that she ought to go and see after the well-
doing of the kitchen-fire, which there was
nobody but herself to attend to, when she
heard the muffled door-bell ring with so
violent a pull, that the wires jingled all
through the house, though the positive sound
was not great. She started up,—passed her
father, who had never moved at the veiled
dull sound,—returned, and kissed him
tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took
any notice of her fond embrace. Then she
went down softly, through the dark, to the
door. Dixon would have put the chain on
before she opened it, but Margaret had not a
thought of fear in her pre-occupied mind. A
man's tall figure stood between her and the
luminous street. He was looking away; but
at the sound of the latch he turned quickly
round.

" Is this Mr. Hale's? " said he, in a clear,
full, delicate voice.

Margaret trembled all over; at first she
did not answer. In a moment she sighed out,

"Frederick! " and stretched out both her
hands to catch his, and draw him in.

"Oh, Margaret! " said he, holding her off
by her shoulders, after they had kissed each
other, as if even in that darkness he could
see her face, and read in its expression a
quicker answer to his question than words
could give,—

"My mother! is she alive?"

"Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother!
She—as ill as she can be she is; but alive!
She is alive!"

"Thank God!" said he.

"Papa is utterly prostrate with this great
grief."

"You expect me, don't you?"

"No, we have had no letter."

"Then I have come before it. But my
mother knows I am coming?"

"Oh! we all knew you would come. But
wait a little! Step in here. Give me your
hand. What is this? Oh! your carpet-bag.
Dixon has shut the shutters; but this is
papa's study, and I can take you to a chair to
rest yourself for a few minutes; while I go
and tell him."

She groped her way to the taper and the
lucifer matches. She suddenly felt shy when
the little feeble light made them visible. All
she could see was that her brother's face was
unusually dark in complexion, and she caught
the stealthy look of a pair of remarkably
long-cut blue eyes, that suddenly twinkled up
with a droll consciousness of their mutual
purpose of inspecting each other. But though
the brother and sister had an instant of
sympathy in their reciprocal glances, they did
not exchange a word; only Margaret felt
sure that she should like her brother as a
companion as much as she already loved him
as a near relation. Her heart was wonderfully
lighter as she went upstairs; the sorrow was
no less in reality, but it became less oppressive
from having some one in precisely the same
relation to it as that in which she stood.
Not her father's desponding attitude had
power to damp her now. He lay across the
table, helpless as ever; but she had the spell
by which to rouse him. She used it perhaps
too violently in her own great relief.

"Papa," said she, throwing her arms fondly
round his neck; pulling his weary head up
in fact with her gentle violence, till it rested
in her arms, and she could look into his eyes,
and gain strength and assurance from hers.

"Papa! guess who is here!"

He looked at her; she saw the idea of the
truth glimmer into their filmy sadness, and
be dismissed thence as a wild imagination.

He threw himself forward, and hid his face
once more in his stretched-out arms, resting
upon the table as heretofore. She heard him
whisper; she bent tenderly down to listen.
"I don't know. Don't tell me it is Frederick
—not Frederick. I cannot bear it,—I am too
weak. And his mother is dying!"

He began to cry and wail like a child. It
was so different to all which Margaret had
hoped and expected, that she turned sick with
disappointment, and was silent for an instant.
Then she spoke again—very differently—not
so exultingly, far more tenderly and
carefully.

"Papa, it is Frederick! Think of mamma,
how glad she will be! And oh, for her sake,
how glad we ought to be! For his sake too,
—our poor, poor boy!"

Her father did not change his attitude, but
he seemed to be trying to understand the fact.

"Where is he? " asked he at last, his face
still hidden in his prostrate arms.

"In your study, quite alone. I lighted the
taper, and ran up to tell you. He is quite
alone, and will be wondering why—"

"I will go to him," broke in her father;
and he lifted himself up and leant on her arm
as on that of a guide.

Margaret led him to the study door, but
her spirits were so agitated that she felt that
she could not bear to see the meeting. She
turned away, and ran up stairs, and cried
most heartily. It was the first time she had
dared to allow herself this relief for days.
The strain had been terrible, as she now felt.
But Frederick was come! He, the one
precious brother, was there, safe, amongst them
again! She could hardly believe it. She
stopped her crying, and opened her bedroom
door. She heard no sound of voices, and
almost feared she might have dreamt. She
went down stairs, and listened at the study
door. She heard the buzz of voices; and
that was enough. She went into the kitchen,
and stirred up the fire, and lighted the house,
and prepared for the wanderer's refreshment.
How fortunate it was that her mother slept!
She knew that she did, from the candle-
lighter thrust through the keyhole of her
bedroom door. The traveller could be
refreshed and bright, and the first excitement
of the meeting with his father all be over,