understand the exact gist or bearing of what
she was saying, but passed her by, with a
cold reserve of ceremonious movement, to
speak to Mrs. Hale.

The sight of him reminded her of the wish
to see his mother, and commend Margaret to
her care. Margaret, sitting in burning
silence, vexed and ashamed of her difficulty
in keeping her right place, and her calm
unconsciousness of heart, when Mr. Thornton
was by, heard her mother's low entreaty that
Mrs. Thornton would come and see her; see
her soon; to-morrow, if it were possible. Mr.
Thornton promised that she should—
conversed a little, and then took his leave; and
Margaret's movements and voice seemed at
once released from some invisible chains.
He never looked at her; and yet the careful
avoidance of his eyes betokened that in some
way he knew exactly where, if they fell by
chance, they would rest on her. If she spoke
he give no sign of attention, and yet his next
speech to any one else was modified by what
she had said; sometimes there was an
express answer to what she had remarked, but
given to another person as though
unsuggested by her. It was not the bad manners
of ignorance: it was the wilful bad manners
arising from deep offence. It was wilful at
the time; repented of afterwards. But no
deep plan, no careful cunning could have
stood him in such good stead. Margaret thought
about him more than she had ever done
before; not with any tinge of what is called
love, but with regret that she had wounded
him so deeply,—and with a gentle, patient
striving to return to their former position of
antagonistic friendship; for a friend's position
was what she found that he had held in her
regard, as well as in that of the rest of the
family. There was a pretty humility in her
behaviour to him, as if mutely apologising
for the over-strong words which were the
reaction from the deeds of the day of the
riot.

But he resented those words bitterly. They
rung in his ears; and he was proud of the
sense of justice which made him go on in
every kindness he could offer to her parents.
He exulted in the power he showed in
compelling himself to face her, whenever he could
think of any action which could give her
father or mother pleasure. He thought that
he disliked seeing one who had mortified him
so keenly; but he was mistaken. It was a
stinging pleasure to be in the room with her,
and feel her presence. But he was no great
analyser of his own motives, and was
mistaken, as I have said.

CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH.

MRS. THORNTON came to see Mrs. Hale the
next morning. She was much worse. One
of those sudden changes—those great visible
strides towards death,—had been taken in
the night, and her own family were startled
by the gray sunken look her features had
assumed in that one twelve hours of suffering.
Mrs. Thornton—who had not seen her for
weeks—was softened all at once. She had
come because her son asked it from her as a
personal favour, but with all the proud bitter
feelings of her nature in arms against
that family of which Margaret formed one.
She doubted the reality of Mrs. Hale's illness;
she doubted any want beyond a momentary
fancy on that lady's part, which should take
her out of her previously settled course of
employment for the day. She told her son
that she wished they had never come near
the place; that he had never got acquainted
with them; that there had been no such
useless languages as Latin and Greek ever
invented. He bore all this pretty silently;
but when she had ended her invective against
the dead languages, he quietly returned to
the short, curt, decided expression of his wish
that she should go and see Mrs. Hale at
the time appointed, as most likely to be
convenient to the invalid. Mrs. Thornton
submitted with as bad a grace as she could
to her son's desire, all the time liking him
the better for having it; and exaggerating
in her own mind the same notion that he had
of extraordinary goodness on his part in so
perseveringly keeping up with the Hales.

His goodness verging on weakness, as all
the softer virtues did in her mind, and her
own contempt for Mr. and Mrs. Hale, and
positive dislike to Margaret, were the ideas
which occupied Mrs. Thornton till she was
struck into nothingness before the dark
shadow of the wings of the angel of death.
There lay Mrs. Hale—a mother like herself
—a much younger woman than she was,—on
the bed from which there was no sign of hope
that she might ever rise again. No more
variety of light and shade for her in that
darkened room; no power of action, scarcely
change of movement; faint alternations of
whispered sound and studious silence; and
yet that monotonous life seemed almost too
much! When Mrs. Thornton, strong and
prosperous with life, came in, Mrs. Hale lay
still, although from the look on her face she
was evidently conscious of who it was. But
she did not even open her eyes for a minute
or two. The heavy moisture of tears stood
on the eyelashes before she looked up; then,
with her hand groping feebly over the bed-
clothes, for the touch of Mrs. Thornton's large
firm fingers, she said, scarcely above her breath
—Mrs. Thornton had to stoop from her erectness
to listen,—

"Margaret—you have a daughter—my
sister is in Italy. My child will be without
a mother;—in a strange place,—if I die——
will you "——

And her filmy wandering eyes fixed
themselves with an intensity of wistfulness on Mrs.
Thornton's face. For a minute there was no
change in it's rigidness; it was stern and
unmoved;—nay, but that the eyes of the sick
woman were growing dim with the slow-gathering