'Indeed, Margaret, you are growing fanciful! God knows I should

be the first to take the alarm if your mother were really ill; we

always saw when she had her headaches at Helstone, even without

her telling us. She looks quite pale and white when she is ill;

and now she has a bright healthy colour in her cheeks, just as

she used to have when I first knew her.' 'But, papa,' said Margaret, with hesitation, 'do you know, I

think that is the flush of pain.' 'Nonsense, Margaret. I tell you, you are too fanciful. You are

the person not well, I think. Send for the doctor to-morrow for

yourself; and then, if it will make your mind easier, he can see

your mother.' 'Thank you, dear papa. It will make me happier, indeed.' And she

went up to him to kiss him. But he pushed her away--gently

enough, but still as if she had suggested unpleasant ideas, which

he should be glad to get rid of as readily as he could of her

presence. He walked uneasily up and down the room.

'Poor Maria!' said he, half soliloquising, 'I wish one could do

right without sacrificing others. I shall hate this town, and

myself too, if she----Pray, Margaret, does your mother often talk

to you of the old places of Helstone, I mean?' 'No, papa,' said Margaret, sadly.

'Then, you see, she can't be fretting after them, eh? It has

always been a comfort to me to think that your mother was so

simple and open that I knew every little grievance she had. She

never would conceal anything seriously affecting her health from

me: would she, eh, Margaret? I am quite sure she would not. So

don't let me hear of these foolish morbid ideas. Come, give me a

kiss, and run off to bed.' But she heard him pacing about (racooning, as she and Edith used

to call it) long after her slow and languid undressing was

finished--long after she began to listen as she lay in bed.




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