\"but even though she may not be exactly fitted to e and live with usas a servant--and i don\"t know about that--i will always try and be afriend to her for your sake, bessy. and now i must go. i will eagain as soon as i can; but if it should not be to-morrow, or the nextday, or even a week or a fortnight hence, don\"t think i\"ve forgotten you.

i may be busy.\"

\"i\"ll know yo\" won\"t forget me again. i\"ll not mistrust yo\" no more. butremember, in a week or a fortnight i may be dead and buried!\"

\"i\"ll e as soon as i can, bessy,\" said margaret, squeezing her handtight. \"but you\"ll let me know if you are worse.

\"ay, that will i,\" said bessy, returning the pressure.

from that day forwards mrs. hale became more and more of a sufferinginvalid. it was now drawing near to the anniversary of edith\"s marriage,and looking back upon the year\"s accumulated heap of troubles,margaret wondered how they had been borne. if she could hāveanticipated them, how she would hāve shrunk away and hid herselffrom the ing time! and yet day by day had, of itself, and by itself,been very endurable--small, keen, bright little spots of positiveenjoyment hāving e sparkling into the very middle of sorrows. ayear ago, or when she first went to helstone, and first became silentlyconscious of the querulousness in her mother\"s temper, she would hāvegroaned bitterly over the idea of a long illness to be borne in a strange,desolate, noisy, busy place, with diminished forts on every side ofthe home life. but with the increase of serious and just ground of

plaint, a new kind of patience had sprung up in her mother\"s mind.

she was gentle and quiet in intense bodily suffering, almost inproportion as she had been restless and depressed when there had beenno real cause for grief. mr. hale was in exactly that stage ofapprehension which, in men of his stamp, takes the shape of wilfulblindness. he was more irritated than margaret had ever known him athis daughter\"s expressed anxiety.

\"indeed, margaret, you are growing fanciful! god knows i should be thefirst to take the alarm if your mother were really ill; we always sawwhen 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 brighthealthy colour in her cheeks, just as she used to hāve when i first knewher.\"

\"but, papa,\" said margaret, with hesitation, \"do you know, i think that isthe flush of pain.\"

\"nonsense, margaret. i tell you, you are too fanciful. you are the personnot 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 wentup to him to kiss him. but he pushed her away--gently enough, but stillas if she had suggested unpleasant ideas, which he should be glad to getrid of as readily as he could of her presence. he walked uneasily up anddown the room.

\"poor maria!\" said he, half soliloquising, \"i wish one could do rightwithout 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 ofhelstone, i mean?\"

\"no, papa,\" said margaret, sadly.

\"then, you see, she can\"t be fretting after them, eh? it has always been afort to me to think that your mother was so simple and open that iknew every little grievance she had. she never would conceal anythingseriously affecting her health from me: would she, eh, margaret? i amquite sure she would not. so don\"t let me hear of these foolish morbidideas. e, give me a kiss, and run off to bed.\"

but she heard him pacing about (racooning, as she and edith used tocall it) long after her slow and languid undressing was finished--longafter she began to listen as she lay in bed.

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