'Margaret, it was very wrong of you. You knew I did not wish you

to know.' But, as if tired with the contest, she left her hand in

Margaret's clasp, and by-and-by she returned the pressure

faintly. That encouraged Margaret to speak.

'Oh, mamma! let me be your nurse. I will learn anything Dixon can

teach me. But you know I am your child, and I do think I have a

right to do everything for you.' 'You don't know what you are asking,' said Mrs. Hale, with a

shudder.

'Yes, I do. I know a great deal more than you are aware of Let me

be your nurse. Let me try, at any rate. No one has ever shall

ever try so hard as I will do. It will be such a comfort, mamma.' 'My poor child! Well, you shall try. Do you know, Margaret, Dixon

and I thought you would quite shrink from me if you knew--' 'Dixon thought!' said Margaret, her lip curling. 'Dixon could not

give me credit for enough true love--for as much as herself! She

thought, I suppose, that I was one of those poor sickly women who

like to lie on rose leaves, and be fanned all day; Don't let

Dixon's fancies come any more between you and me, mamma. Don't,

please!' implored she.

'Don't be angry with Dixon,' said Mrs. Hale, anxiously. Margaret

recovered herself.

'No! I won't. I will try and be humble, and learn her ways, if

you will only let me do all I can for you. Let me be in the first

place, mother--I am greedy of that. I used to fancy you would

forget me while I was away at aunt Shaw's, and cry myself to

sleep at nights with that notion in my head.' 'And I used to think, how will Margaret bear our makeshift

poverty after the thorough comfort and luxury in Harley Street,

till I have many a time been more ashamed of your seeing our

contrivances at Helstone than of any stranger finding them out.' 'Oh, mamma! and I did so enjoy them. They were so much more

amusing than all the jog-trot Harley Street ways. The wardrobe

shelf with handles, that served as a supper-tray on grand

occasions! And the old tea-chests stuffed and covered for

ottomans! I think what you call the makeshift contrivances at

dear Helstone were a charming part of the life there.' 'I shall never see Helstone again, Margaret,' said Mrs. Hale, the

tears welling up into her eyes. Margaret could not reply. Mrs.

Hale went on. 'While I was there, I was for ever wanting to leave

it. Every place seemed pleasanter. And now I shall die far away

from it. I am rightly punished.' 'You must not talk so,' said Margaret, impatiently. 'He said you

might live for years. Oh, mother! we will have you back at

Helstone yet.' 'No never! That I must take as a just penance. But,

Margaret--Frederick!' At the mention of that one word, she

suddenly cried out loud, as in some sharp agony. It seemed as if

the thought of him upset all her composure, destroyed the calm,

overcame the exhaustion. Wild passionate cry succeeded to

cry--'Frederick! Frederick! Come to me. I am dying. Little

first-born child, come to me once again!' She was in violent hysterics. Margaret went and called Dixon in

terror. Dixon came in a huff, and accused Margaret of having

over-excited her mother. Margaret bore all meekly, only trusting

that her father might not return. In spite of her alarm, which

was even greater than the occasion warranted, she obeyed all

Dixon's directions promptly and well, without a word of

self-justification. By so doing she mollified her accuser. They

put her mother to bed, and Margaret sate by her till she fell

asleep, and afterwards till Dixon beckoned her out of the room,

and, with a sour face, as if doing something against the grain,

she bade her drink a cup of coffee which she had prepared for her

in the drawing-room, and stood over her in a commanding attitude

as she did so.




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