lay it at their feet, and will it away from us.
But this wish of Mrs. Hale's was so natural,
so just, so right to both parties, that
Margaret felt as if, on Frederick's account as well
as on her mother's, she ought to overlook all
intermediate chances of danger, and pledge
herself to do everything in her power for its
realisation. The large pleading dilated eyes
were fixed upon her wistfully, steady in their
gaze, though the poor white lips quivered
like those of a child. Margaret gently rose
up and stood opposite to her frail mother; so
that she might gather the secure fulfilment
of her wish from the calm steadiness of
her daughter's face.

"Mamma, I will write to-night, and tell
Frederick what you say. I am as sure that he
will come directly to us, as I am sure of my
life. Be easy, mamma, you shall see him as
far as anything earthly can be promised."

"You will write to-night? Oh, Margaret!
the post goes out at five—you will write by
it, won't you? I have so few hours left—I
feel, dear, as if I should not recover, though
sometimes your father over-persuades me
into hoping; you will write directly, won't
you? Don't lose a single post; for just by
that very post I may miss him."

"But, mamma, papa is out."

"Papa is out! and what then? Do you
mean that he would deny me this last wish,
Margaret? Why, I should not be ill—be
dying—if he had not taken me away from
Helstone to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless
place."

"Oh, mamma!" said Margaret.

"Yes; it is so, indeed. He knows it himself;
he has said so many a time. He would
do anything for me; you don't mean he
would refuse me this last wish—prayer, if
you will. And, indeed, Margaret, the longing
to see Frederick stands between me and
God. I cannot pray till I have this one
thing; indeed, I cannot. Don't lose time,
dear, dear Margaret. Write by this very
next post. Then he may be here—here in
twenty-two days! For he is sure to come.
No cords or chains can keep him. In twenty-two
days I shall see my boy." She fell back,
and for a short time she took no notice of the
fact that Margaret sat motionless, her hand
shading her eyes.

"You are not writing!" said her mother
at last. "Bring me some pens and paper; I
will try and write myself." She sat up,
trembling all over with feverish eagerness.
Margaret took her hand down and looked at
her mother sadly.

"Only wait till papa comes in. Let us ask
him how best to do it."

"You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of
an hour ago;—you said he should come."

"And so he shall, mamma; don't cry, my
own dear mother. I'll write here, now,—you
shall see me write,—and it shall go by this
very post; and if papa thinks fit, he can
write again when he comes in,—it is only a
day's delay. Oh, mamma, don't cry so
pitifully,—it cuts me to the heart."

Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears; they
came hysterically; and, in truth, she made
no effort to control them, but rather called
up all the pictures of the happy past, and the
probable future—painting the scene when
she should lie a corpse, with the son she had
longed to see in life weeping over her, and
she unconscious of his presence—till she was
melted by self-pity into a state of sobbing and
exhaustion that made Margaret's heart ache.
But at last she was calm, and greedily
watched her daughter, as she began her
letter; wrote it with swift urgent entreaty;
sealed it up hurriedly, for fear her mother
should ask to see it: and then, to make
security most sure, at Mrs. Hale's own
bidding, took it herself to the post-office. She
was coming home when her father overtook
her.

"And where have you been, my pretty
maid?" asked he.

"To the post office,—with a letter; a letter
to Frederick. Oh, papa, perhaps I have done
wrong: but mamma was seized with such a
passionate yearning to see him—she said it
would make her well again,—and then she
said that she must see him before she died,—
I cannot tell you how urgent she was. Did I
do wrong?"

Mr. Hale did not reply at first. Then he
said:

"You should have waited till I came in,
Margaret."

"I tried to persuade her,—" and then she
was silent.

"I don't know," said Mr. Hale, after a
pause. "She ought to see him if she wishes it
so much; for I believe it would do her much
more good than all the doctor's medicine,—
and perhaps set her up altogether; but the
danger to him, I 'm afraid, is very great."

"All these years since the mutiny, papa?"

"Yes; it is necessary, of course, for government
to take very stringent measures for
the repression of offences against authority,
more particularly in the navy, where a
commanding officer needs to be surrounded in his
men's eyes with a vivid consciousness of all
the power there is at home to back him, and
take up his cause, and avenge any injuries
offered to him, if need be. Ah! it's no matter
to them how far their authorities have tyrannised,
—galled hasty tempers to madness,—or
if that can be any excuse afterwards, it is
never allowed for in the first instance; they
spare no expense, they send out ships,—they
scour the seas to lay hold of the offenders,—
the lapse of years does not wash out the
memory of the offence,—it is a fresh and vivid
crime on the Admiralty books till it is
blotted out by blood."

"Oh, papa, what have I done? And yet
it seemed so right at the time. I'm sure
Frederick himself would run the risk."

"So he would; so he should! Nay,