'By the soft green light in the woody glade,

On the banks of moss where thy childhood played;

By the household tree, thro' which thine eye

First looked in love to the summer sky.'

MRS. HEMANS.

Margaret was once more in her morning dress, travelling quietly

home with her father, who had come up to assist at the wedding.

Her mother had been detained at home by a multitude of

half-reasons, none of which anybody fully understood, except Mr.

Hale, who was perfectly aware that all his arguments in favour of

a grey satin gown, which was midway between oldness and newness,

had proved unavailing; and that, as he had not the money to equip

his wife afresh, from top to toe, she would not show herself at

her only sister's only child's wedding. If Mrs. Shaw had guessed

at the real reason why Mrs. Hale did not accompany her husband,

she would have showered down gowns upon her; but it was nearly

twenty years since Mrs. Shaw had been the poor, pretty Miss

Beresford, and she had really forgotten all grievances except

that of the unhappiness arising from disparity of age in married

life, on which she could descant by the half-hour. Dearest Maria

had married the man of her heart, only eight years older than

herself, with the sweetest temper, and that blue-black hair one

so seldom sees. Mr. Hale was one of the most delightful preachers

she had ever heard, and a perfect model of a parish priest.

Perhaps it was not quite a logical deduction from all these

premises, but it was still Mrs. Shaw's characteristic conclusion,

as she thought over her sister's lot: 'Married for love, what can

dearest Maria have to wish for in this world?' Mrs. Hale, if she

spoke truth, might have answered with a ready-made list, 'a

silver-grey glace silk, a white chip bonnet, oh! dozens of things

for the wedding, and hundreds of things for the house.' Margaret

only knew that her mother had not found it convenient to come,

and she was not sorry to think that their meeting and greeting

would take place at Helstone parsonage, rather than, during the

confusion of the last two or three days, in the house in Harley

Street, where she herself had had to play the part of Figaro, and

was wanted everywhere at one and the same time. Her mind and body

ached now with the recollection of all she had done and said

within the last forty-eight hours. The farewells so hurriedly

taken, amongst all the other good-byes, of those she had lived

with so long, oppressed her now with a sad regret for the times

that were no more; it did not signify what those times had been,

they were gone never to return. Margaret's heart felt more heavy

than she could ever have thought it possible in going to her own

dear home, the place and the life she had longed for for

years--at that time of all times for yearning and longing, just

before the sharp senses lose their outlines in sleep. She took

her mind away with a wrench from the recollection of the past to

the bright serene contemplation of the hopeful future. Her eyes

began to see, not visions of what had been, but the sight

actually before her; her dear father leaning back asleep in the

railway carriage. His blue-black hair was grey now, and lay

thinly over his brows. The bones of his face were plainly to be

seen--too plainly for beauty, if his features had been less

finely cut; as it was, they had a grace if not a comeliness of

their own. The face was in repose; but it was rather rest after

weariness, than the serene calm of the countenance of one who led

a placid, contented life. Margaret was painfully struck by the

worn, anxious expression; and she went back over the open and

avowed circumstances of her father's life, to find the cause for

the lines that spoke so plainly of habitual distress and

depression.




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