Margaret could not sit still. It was a relief to her to aid Dixon
in all her preparations for 'Master Frederick.' It seemed as
though she never could be tired again. Each glimpse into the room
where he sate by his father, conversing with him, about, she knew
not what, nor cared to know,--was increase of strength to her.
Her own time for talking and hearing would come at last, and she
was too certain of this to feel in a hurry to grasp it now. She
took in his appearance and liked it. He had delicate features,
redeemed from effeminacy by the swarthiness of his complexion,
and his quick intensity of expression. His eyes were generally
merry-looking, but at times they and his mouth so suddenly
changed, and gave her such an idea of latent passion, that it
almost made her afraid. But this look was only for an instant;
and had in it no doggedness, no vindictiveness; it was rather the
instantaneous ferocity of expression that comes over the
countenances of all natives of wild or southern countries--a
ferocity which enhances the charm of the childlike softness into
which such a look may melt away. Margaret might fear the violence
of the impulsive nature thus occasionally betrayed, but there was
nothing in it to make her distrust, or recoil in the least, from
the new-found brother. On the contrary, all their intercourse was
peculiarly charming to her from the very first. She knew then how
much responsibility she had had to bear, from the exquisite
sensation of relief which she felt in Frederick's presence. He
understood his father and mother--their characters and their
weaknesses, and went along with a careless freedom, which was yet
most delicately careful not to hurt or wound any of their
feelings. He seemed to know instinctively when a little of the
natural brilliancy of his manner and conversation would not jar
on the deep depression of his father, or might relieve his
mother's pain. Whenever it would have been out of tune, and out
of time, his patient devotion and watchfulness came into play,
and made him an admirable nurse. Then Margaret was almost touched
into tears by the allusions which he often made to their childish
days in the New Forest; he had never forgotten her--or Helstone
either--all the time he had been roaming among distant countries
and foreign people. She might talk to him of the old spot, and
never fear tiring him. She had been afraid of him before he came,
even while she had longed for his coming; seven or eight years
had, she felt, produced such great changes in herself that,
forgetting how much of the original Margaret was left, she had
reasoned that if her tastes and feelings had so materially
altered, even in her stay-at-home life, his wild career, with
which she was but imperfectly acquainted, must have almost
substituted another Frederick for the tall stripling in his
middy's uniform, whom she remembered looking up to with such
admiring awe. But in their absence they had grown nearer to each
other in age, as well as in many other things. And so it was that
the weight, this sorrowful time, was lightened to Margaret. Other
light than that of Frederick's presence she had none. For a few
hours, the mother rallied on seeing her son. She sate with his
hand in hers; she would not part with it even while she slept;
and Margaret had to feed him like a baby, rather than that he
should disturb her mother by removing a finger. Mrs. Hale wakened
while they were thus engaged; she slowly moved her head round on
the pillow, and smiled at her children, as she understood what
they were doing, and why it was done.