'I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,

Through constant watching wise,

To meet the glad with joyful smiles,

And to wipe the weeping eyes;

And a heart at leisure from itself

To soothe and sympathise.'

ANON.

Margaret made a good listener to all her mother's little plans

for adding some small comforts to the lot of the poorer

parishioners. She could not help listening, though each new

project was a stab to her heart. By the time the frost had set

in, they should be far away from Helstone. Old Simon's rheumatism

might be bad and his eyesight worse; there would be no one to go

and read to him, and comfort him with little porringers of broth

and good red flannel: or if there was, it would be a stranger,

and the old man would watch in vain for her. Mary Domville's

little crippled boy would crawl in vain to the door and look for

her coming through the forest. These poor friends would never

understand why she had forsaken them; and there were many others

besides. 'Papa has always spent the income he derived from his

living in the parish. I am, perhaps, encroaching upon the next

dues, but the winter is likely to be severe, and our poor old

people must be helped.'

'Oh, mamma, let us do all we can,' said Margaret eagerly, not

seeing the prudential side of the question, only grasping at the

idea that they were rendering such help for the last time; 'we

may not be here long.'

'Do you feel ill, my darling?' asked Mrs. Hale, anxiously,

misunderstanding Margaret's hint of the uncertainty of their stay

at Helstone. 'You look pale and tired. It is this soft, damp,

unhealthy air.'

'No--no, mamma, it is not that: it is delicious air. It smells of

the freshest, purest fragrance, after the smokiness of Harley

Street. But I am tired: it surely must be near bedtime.'

'Not far off--it is half-past nine. You had better go to bed at

dear. Ask Dixon for some gruel. I will come and see you as soon

as you are in bed. I am afraid you have taken cold; or the bad

air from some of the stagnant ponds--' 'Oh, mamma,' said Margaret, faintly smiling as she kissed her

mother, 'I am quite well--don't alarm yourself about me; I am

only tired.' Margaret went upstairs. To soothe her mother's anxiety she

submitted to a basin of gruel. She was lying languidly in bed

when Mrs. Hale came up to make some last inquiries and kiss her

before going to her own room for the night. But the instant she

heard her mother's door locked, she sprang out of bed, and

throwing her dressing-gown on, she began to pace up and down the

room, until the creaking of one of the boards reminded her that

she must make no noise. She went and curled herself up on the

window-seat in the small, deeply-recessed window. That morning

when she had looked out, her heart had danced at seeing the

bright clear lights on the church tower, which foretold a fine

and sunny day. This evening--sixteen hours at most had past

by--she sat down, too full of sorrow to cry, but with a dull cold

pain, which seemed to have pressed the youth and buoyancy out of

her heart, never to return. Mr. Henry Lennox's visit--his

offer--was like a dream, a thing beside her actual life. The hard

reality was, that her father had so admitted tempting doubts into

his mind as to become a schismatic--an outcast; all the changes

consequent upon this grouped themselves around that one great

blighting fact.




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