and, drawing the child up to her knee, she
began kissing it fondly.

Margaret laid her hand on the woman's
arm to arrest her attention. Their eyes met.

"Poor little fellow! " said Margaret,
slowly; "he was his father's darling."

"He is his father's darling," said the
woman, rising hastily, and standing face to
face with Margaret. Neither of them spoke
for a moment or two. Then Mrs. Boucher
began in a low growling tone, gathering in
wildness as she went on: "He is his father's
darling, I say. Poor folk can love their childer
as well as rich. Why dunno yo speak?
Why dun yo stare at me wi' your great pitiful
eyes? Where's John? " Weak as she was,
she shook Margaret to force out an answer.
"Oh my God! " said she, understanding
the meaning of that tearful look. She
sank back into the chair. Margaret took up
the child and put him into her arms.

"He loved him," said she.

"Ay," said the woman, shaking her head,
"he loved us a'. We had some one to love
us once. It's a long time ago; but when he
were in life and with us he did love us, he
did. He loved this babby mappen the best
on us; but he loved me and I loved him,
though I was calling him five minutes agone.
Are yo sure he's dead?" said she, trying to
get up. "If it's only that he's ill and like
to die, they may bring him round yet. I'm
but an ailing creature mysel—I've been ailing
this long time."

"But he is dead—he is drowned!"

"Folk are brought round after they're
dead-drowned. Whatten was I thinking of,
to sit still when I should be stirring mysel.
Here, whisth thee, child—whisth thee! tak
this, tak aught to play wi', but dunnot cry
while my heart's breaking! Oh, where is
my strength gone to? Oh John—husband!"

Margaret saved her from falling by catching
her in her arms. She sate down in the
rocking-chair, and held the woman upon her
knees, her head lying on Margaret's
shoulder. The other children, clustered
together in affright, began to understand the
mystery of the scene; but the ideas came
slowly, for their brains were dull and
languid of perception. They set up such a cry
of despair as they guessed the truth, that
Margaret knew not how to bear it. Johnny's
cry was loudest of them all, though he knew
not why he cried, poor little fellow.

The mother quivered as she lay in
Margaret's arms. Margaret heard a noise at
the door.

"Open it. Open it quick," said she to the
eldest child. "It's bolted; make no noise—
be very still. Oh, papa, let them go upstairs
very softly and carefully, and perhaps she
will not hear them. She has fainted—
that's all."

"It's as well for her, poor creature," said
a woman following in the wake of the
bearers of the dead. "But yo're not fit to
hold her. Stay, I'll run fetch a pillow, and
we'll let her down easy on the floor."

This helpful neighbour was a great relief
to Margaret; she was evidently a stranger
to the house, a new-comer to the district,
indeed; but she was so kind and thoughtful
that Margaret felt she was no longer
needed; and that it would be better,
perhaps, to set an example of clearing the
house, which was filled with idle, if
sympathising gazers.

She looked round for Nicholas Higgins.
He was not there. So she spoke to the
woman who had taken the lead in placing
Mrs. Boucher on the floor.

"Can you give all these people a hint that
they had better leave in quietness? So that
when she comes round, she should only find
one or two that she knows about her. Papa,
will you speak to the men, and get them to
go away. She cannot breathe, poor thing,
with this crowd about her."

Margaret was kneeling down by Mrs.
Boucher and bathing her face with vinegar;
but in a few minutes she was surprised at the
gush of fresh air. She looked round, and
saw a smile pass between her father and the
woman.

"What is it?" asked she.

"Only our good friend here," replied her
father, "hit on a capital expedient for clearing
the place."

"I bade 'em begone, and each take a child
with 'em, and to mind that they were orphans,
and their mother a widow. It was who could
do most, and the childer are sure of a bellyful
to-day, and of kindness too. Does hoo
know how he died?"

"No," said Margaret; "I could not tell
her all at once."

"Hoo mun be told because of th' Inquest.
See! Hoo's coming round; shall you or I
do it? or mappen your father would be
best?"

"No; you, you," said Margaret.

They awaited her perfect recovery in
silence. Then the neighbour woman sat
down on the floor, and took Mrs. Boucher's
head and shoulders on her lap.

"Neighbour," said she, "your man is dead.
Guess yo how he died?"

"He were drowned," said Mrs. Boucher,
feebly, beginning to cry for the first time, at
this rough probing of her sorrows.

"He were found drowned. He were coming
home very hopeless o' aught on earth.
He thought God could na be harder than
men; mappen not so hard; mappen as tender
as a mother; mappen tenderer. I 'm not
saying he did right, and I'm not saying he
did wrong. All I say is, may neither me nor
mine ever have his sore heart, or we may do
like things."

"He has left me alone wi' a' these
children! " moaned the widow, less distressed at
the manner of the death than Margaret
expected: but it was of a piece with her