myself, to bid him farewell. That will be a
trial. But worse, far worse, will be the parting
from my dear people. There is a curate
appointed to read prayers, a Mr. Brown.
He will come to stay with us to-morrow.
Next Sunday I preach my farewell sermon."

Was it to be so sudden then? thought
Margaret; and yet perhaps it was as well.
Lingering would only add stings to the pain;
it was better to be stunned into numbness
by hearing of all these arrangements, which
seemed to be nearly completed before she
had been told. "What does mamma say?"
asked she, with a deep sigh.

To her surprise, her father began to walk
about again before he answered. At length
he stopped and replied:

"Margaret, I am a poor coward after all.
I cannot bear to give pain. I know so well
your mother's married life has not been all
she hoped—all she had a right to expect—and
this will be such a blow to her, that I have
never had the heart, the power to tell her.
She must be told though, now," said he, looking
wistfully at his daughter. Margaret was
almost overpowered with the idea that her
mother knew nothing of it all, and yet the
affair was so far advanced!

"Yes, indeed she must," said Margaret.
"Perhaps, after all, she may not—Oh yes!
she will, she must be shocked"—as the force
of the blow returned upon her herself in
trying to realise how another would take it.
"Where are we to go to?" said she at last,
struck with a fresh wonder as to their future
plans, if plans indeed her father had.

"To Milton-Northern," he answered, with
a dull indifference, for he had perceived that,
although his daughter's love had made her
cling to him, and for a moment strive to
soothe him with her love, yet the keenness
of the pain was as fresh as ever in her
mind.

"Milton-Northern! The manufacturing
town in Darkshire?"

"Yes," said he, in the same despondent,
indifferent way.

"Why there, papa?" asked she.

"Because there I can earn bread for my
family. Because I know no one there, and
no one knows Helstone, or can ever talk to
me about it."

"Bread for your family! I thought you
and mamma had"—and then she stopped,
checking her natural interest as to their
future life, as she saw the gathering gloom
on her father's brow. But he, with his quick
intuitive sympathy, read in her face as in a
mirror the reflexions of his own moody
depression, and turned it off with an effort.

"You shall be told all, Margaret. Only
help me to tell your mother. I think I could
do anything but that: the idea of her distress
turns me sick with dread. If I tell you all,
perhaps you could break it to her to-morrow.
I am going out for the day, to bid farmer
Dobson and the poor people on Bracy Common
good-bye. Would you dislike breaking it to
her very much, Margaret?"

Margaret did dislike it, did shrink from it
more than from anything she had ever had to
do in her life before. She could not speak,
all at once. Her father said, "You dislike it
very much, don't you, Margaret?" Then
she conquered herself, and said, with a bright
strong look on her face:

"It is a painful thing, but it must be done,
and I will do it as well as ever I can. You
must have many painful things to do."

Mr. Hale shook his head despondingly:
he pressed her hand in token of gratitude.
Margaret was nearly upset again into a burst
of crying. To turn her thoughts, she said:
"Now tell me, papa, what our plans are.
You and mamma have some money independent
of the income from the living, have not
you? Aunt Shaw has, I know."

"Yes. I suppose we have about a hundred
and seventy pounds a year of our
own. Seventy of that has always gone to
Frederick, since he has been abroad. I
don't know if he wants it all," he continued
in a hesitating manner. -"He must have
some pay for serving with the Spanish army."

"Frederick must not suffer," said
Margaret, decidedly; " in a foreign country; so
unjustly treated by his own. A hundred is
left. Could not you, and I, and mamma live
on a hundred a year in some very cheap—very
quiet part of England? Oh! I think we could."

"No!" said Mr. Hale. "That would not
answer. I must do something. I must make
myself busy to keep off morbid thoughts.
Besides, in a country parish I should be so
painfully reminded of Helstone, and my duties
here. I could not bear it, Margaret. And a
hundred a year would go a very little way
after the necessary wants of housekeeping are
seen after, towards providing your mother
with all the comforts she has been accustomed
to, and ought to have. No: we must go to
Milton. That is settled. I can always decide
better by myself, and not influenced by those
whom I love," said he, as a half apology for
having arranged so much before he had told
any one of his family of his intentions. "I
cannot stand objections. They make me so
undecided."

Margaret resolved to keep silence. After
all what did it signify where they went,
compared to the one terrible change?

Mr. Hale went on: "A few months ago,
when my misery of doubt became more than,
I could bear, without speaking, I wrote to Mr.
Bell—you remember Mr. Bell, Margaret?"

"No; I never saw him, I think. But I
know who he is. Frederick's godfather—
your old tutor at Oxford, don't you mean?"

"Yes. He is a fellow of Plymouth college
there. He is a native of Milton-Northern,
I believe. At any rate he has property there,
which has very much increased in value since
Milton has become such a large manufacturing