"Well?"

"Well! she died this morning, and her
sister is here—come to beg a strange thing.
It seems the young woman who died had a
fancy for bring buried in something of yours.
and so the sister come to ask for it,—and I
was looking for a night-cap that was'nt too
good to give away."

"Oh! let me find one," said Margaret, in
the midst of her tears. "Poor Bessy! I
never thought I should not see her again.''

"Why, that's another thing. This girl
down-stairs wanted me to ask you if you
would like to see her."

"But she's dead!" said Margaret, turning
a little pale. "I never saw a dead person.
No! I would rather not."

"I should never have asked you if you had
not come in. I told her you would not."

"I will go down and speak to her," said
Margaret, afraid lest Dixon's harshness of
manner might wound the poor girl. So,
taking the cap in her hand, she went to the
kitchen. Mary's face was all swollen with
crying, and she burst out afresh when she
saw Margaret.

"Oh, ma'am, she loved yo, she loved yo,
she did indeed!" And for a long time
Margaret could not get her to say anything
more than this. At last, her sympathy, and
Dixon's scolding, forced out a few facts.
Nicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning,
leaving Bessy as well as on the day
before. But in an hour she was taken worse;
some neighbour ran to the room where Mary
was working; they did not know where to
find her father; Mary had only come in a few
minutes before she died.

"It were a day or two ago she axed to
be buried in somewhat o' yourn. She were
never tired o' talking o' yo. She used to say
yo were the prettiest thing she'd ever
clapped eyes on. She loved yo dearly. Her
last words were, 'Give her my affectionate
respects; and keep father fro' drink.' Yo'll
come and see her, ma'am. She would ha'
thought it a great compliment, I know."

Margaret shrank a little from answering.

"Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I'll
come before tea. But where's your father,
Mary?"

Mary shook her head, and stood up to be
going.

"Miss Hale," said Dixon, in a low voice,
"where's the use o' your going to see the poor
thing laid out? I'd never say a word against
it, if it could do the girl any good; and I
wouldn't mind a bit going myself, if that
would satisfy her. They've just a notion
these common folks, of its being a respect to
the departed. Here," said she, turning
sharply round, "I'll come and see your sister.
Miss Hale is busy, and she can't come, or else
she would."

The girl looked wistfully at Margaret.
Dixon's coming might be a compliment, but
it was not the same thing to the poor sister,
who had had her little pangs of jealousy
during Bessy's life-time at the intimacy
between her and the young lady.

"No, Dixon!" said Margaret with decision.
"I will go. Mary, you shall see me this
afternoon." And for fear of her own
cowardice, she went away, in order to take
from herself any chance of changing her
determination.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY- EIGHTH.

THAT afternoon she walked swiftly to the
Higgins's house. Mary was looking out for
her, with a half-distrustful face. Margaret
smiled into her eyes to re-assure her. They
passed quickly through the house-place,
upstairs, and into the quiet presence of the
dead. Then Margaret was glad that she had
come. The face, often so weary with pain, so
restless with troublous thoughts, had now the
faint soft smile of eternal rest upon it. The
slow tears gathered into Margaret's eyes, but
a deep calm entered into her soul. And that
was death! It looked more peaceful than
life. All beautiful scriptures came into her
mind. "They rest from their labours." "The
weary are at rest." "He giveth His beloved
sleep."

Slowly, slowly Margaret turned away from
the bed. Mary was humbly sobbing in the
back-grouud. They went downstairs without
a word.

Resting his hand upon the house-table,
Nicholas Higgins stood in the midst of the
floor; his great eyes startled open by the
news he had heard as he came along the
court from many busy tongues. His eyes
were dry, and fierce; studying the reality of
her death; bringing himself to understand
that her place should know her no more. For
she had been sickly, dying so long, that he
had persuaded himself she would not die;
that she would "pull through."

Margaret felt as if she had no business to
be there, familiarly acquainting herself with
the surroundings of the death which he, the
father, had only just learnt. There had been
a pause of an instant on the steep crooked
stair, when she first saw him; but now she
tried to steal past his abstracted gaze, and to
leave him in the solemn circle of his house-hold
misery.

Mary sat down on the first chair she came
to, and throwing her apron over her head,
began to cry.

The noise appeared to rouse him. He took
sudden hold of Margaret's arm, and held her
till he could gather words to speak. His
throat seemed dry; they came up thick, and
choked, and hoarse:

"Were yo with her? Did yo see her
die?"

"No!" replied Margaret, standing still
with the utmost patience, now she found
herself perceived. It was some time before
he spoke again, but he kept his hold on her
arm.