tears, she might have seen a dark cloud
cross the cold features. And it was no
thought of her son, or of her living daughter
Fanny, that stirred her heart at last; but a
sudden remembrance, suggested by something
in the arrangement of the room,—of a little
daughter—dead in infancy—long years ago;
that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the icy
crust, behind which there was a real tender
woman.

"You wish me to be a friend to Miss
Hale," said Mrs. Thornton, in her measured
voice, that would not soften with her heart,
but came out distinct and clear.

Mrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thornton's
face, pressed the hand that lay below
hers on the coverlet. She could not speak.
Mrs. Thornton sighed, "I will be a true
friend, if circumstances require it. Not a
tender friend. That I cannot be,"—("to her,"
she was on the point of adding, but she
relented at the sight of that poor, anxious
face.)—"It is not in my nature to show
affection even where I feel it, nor do I volunteer
advice in general. Still, at your request,
—if it will be any comfort to you, I will
promise you." Then came a pause. Mrs.
Thornton was too conscientious to promise
what she did not mean to perform; and to
perform anything in the way of kindness on
behalf of Margaret, more disliked at this
moment than ever, was difficult; almost
impossible.

"I promise," said she, with grave severity;
which, after all, inspired the dying woman
with faith as in something more stable than
life itself,—flickering, flitting, wavering life!
"I promise that in any difficulty in which
Miss Hale "——

"Call her Margaret! " gasped Mrs.
Hale.

"In which she comes to me for help, I will
help her with every power I have, as if she
were my own daughter. I also promise that
if ever I see her doing what I think is
wrong "——

"But Margaret never does wrong—not
wilfully wrong, " pleaded Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Thornton
went on as before; as if she had not
heard:

"If ever I see her doing what I believe to
be wrong—such wrong not touching me or
mine, in which case I might be supposed
to have an interested motive—I will tell
her of it, faithfully and plainly, as I should
wish my own daughter to be told."

There was a long pause. Mrs. Hale felt that
this promise did not include all; and yet it
was much. It had reservations in it which
she did not understand; but then she was
weak, dizzy, and tired. Mrs. Thornton was
reviewing all the probable cases in which
she had pledged herself to act. She had a
fierce pleasure in the idea of telling Margaret
unwelcome truths, in the shape of
performance of duty. Mrs. Hale began to
speak:

"I thank you. I pray God to bless you.
I shall never see you again in this world.
But my last words are, I thank you for
your promise of kindness to my child."

"Not kindness!" testified Mrs. Thornton,
ungraciously truthful to the last. But having
eased her conscience by saying these words,
she was not sorry that they were not heard.
She pressed Mrs. Hale's soft languid hand;
and rose up and went her way out of the
house without seeing a creature.

During the time that Mrs. Thornton was
having this interview with Mrs.Hale, Margaret
and Dixon were laying their heads together
and consulting how they should keep Frederick's
coming a profound secret to all out of
the house. A letter from him might now be
expected any day; and he would assuredly
follow quickly on its heels. Martha must be
sent away on her holiday; Dixon must keep
stern guard on the front door, only admitting
the few visitors that ever came to the house
into Mr. Hale's room downstairs—Mrs. Hale's
extreme illness giving her a good excuse for
this. If Mary Higgins was required as a
help to Dixon in the kitchen, she was to hear
and see as little of Frederick as possible; and
he was, if necessary, to be spoken of to her
under the name of Mr. Dickinson. But her
sluggish and incurious nature was the greatest
safeguard of all.

They resolved that Martha should leave
them that very afternoon for this visit to her
mother. Margaret wished that she had been
sent away on the previous day, as she fancied
it might be thought strange to give a servant
a holiday when her mother's state required
so much attendance.

Poor Margaret! All that afternoon she
had to act the part of a Roman daughter, and
give strength out of her own scanty stock to
her father. Mr. Hale would hope, would not
despair, between the attacks of his wife's
malady; he buoyed himself up in every
respite from her pain, and believed that it
was the beginning of ultimate recovery. And
so, when the paroxysms came on, each more
severe than the last, they were fresh
agonies, and greater disappointments to him.
This afternoon he sat in the drawing-room,
unable to bear the solitude of his study, or
to employ himself in any way. He buried
his head in his arms, which lay folded on the
table. Margaret's heart ached to see him;
yet, as he did not speak, she did not like to
volunteer any attempt at comfort. Martha
was gone. Dixon sat with Mrs. Hale while
she slept. The house was very still and quiet,
and darkness came on, without any movement
to procure candles. Margaret sat at the window,
looking out at the lamps and the street,
but seeing nothing,—only alive to her father's
heavy sighs. She did not like to go down for
lights, lest the tacit restraint of her presence
being withdrawn, he might give way to more
violent emotion, without her being at hand
to comfort him. Yet she was just thinking