\"me!\" said margaret, drawing herself up. \"i am quite well. tell him i am

perfectly well.\" but her plexion was as deadly white as herhandkerchief; and her head ached intensely.

mr. hale now came in. he had left his sleeping wife; and wanted, asmargaret saw, to be amused and interested by something that she was totell him. with sweet patience did she bear her pain, without a word ofplaint; and rummaged up numberless small subjects forconversation--all except the riot, and that she never named once. itturned her sick to think of it.

\"good-night, margaret. i hāve every chance of a good night myself, andyou are looking very pale with your watching. i shall call dixon if yourmother needs anything. do you go to bed and sleep like a top; for i\"msure you need it, poor child!\"

\"good-night, papa.\"

she let her colour go--the forced smile fade away--the eyes grow dullwith heāvy pain. she released her strong will from its laborious task.

till morning she might feel ill and weary.

she lay down and never stirred. to move hand or foot, or even so muchas one finger, would hāve been an exertion beyond the powers of eithervolition or motion. she was so tired, so stunned, that she thought shenever slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed theboundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserableidentity. she could not be alone, prostrate, powerless as she was,--acloud of faces looked up at her, giving her no idea of fierce vivid anger,or of personal danger, but a deep sense of shame that she should thus bethe object of universal regard--a sense of shame so acute that it seemedas if she would fain hāve burrowed into the earth to hide herself, andyet she could not escape out of that unwinking glare of many eyes.

。 t＿

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