trembling hand, "Margaret Hale is not the
girl to say him nay." In her weak state she
could not think of any other words, and yet
she was vexed to use these. But she was so
much fatigued even by this slight exertion,
that if she could have thought of another form
of acceptance, she could not have sate up to
write a syllable of it. She was obliged to lie
down again, and try not to think.

"My dearest child! Has that letter vexed
or troubled you?"

"No!" said Margaret feebly. "I shall be
better when to-morrow is over."

"I feel sure, darling, you won't be better till
I get you out of this horrid air. How you can
have borne it this two years I can't imagine."

"Where could I go to? I could not leave
papa and mamma."

"Well! don't distress yourself, my dear.
I dare say it was all for the best, only I had
no conception of how you were living. Our
butler's wife lives in a better house than this."

"It is sometimes very pretty in summer;
you can't judge by what it is now. I have
been very happy here," and Margaret closed
her eyes by way of stopping the conversation.

The house teemed with comfort now, compared
to what it had done. The evenings were
chilly, and by Mrs. Shaw's directions fires
were lighted in every bedroom. She petted
Margaret in every possible way, and bought
every delicacy, or soft luxury in which she
herself would have burrowed and sought
comfort. But Margaret was indifferent to all
these things; or, if they forced themselves
upon her attention, it was simply as causes
for gratitude to her aunt, who was putting
herself so much out ot her way to think of
her. She was restless, though so weak. All
the day long she kept herself from thinking
of the ceremony which was going on at Oxford,
by wandering from room to room, and
languidly setting aside such articles as she
wished to retain. Dixon followed her by Mrs.
Shaw's desire, ostensibly to receive instructions,
but with a private injunction to soothe
her into repose as soon as might be.

"These books, Dixon, I will keep. All the
rest will you send to Mr. Bell? They are of
a kind that he will value for themselves, as
well as for papa's sake. This- I should
like you to take this to Mr. Thornton, after
I am gone. Stay; I will write a note with
it." And she sate down hastily, as if afraid
of thinking, and wrote:

"DEAR SIR,- The accompanying book I am sure
will be valued by you, for the sake of my father, to
whom it belonged.
"Yours sincerely,
"MARGARET HALE."

She set out again upon her travels through
the house, turning over articles, known to
her from her childhood, with a sort of
caressing reluctance to leave them old-fashioned,
worn and shabby, as they might
be. But she hardly spoke again; and
Dixon's report to Mrs. Shaw was, that "she
doubted whether Miss Hale heard a word of
what she said, though she talked the whole
time, in order to divert her intention." The
consequence of being on her feet all day
was excessive bodily weariness in the evening,
and a better night's rest than she had
had since she had heard of Mr. Hale's death.

At breakfast time the next day, she expressed
her wish to go and bid one or two
friends good-bye. Mrs. Shaw objected:

"I am sure, my dear, you can have no
friends here with whom you are sufficiently
intimate to justify you in calling upon them
so soon; before you have been at church."

"But to-day is my only day; if Captain
Lennox comes this afternoon, and if we must
- if I must really go to-morrow-"

"Oh, yes; we shall go to-morrow. I am
more and more convinced that this air is bad
for you, and makes you look so pale and ill;
besides, Edith expects us; and she may be
waiting me; and you cannot be left alone,
my dear, at your age. No; if you must pay
these calls, I will go with you. Dixon can
get us a coach, I suppose?"

So Mrs. Shaw went to take care of Margaret,
and took her maid with her to take
care of the shawls and air-cushions. Margaret's
face was too sad to lighten up into a
smile at all this preparation for paying two
visits, that she had often made by herself at
all hours of the day. She was half afraid of
owning that one place to which she was
going was Nicholas Higgins'; all she could
do was to hope her aunt would be indisposed
to get out of the coach, and walk up the
court, and at every breath of wind have her
face slapped by wet clothes, hanging out to
dry on ropes stretched from house to house.

There was a little battle in Mrs. Shaw's
mind between ease and a sense of matronly
propriety; but the former gained the day;
and with many an injunction to Margaret to
be careful of herself, and not to catch any
fever, such as was always lurking in such
places, her aunt permitted her to go where
she had often been before without taking any
precaution or requiring any permission.

Nicholas was out; only Mary and one or
two of the Boucher children at home. Margaret
was vexed with herself for not having
timed her visit better. Mary had a very
blunt intellect, although her feelings were
warm and kind; and the instant she understood
what Margaret's purpose was in coming
to see them, she began to cry and sob with so
little restraint that Margaret found it useless
to say any of the thousand little things
which had suggested themselves to her as
she was coming along in the coach. She
could only try to comfort her a little by
suggesting the vague chance of their meeting
again, at some possible time, in some possible
place, and bid her tell her father how much
she wished, if he could manage it, that he
should come to see her when he had done his
work in the evening.