And some, like stars when busy day is done,
Gladden the evening. But the mighty whole,
  Moving and burning, trail their floods of light
  Eternal, conquering through the fields of night,
And vindicate o'er sense the reign of soul:
Sinking at length into that bosom bright,
  Their faithful fount-spring and their final goal!

NORTH AND SOUTH.
BY THE AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

THE next morning, Margaret dragged herself
up, thankful that the night was over,—
unrefreshed, yet rested. All had gone well through
the house; her mother had only wakened
once. A little breeze was stirring in the hot
air, and though there were no trees to show
the playful tossing movement caused by the
wind among the leaves, Margaret knew how,
somewhere or another, by wayside, in copses,
or in thick green woods, there was a pleasant,
murmuring, dancing sound,—a rushing and
falling noise, the very thought of which was
an echo of distant gladness in her heart.

She sat at her work in Mrs. Hale's room.
As soon as that forenoon slumber was over,
she would help her mother to dress; after
dinner, she would go and see Bessy Higgins.
She would banish all recollection of the
Thornton family,—no need to think of them
till they absolutely stood before her in flesh
and blood. But, of course, the effort not to
think of them brought them only the more
strongly before her; and the hot flush came
over her pale face from time to time, sweeping
it into colour, as a sunbeam from between
watery clouds comes swiftly moving over
the sea.

Dixon opened the door very softly, and
stole on tiptoe up to Margaret, sitting by the
shaded window.

"Mr. Thornton, Miss Margaret. He is in
the drawing-room."

Margaret dropped her sewing.

"Did he ask for me? Is not papa come
in?"

"He asked for you, miss; and master is
out."

"Very well, I will come," said Margaret,
quietly. But she lingered strangely.

Mr. Thornton stood by one of the windows
with his back to the door, apparently absorbed
in watching something in the street. But, in
truth, he was afraid of himself. His heart
beat thick at the thought of her coming. He
could not forget the touch of her arms around
his neck, impatiently felt as it had been at
the time; but now the recollection of her
clinging defence of him seemed to thrill him
through and through,—to melt away every
resolution, all power of self-control, as if it
were wax before a fire. He dreaded lest he
should go forwards to meet her with his arms
held out in mute entreaty that she would
come and nestle there, as she had done, all
unheeded, the day before, but never unheeded
again. His heart throbbed loud and quick.
Strong man as he was, he trembled at the
anticipation of what he had to say, and how
it might be received. She might droop, and
flush, and flutter to his arms, as to her natural
home and resting-place. One moment he
glowed with impatience at the thought that
she might do this,—the next he feared a
passionate rejection, the very idea of which
withered up his future with so deadly a
blight that he refused to think of it. He was
startled by the sense of the presence of some
one else in the room. He turned round. She
had come in so gently, that he had never
heard her; the street noises had been more
distinct to his inattentive ear than her slow
movements in her soft muslin gown.

She stood by the table, not offering to sit
down. Her eyelids were dropped half over
her eyes; her teeth were shut, not
compressed; her lips were just parted over them,
allowing the white line to be seen between
their curve. Her slow deep breathings dilated
her thin and beautiful nostrils; it was the
only motion visible on her countenance. The
fine-grained skin, the oval cheek, the rich
outline of her mouth, its corners deep set in
dimples,—were all wan and pale to-day; the
loss of their usual natural healthy colour
being made more evident by the heavy shadow
of the dark hair, brought down upon the
temples to hide all sign of the blow she had
received. Her head, for all its drooping eyes,
was thrown a little back in the old proud
attitude. Her long arms hung motionless by
her sides. Altogether she looked like some
prisoner falsely accused of a crime that she
loathed and despised, and from which she was
too indignant to justify herself.

Mr. Thornton made a hasty step or two
forwards; recovered himself, and went with
quiet firmness to the door (which she had left
open), and shut it. Then he came back, and
stood opposite to her for a moment, receiving
the general impression of her beautiful
presence, before he dared to disturb it, perhaps
to repel it, by what he had to say.

"Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday—"

"You had nothing to be grateful for," said
she, raising her eyes, and looking full and
straight at him. "You mean, I suppose, that
you believe you ought to thank me for what
I did." In spite of herself—in defiance of her
anger—the thick blushes came all over her
face, and burnt into her very eyes; which fell
not nevertheless from their grave and steady
look. "It was only a natural instinct, any
woman would have done just the same. We
all feel the sanctity of our sex as a high privilege
when we see danger. I ought rather,"
said she, hastily, "to apologise to you for
having said thoughtless words which sent you
down into the danger."

"It was not your words; it was the truth
that they conveyed, pungently as it was