'I was used

To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child,--

Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start,

And think of my poor boy tossing about

Upon the roaring seas. And then I seemed

To feel that it was hard to take him from me

For such a little fault.'

SOUTHEY.

It was a comfort to Margaret about this time, to find that her

mother drew more tenderly and intimately towards her than she had

ever done since the days of her childhood. She took her to her

heart as a confidential friend--the post Margaret had always

longed to fill, and had envied Dixon for being preferred to.

Margaret took pains to respond to every call made upon her for

sympathy--and they were many--even when they bore relation to

trifles, which she would no more have noticed or regarded herself

than the elephant would perceive the little pin at his feet,

which yet he lifts carefully up at the bidding of his keeper. All

unconsciously Margaret drew near to a reward.

One evening, Mr. Hale being absent, her mother began to talk to

her about her brother Frederick, the very subject on which

Margaret had longed to ask questions, and almost the only one on

which her timidity overcame her natural openness. The more she

wanted to hear about him, the less likely she was to speak.

'Oh, Margaret, it was so windy last night! It came howling down

the chimney in our room! I could not sleep. I never can when

there is such a terrible wind. I got into a wakeful habit when

poor Frederick was at sea; and now, even if I don't waken all at

once, I dream of him in some stormy sea, with great, clear,

glass-green walls of waves on either side his ship, but far

higher than her very masts, curling over her with that cruel,

terrible white foam, like some gigantic crested serpent. It is an

old dream, but it always comes back on windy nights, till I am

thankful to waken, sitting straight and stiff up in bed with my

terror. Poor Frederick! He is on land now, so wind can do him no

harm. Though I did think it might shake down some of those tall

chimneys.' 'Where is Frederick now, mamma? Our letters are directed to the

care of Messrs. Barbour, at Cadiz, I know; but where is he

himself?' 'I can't remember the name of the place, but he is not called

Hale; you must remember that, Margaret. Notice the F. D. in every

corner of the letters. He has taken the name of Dickenson. I

wanted him to have been called Beresford, to which he had a kind

of right, but your father thought he had better not. He might be

recognised, you know, if he were called by my name.' 'Mamma,' said Margaret, 'I was at Aunt Shaw's when it all

happened; and I suppose I was not old enough to be told plainly

about it. But I should like to know now, if I may--if it does not

give you too much pain to speak about it.' 'Pain! No,' replied Mrs. Hale, her cheek flushing. 'Yet it is

pain to think that perhaps I may never see my darling boy again.

Or else he did right, Margaret. They may say what they like, but

I have his own letters to show, and I'll believe him, though he

is my son, sooner than any court-martial on earth. Go to my

little japan cabinet, dear, and in the second left-hand drawer

you will find a packet of letters.' Margaret went. There were the yellow, sea-stained letters, with

the peculiar fragrance which ocean letters have: Margaret carried

them back to her mother, who untied the silken string with

trembling fingers, and, examining their dates, she gave them to

Margaret to read, making her hurried, anxious remarks on their

contents, almost before her daughter could have understood what

they were.




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