did see a friend who ossed to treat me, I
never knew hoo lay a-dying here. Bess, lass,
thou'd believe me, thou would'st—wouldstn't
thou? " turning to the poor dumb form with
wild appeal.

"I am sure," said Margaret, "I am sure
you did not know: it was quite sudden. But
now, you see, it would be different; you do
know; you do see her lying there; you hear
what she said with her last breath. You
will not go?"

No answer. In fact, where was he to look
for comfort?

"Come home with me," said she at last,
with a bold venture, half trembling at her
own proposal as she made it. "At least you
shall have some comfortable food, which I'm
sure you need."

"Yo're father's a parson?" asked he, with
a sudden turn in his ideas.

"He was," said Margaret, shortly.

"I'll go and take a dish o' tea with him,"
since yo've asked me. I've many a thing I
often wished to say to a parson, and I'm
not particular as to whether he's preaching
now, or not."

Margaret was perplexed; his drinking tea
with her father, who would be totally unprepared
for his visitor—her mother so ill—
seemed utterly out of the question; and yet
if she drew back now, it would be worse than
ever—sure to drive him to the gin-shop. She
thought that if she could only get him to
their own house, it was so great a step gained
that she would trust to the chapter of
accidents for the next.

"Goodbye, ou'd wench! We've parted
company at last, we have! But thou'st
been a blessin' to thy father ever sin'
thou wert born. Bless thy white lips, lass,
—they've a smile on 'em now! and I'm glad
to see it once again, though I'm lone and
forlorn for evermore."

He stooped down and fondly kissed his
daughter; covered up her face, and turned to
follow Margaret. She had hastily gone down
stairs to tell Mary of the arrangement; to say
it was the only way she could think of to keep
him from the gin-palace; to urge Mary to
come too, for her heart smote her at the idea
of leaving the poor affectionate girl alone.
But Mary had friends among the neighbours,
she said, who would come in and sit a bit
with her; it was all right; but father—

He was there by them as she would have
spoken more. He had shaken off his emotion
as if he was ashamed of having even given
way to it; and had even o'erleaped himself
so much that he assumed a sort of bitter
mirth, like the crackling of thorns under a
pot.

"I'm going to take my tea wi' her father,
I am!"

But he slouched his cap low down over his
brows as he went out into the street, and
looked neither to the right nor to the left,
while he tramped along by Margaret's side;
he feared being upset by the words, still more
the looks, of sympathising neighbours. So he
and Margaret walked in silence.

As he got near the street in which he knew
she lived, he looked down at his clothes, his
hands, and shoes.

"I should m'appen ha' cleaned mysel',
first?"

It certainly would have been desirable, but
Margaret assured him he should be allowed
to go into the yard, and have soap and towel
provided; she could not let him slip out of
her hands just then.

While he followed the house-servant along
the passage, and through the kitchen, stepping
cautiously on every dark mark in the pattern
of the oil-cloth in order to conceal his dirty
foot-prints, Margaret ran upstairs. She met
Dixon on the landing.

"How is mamma?—where is papa?"

Missus was tired, and gone into her own
room. She had wanted to go to bed, but
Dixon had persuaded her to lie down on the
sofa, and have her tea brought to her there;
it would be better than getting restless by
being too long in bed.

So far, so good. But where was Mr. Hale?
In the drawing-room. Margaret went in
half breathless with the hurried story she had
to tell. Of course, she told it incompletely;
and her father was rather "taken aback " by
the idea of the drunken weaver awaiting him
in his quiet study, with whom he was expected
to drink tea, and on whose behalf Margaret
was anxiously pleading. The meek,
kind-hearted Mr. Hale would have readily tried to
console him in his grief, but, unluckily, the
point Margaret dwelt upon most forcibly was
the fact of his having been drinking, and her
having brought him home with her as a last
expedient to keep him from the gin shop.
One little event had come out of another so
naturally that Margaret was hardly conscious
of what she had done, till she saw the slight
look of repugnance on her father's face.

"Oh, papa! he really is a man you will not
dislike—if you won't be shocked to begin with."

"But, Margaret, to bring a drunken man
home—and your mother so ill!"

Margaret's countenance fell. "I am sorry,
papa. He is very quiet—he is not tipsy at
all. He was only rather strange at first, but
that might be the shock of poor Bessy's
death."Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
Mr. Hale took hold of her sweet pleading
face in both his hands, and kissed her
forehead.

''It is all right, dear. I'll go and make
him as comfortable as I can, and do you
attend to your mother. Only, if you can
come in and make a third in the study, I
shall be glad."

"Oh, yes—thank you." But as Mr. Hale
was leaving the room, she ran after him:

"Papa—you must not wonder at what he
says: he's an——I mean he does not
believe in much of what we do."