hour. He went up to different objects in the
room, as if examining them, but Margaret
saw that it was merely a nervous trick—a
way of putting off something he wished, yet
feared to say. Out it came at last—

"My dear! I've asked Mr. Thornton to
come to tea to-night."

Mrs. Hale was leaning back in her easy
chair, with her eyes shut, and an expression
of pain on her face which had become
habitual to her of late. But she roused up
into querulousness at this speech of her
husband's.

"Mr. Thornton!—and to-night! "What in
the world does the man want to come here
for? And Dixon is washing my muslins and
laces, and there is no soft water with these
horrid east winds, which I suppose we shall
have all the year round in Milton."

"The wind is veering round, my dear,"
said Mr. Hale, looking out at the smoke,
which drifted right from the east, only he did
not yet understand the points of the compass,
and rather arranged them ad libitum, according
to circumstances.

"Don't tell me! " said Mrs. Hale, shuddering
up, and wrapping her shawl about her
still more closely. " But, east or west wind,
I suppose this man comes."

"Oh, mamma, that shows you never saw
Mr. Thornton. He looks like a person who
would enjoy battling with every adverse
thing he could meet with—enemies, winds, or
circumstances. The more it rains and blows,
the more certain we are to have him. But I
will go and help Dixon. I am getting to be
a famous clear-starcher. And he won't want
any amusement beyond talking to papa.
Papa, I am really longing to see the Pythias
to your Damon. You know I never saw him
but once, and then we were so puzzled to
know what to say to each other that we did
not get on particularly well."

"I don't know that you would ever like
him, or think him agreeable, Margaret. He
is not a lady's man."

Margaret wreathed her throat in a scornful
curve.

"I don't particularly admire ladies' men,
papa. But Mr. Thornton comes here as your
friend—as one who has appreciated you—"

"The only person in Milton," said Mrs.
Hale.

"So we will give him a welcome, and some
cocoa-nut cakes. Dixon will be flattered if
we ask her to make some; and I will undertake
to iron your caps, mamma."

Many a time that morning did Margaret
wish Mr. Thornton far enough away. She
had planned other employments for herself:
a letter to Edith, a good piece of Dante, a
visit to the Higginses. But, instead, she ironed
away, listening to Dixon's complaints, and
only hoping that by an excess of sympathy
she might prevent her from carrying the
recital of her sorrows to Mrs. Hale. Every
now and then Margaret had to remind
herself of her father's regard for Mr. Thornton
to subdue the irritation of weariness that was
stealing over her, and bringing on one of the
bad headaches to which she had lately become
liable. She could hardly speak when she sat
down at last, and told her mother that she
was no longer Peggy the laundry-maid, but
Margaret Hale, the lady. She meant this
speech for a little joke, and was vexed enough
with her busy tongue when she found her
mother taking it seriously.

"Yes! if any one had told me, when I was
Miss Beresford, and one of the belles of the
county, that a child of mine would have to
stand half a day, in a little poky kitchen,
working away like any servant, that we
might prepare properly for the reception of a
tradesman, and that this tradesman should
be the only—"

"Oh, mamma! " said Margaret, lifting
herself up, " don't punish me so for a careless
speech. I don't mind ironing, or any kind
of work, for you and papa. I am myself
a boru and bred lady through it all, even
though it comes to scouring a floor, or washing
dishes. I am tired now, just for a little
while; but in half an hour I shall be ready
to do the same over again. And as to Mr.
Thornton's being in trade, why he can't help
that now, poor fellow. I don't suppose his
education would fit him for much else."
Margaret lifted herself slowly up, and went
to her own room; for just now she could not
bear much more.

In Mr. Thornton's house, at this very same
time a similar, yet different, scene was going
on. A large-boned lady, long past middle
age, sat at work in a grim handsomely-
furnished dining-room. Her features, like her
frame, were strong and massive, rather than
heavy. Her face moved slowly from one
decided expression to another equally decided.
There was no great variety in her countenance;
but those who looked at it once,
generally looked at it again; even the passers-by
in the street, half-turned their heads to gaze
an instant longer at the firm, severe, dignified
woman, who never gave way in street-
courtesy, or paused in her straight-onward
course to the clearly defined end which she
proposed to herself.

She was handsomely dressed in stout black
silk, of which not a thread was worn or
discoloured. She was mending a large, long
table-cloth of the finest texture, holding it up
against the light occasionally to discover thin
places, which required her delicate care. There
was not a book about in the room, with the
exception of Matthew Henry's Bible
Commentaries, six volumes of which lay in the
centre of the massive side-board, flanked by
a tea-urn on one side, a lamp on the
other. In some remote apartment, there was
exercise upon the piano going on. Some one
was practising up a morçeau de salon, playing
it very rapidly, every third note, on an
average, being either indistinct, or wholly