'I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see the sufferings of others.

I think I could go through my own with patience. Oh, is there no

going back?' 'No, father,' said Margaret, looking straight at him, and

speaking low and steadily. 'It is bad to believe you in error. It

would be infinitely worse to have known you a hypocrite.' She

dropped her voice at the last few words, as if entertaining the

idea of hypocrisy for a moment in connection with her father

savoured of irreverence.

'Besides,' she went on, 'it is only that I am tired to-night;

don't think that I am suffering from what you have done, dear

papa. We can't either of us talk about it to-night, I believe,'

said she, finding that tears and sobs would come in spite of

herself. 'I had better go and take mamma up this cup of tea. She

had hers very early, when I was too busy to go to her, and I am

sure she will be glad of another now.' Railroad time inexorably wrenched them away from lovely, beloved

Helstone, the next morning. They were gone; they had seen the

last of the long low parsonage home, half-covered with

China-roses and pyracanthus--more homelike than ever in the

morning sun that glittered on its windows, each belonging to some

well-loved room. Almost before they had settled themselves into

the car, sent from Southampton to fetch them to the station, they

were gone away to return no more. A sting at Margaret's heart

made her strive to look out to catch the last glimpse of the old

church tower at the turn where she knew it might be seen above a

wave of the forest trees; but her father remembered this too, and

she silently acknowledged his greater right to the one window

from which it could be seen. She leant back and shut her eyes,

and the tears welled forth, and hung glittering for an instant on

the shadowing eye-lashes before rolling slowly down her cheeks,

and dropping, unheeded, on her dress.

They were to stop in London all night at some quiet hotel. Poor

Mrs. Hale had cried in her way nearly all day long; and Dixon

showed her sorrow by extreme crossness, and a continual irritable

attempt to keep her petticoats from even touching the unconscious

Mr. Hale, whom she regarded as the origin of all this suffering.

They went through the well-known streets, past houses which they

had often visited, past shops in which she had lounged,

impatient, by her aunt's side, while that lady was making some

important and interminable decision-nay, absolutely past

acquaintances in the streets; for though the morning had been of

an incalculable length to them, and they felt as if it ought long

ago to have closed in for the repose of darkness, it was the very

busiest time of a London afternoon in November when they arrived

there. It was long since Mrs. Hale had been in London; and she

roused up, almost like a child, to look about her at the

different streets, and to gaze after and exclaim at the shops and

carriages.




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