And so she shuddered away from the threat of his enduring love.

What did he mean? Had she not the power to daunt him? She would

see. It was more daring than became a man to threaten her so. Did

he ground it upon the miserable yesterday? If need were, she

would do the same to-morrow,--by a crippled beggar, willingly and

gladly,--but by him, she would do it, just as bravely, in spite

of his deductions, and the cold slime of women's impertinence.

She did it because it was right, and simple, and true to save

where she could save; even to try to save. 'Fais ce que dois,

advienne que pourra.' Hitherto she had not stirred from where he had left her; no

outward circumstances had roused her out of the trance of thought

in which she had been plunged by his last words, and by the look

of his deep intent passionate eyes, as their flames had made her

own fall before them. She went to the window, and threw it open,

to dispel the oppression which hung around her. Then she went and

opened the door, with a sort of impetuous wish to shake off the

recollection of the past hour in the company of others, or in

active exertion. But all was profoundly hushed in the noonday

stillness of a house, where an invalid catches the unrefreshing

sleep that is denied to the night-hours. Margaret would not be

alone. What should she do? 'Go and see Bessy Higgins, of course,'

thought she, as the recollection of the message sent the night

before flashed into her mind.

And away she went.

When she got there, she found Bessy lying on the settle, moved

close to the fire, though the day was sultry and oppressive. She

was laid down quite flat, as if resting languidly after some

paroxysm of pain. Margaret felt sure she ought to have the

greater freedom of breathing which a more sitting posture would

procure; and, without a word, she raised her up, and so arranged

the pillows, that Bessy was more at ease, though very languid.

'I thought I should na' ha' seen yo' again,' said she, at last,

looking wistfully in Margaret's face.

'I'm afraid you're much worse. But I could not have come

yesterday, my mother was so ill--for many reasons,' said

Margaret, colouring.

'Yo'd m'appen think I went beyond my place in sending Mary for

yo'. But the wranglin' and the loud voices had just torn me to

pieces, and I thought when father left, oh! if I could just hear

her voice, reading me some words o' peace and promise, I could

die away into the silence and rest o' God, lust as a babby is

hushed up to sleep by its mother's lullaby.' 'Shall I read you a chapter, now?' 'Ay, do! M'appen I shan't listen to th' sense, at first; it will

seem far away--but when yo' come to words I like--to th'

comforting texts--it'll seem close in my ear, and going through

me as it were.' Margaret began. Bessy tossed to and fro. If, by an effort, she

attended for one moment, it seemed as though she were convulsed

into double restlessness the next. At last, she burst out 'Don't

go on reading. It's no use. I'm blaspheming all the time in my

mind, wi' thinking angrily on what canna be helped.--Yo'd hear of

th' riot, m'appen, yesterday at Marlborough Mills? Thornton's

factory, yo' know.' 'Your father was not there, was he?' said Margaret, colouring

deep.




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