before her mother became aware of anything
unusual.

When all was ready, Margaret opened the
study door, and went in like a serving-maiden,
with a heavy tray held in her extended arms.
She was proud of serving Frederick. But he,
when he saw her, sprang up in a minute, and
relieved her of her burden. It was a type,
a sign, of all the coming relief which his
presence would bring. The brother and
sister arranged the table together, saying
little, but their hands touching, and their eyes
speaking the natural language of expression,
so intelligible to those of the same blood.
The fire had gone out; and Margaret applied
herself to light it, for the evenings had begun
to be chilly; and yet it was desirable to make
all noises as distant as possible from Mrs.
Hale's room.

"Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not
an art to be acquired."

"Poeta nascitur, non fit," murmured Mr.
Hale; and Margaret was glad to hear a
quotation once more, however languidly given.

"Dear old Dixon! How we shall kiss each
other!" said Frederick. "She used to kiss
me, and then look in my face to be sure I was
the right person, and then set to again! But
Margaret what a bungler you are! I never
saw such a little awkward good-for-nothing
pair of hands. Run away, and wash them,
ready to cut bread-and-butter for me, and
leave the fire. I'll manage it. Lighting fires
is one of my natural accomplishments."

So Margaret went away; and returned;
and passed in and out of the room in a glad
restlessness that could not be satisfied with
sitting still. The more wants Frederick had,
the better she was pleased; and he understood
all this by instinct. It was a joy snatched in
the house of mourning, and the zest of it
was all the more pungent, because they knew
in the depths of their hearts what irremediable
sorrow awaited them.

In the middle, they heard Dixon's foot on
the stairs. Mr. Hale started from his
languid posture in his great arm-chair, from
which he had been watching his children in
a dreamy way, as if they were acting some
drama of happiness, which it was pretty to
look at, but which was distinct from reality,
and in which he had no part. He stood up,
and faced the door, showing such a strange,
sudden anxiety to conceal Frederick from the
sight of any person entering, even though it
were the faithful Dixon, that a shiver came
over Margaret's heart; it reminded her of
the new fear in their lives. She caught at
Frederick's arm, and clutched it tight, while a
stern thought compressed her brows, and
caused her to set her teeth. And yet they
knew it was only Dixon's measured tread.
They heard her walk the length of the
passage,—into the kitchen. Margaret rose up.

"I will go to her; and tell her. And I
shall hear how mamma is." Mrs. Hale was
awake. She rambled at first; but after they
had given her some tea she was refreshed,
though not disposed to talk. It was better
that the night should pass over before she
was told of her son's arrival. Dr. Donaldson's
appointed visit would bring nervous
excitement enough for the evening; and he
might tell them how to prepare her for seeing
Frederick. He was there, in the house;
could be summoned at any moment.

Margaret could not sit still. It was a relief
to her to aid Dixon in all her preparations for
"Master Frederick." It seemed as though
she never could be tired again. Each glimpse
into the room where he sate by his father,
conversing with him, about, she knew not
what, nor cared to know,—was increase of
strength to her. Her own time for talking
and hearing would come at last, and she was
too certain of this to feel in a hurry to grasp
it now. She took in his appearance and liked it.
He had delicate features, redeemed from
effeminacy by the swarthiness of his complexion,
and his quick intensity of expression. His
eyes were generally merry-looking, but at
times they and his mouth so suddenly changed
and gave her such an idea of latent passion
that it almost made her afraid. But this look was
only for an instant; and had in it no doggedness,
no vindictiveness; it was rather the
instantaneous ferocity of expression that
comes over the countenances of all natives of
wild or southern countries—a ferocity which
enhances the charm of the childlike softness
into which such a look may melt away.
Margaret might fear the violence of the impulsive
nature thus occasionally betrayed, but
there was nothing in it to make her distrust,
or recoil in the least, from the new-found
brother. On the contrary, all their
intercourse was peculiarly charming to her from
the very first. She knew then how much
responsibility she had had to bear, from the
exquisite sensation of relief which she felt in
Frederick's presence. He understood his
father and mother—their characters and
their weaknesses, and went along with a
careless freedom, which was yet most delicately
careful not to hurt or wound any of their
feelings. He seemed to know instinctively
when a little of the natural brilliancy of his
manner and conversation would not jar on
the deep depression of his father, or might
relieve his mother's pain. Whenever it
would have been out of tune, and out of
time, his patient devotion and watchfulness
came into play, and made him an admirable
nurse. Then Margaret was almost touched
into tears by the allusions which he often
made to their childish days in the New Forest;
he had never forgotten her—or Helstone
either—all the time he had been roaming
among distant countries and foreign people.
She might talk to him of the old spot, and
never fear tiring him. She had been afraid
of him before he came, even while she
had longed for his coining; seven or eight
years had, she felt, produced such great