'Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him.' 'Papa!' said Margaret, with a crying voice that was wild with

pain. 'Papa! Speak to me!' The speculation came again into his

eyes, and he made a great effort.

'Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it was cruel of you!' 'No, sir, it was not cruel!' replied Dr. Donaldson, with quick

decision. 'Miss Hale acted under my directions. There may have

been a mistake, but it was not cruel. Your wife will be a

different creature to-morrow, I trust. She has had spasms, as I

anticipated, though I did not tell Miss Hale of my apprehensions.

She has taken the opiate I brought with me; she will have a good

long sleep; and to-morrow, that look which has alarmed you so

much will have passed away.' 'But not the disease?' Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her bent head, her face raised

with no appeal for a temporary reprieve, showed that quick

observer of human nature that she thought it better that the

whole truth should be told.

'Not the disease. We cannot touch the disease, with all our poor

vaunted skill. We can only delay its progress--alleviate the pain

it causes. Be a man, sir--a Christian. Have faith in the

immortality of the soul, which no pain, no mortal disease, can

assail or touch!' But all the reply he got, was in the choked words, 'You have

never been married, Dr. Donaldson; you do not know what it is,'

and in the deep, manly sobs, which went through the stillness of

the night like heavy pulses of agony. Margaret knelt by him,

caressing him with tearful caresses. No one, not even Dr.

Donaldson, knew how the time went by. Mr. Hale was the first to

dare to speak of the necessities of the present moment.

'What must we do?' asked he. 'Tell us both. Margaret is my

staff--my right hand.' Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions. No fear for

to-night--nay, even peace for to-morrow, and for many days yet.

But no enduring hope of recovery. He advised Mr. Hale to go to

bed, and leave only one to watch the slumber, which he hoped

would be undisturbed. He promised to come again early in the

morning. And with a warm and kindly shake of the hand, he left

them. They spoke but few words; they were too much exhausted by

their terror to do more than decide upon the immediate course of

action. Mr. Hale was resolved to sit up through the night, and

all that Margaret could do was to prevail upon him to rest on the

drawing-room sofa. Dixon stoutly and bluntly refused to go to

bed; and, as for Margaret, it was simply impossible that she

should leave her mother, let all the doctors in the world speak

of 'husbanding resources,' and 'one watcher only being required.'

So, Dixon sat, and stared, and winked, and drooped, and picked

herself up again with a jerk, and finally gave up the battle, and

fairly snored. Margaret had taken off her gown and tossed it

aside with a sort of impatient disgust, and put on her

dressing-gown. She felt as if she never could sleep again; as if

her whole senses were acutely vital, and all endued with double

keenness, for the purposes of watching. Every sight and

sound--nay, even every thought, touched some nerve to the very

quick. For more than two hours, she heard her father's restless

movements in the next room. He came perpetually to the door of

her mother's chamber, pausing there to listen, till she, not

hearing his close unseen presence, went and opened it to tell him

how all went on, in reply to the questions his baked lips could

hardly form. At last he, too, fell asleep, and all the house was

still. Margaret sate behind the curtain thinking. Far away in

time, far away in space, seemed all the interests of past days.

Not more than thirty-six hours ago, she cared for Bessy Higgins

and her father, and her heart was wrung for Boucher; now, that

was all like a dreaming memory of some former life;--everything

that had passed out of doors seemed dissevered from her mother,

and therefore unreal. Even Harley Street appeared more distinct;

there she remembered, as if it were yesterday, how she had

pleased herself with tracing out her mother's features in her

Aunt Shaw's face,--and how letters had come, making her dwell on

the thoughts of home with all the longing of love. Helstone,

itself, was in the dim past. The dull gray days of the preceding

winter and spring, so uneventless and monotonous, seemed more

associated with what she cared for now above all price. She would

fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed

it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued

while it was yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed!

How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! It was as if

from some aerial belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the

earth, there was a bell continually tolling, 'All are

shadows!--all are passing!--all is past!' And when the morning

dawned, cool and gray, like many a happier morning before--when

Margaret looked one by one at the sleepers, it seemed as if the

terrible night were unreal as a dream; it, too, was a shadow. It,

too, was past.




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