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.




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