust, and put on her dressing
gown. She felt as if she never could sleep
again; as if her whole senses were acutely
vital, and all endued with double keenness,
for the purposes of watching. Every sight
and sound—nay, even every thought, touched
some nerve to the very quick. For more than
two hours she heard her father's restless
movements in the next room. He came
perpetually to the door of her mother's chamber,
pausing there to listen, till she, not
hearing his close unseen presence, went and
opened it to tell him how all went on, in
reply to the questions his baked lips could
hardly form. At last he, too, fell asleep, and
all the house was still. Margaret sate behind
the curtain thinking. Far away in time, far
away in space, seemed all the interests of past
days. Not more than thirty-six hours ago
she cared for Bessy Higgins and her father,
and her heart was wrung for Boucher; now,
that was all like a dreaming memory of some
former life,—everything that had passed out
of doors seemed dissevered from her mother,
and therefore unreal. Even Harley Street
appeared more distinct; there she
remembered, as if it were yesterday, how she had
pleased herself with tracing out her mother's
features in her Aunt Shaw's face,—and how
letters had come, making her dwell on
the thoughts of home with all the longing of
love. Helstone, itself, was in the dim past
The dull gray days of the preceding winter
and spring, so uneventless and monotonous,
seemed more associated with what she cared
for now above all price. She would fain have
caught at the skirts of that departing time,
and prayed it to return, and give her back
what she had too little valued while it was
yet in her possession. What a vain show Life
seemed! How unsubstantial, and flickering,
and flitting! It was as if from some aerial
belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the
earth, there was a bell continually tolling, "All
are shadows!—all are passing!—all is past!"
And when the morning dawned, cool and gray,
like many a happier morning before—when
Margaret looked one by one at the sleepers, it
seemed as if the terrible night were unreal
as a dream; it, too, was a shadow. It, too,
was past.

Mrs. Hale herself was not aware when she
awoke how ill she had been the night before.
She was rather surprised at Dr. Donaldson's
early visit, and perplexed by the
anxious faces of husband and child. She
consented to remain in bed that day, saying
she certainly was tired; but the next
she insisted on getting up; and Dr.
Donaldson gave his consent to her returning
into the drawing-room. She was restless
and uncomfortable in every position,
and before night she became very feverish,
Mr. Hale was utterly listless, and incapable of
deciding on anything.