'Let me in! Let me in! It is only me, Charlotte!' Her heart did

not still its fluttering till she was safe in the drawing-room,

with the windows fastened and bolted, and the familiar walls

hemming her round, and shutting her in. She had sate down upon a

packing case; cheerless, Chill was the dreary and dismantled

room--no fire nor other light, but Charlotte's long unsnuffed

candle. Charlotte looked at Margaret with surprise; and Margaret,

feeling it rather than seeing it, rose up.

'I was afraid you were shutting me out altogether, Charlotte,'

said she, half-smiling. 'And then you would never have heard me

in the kitchen, and the doors into the lane and churchyard are

locked long ago.'

'Oh, miss, I should have been sure to have missed you soon. The

men would have wanted you to tell them how to go on. And I have

put tea in master's study, as being the most comfortable room, so

to speak.' 'Thank you, Charlotte. You are a kind girl. I shall be sorry to

leave you. You must try and write to me, if I can ever give you

any little help or good advice. I shall always be glad to get a

letter from Helstone, you know. I shall be sure and send you my

address when I know it.' The study was all ready for tea. There was a good blazing fire,

and unlighted candles on the table. Margaret sat down on the rug,

partly to warm herself, for the dampness of the evening hung

about her dress, and overfatigue had made her chilly. She kept

herself balanced by clasping her hands together round her knees;

her head dropped a little towards her chest; the attitude was one

of despondency, whatever her frame of mind might be. But when she

heard her father's step on the gravel outside, she started up,

and hastily shaking her heavy black hair back, and wiping a few

tears away that had come on her cheeks she knew not how, she went

out to open the door for him. He showed far more depression than

she did. She could hardly get him to talk, although she tried to

speak on subjects that would interest him, at the cost of an

effort every time which she thought would be her last.

'Have you been a very long walk to-day?' asked she, on seeing his

refusal to touch food of any kind.

'As far as Fordham Beeches. I went to see Widow Maltby; she is

sadly grieved at not having wished you good-bye. She says little

Susan has kept watch down the lane for days past.--Nay, Margaret,

what is the matter, dear?' The thought of the little child

watching for her, and continually disappointed--from no

forgetfulness on her part, but from sheer inability to leave

home--was the last drop in poor Margaret's cup, and she was

sobbing away as if her heart would break. Mr. Hale was

distressingly perplexed. He rose, and walked nervously up and

down the room. Margaret tried to check herself, but would not

speak until she could do so with firmness. She heard him talking,

as if to himself.




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