pleasure now in decking herself out was in
thinking that her mother would take delight
in seeing her dressed. She blushed when
Dixon, throwing the drawing-room door open,
made an appeal for admiration.

"Miss Hale looks well, ma'am,—does not
she? Mrs. Shaw's coral could not have come
in better. It just gives the right touch of
colour, ma'am. Otherwise, Miss Margaret,
you would have been too pale."

Margaret's black hair was too thick to be
plaited; it needed rather to be twisted round
and round, and have its fine silkiness
compressed into massive coils, that encircled her
head like a crown, and then were gathered
into a large spiral knot behind. She kept its
weight together by two large coral pins, like
small arrows for length. Her white silk
sleeves were looped up with strings of the
same material, and on her neck, just below
the base of her curved and milk-white throat,
there lay heavy coral beads.

"Oh, Margaret! how I should like to be
going with you to one of the old Barrington
assemblies,—taking you as Lady Beresford
used to take me."

Margaret kissed her mother for this little
burst of maternal vanity; but she could
hardly smile at it, she felt so much out of
spirits.

"I would rather stay at home with you,—
much rather, mamma."

"Nonsense, darling! Be sure you notice
the dinner well. I shall like to hear how
they manage these things in Milton.
Particularly the second course, dear. Look what
they have instead of game."

Mrs. Hale would have been more than
interested,—she would have been astonished,
if she had seen the sumptuousness of the
dinner-table and its appointments. Margaret,
with her London-cultivated taste, felt the
number of delicacies to be oppressive; one
half of the quantity would have been enough,
and the effect lighter and more elegant. But
it was one of Mrs. Thornton's rigorous laws
of hospitality, that of each separate dainty
enough should be provided for all the guests
to partake, if they felt inclined. Careless to
abstemiousness in her daily habits, it was
part of her pride to set a feast before such of
her guests as cared for it. Her son shared
this feeling. He had never known—though
he might have imagined, and had the
capability to relish—any kind of society but that
which depended on an exchange of superb
meals: and even now, though he was denying
himself the personal expenditure of an
unnecessary sixpence, and had more than once
regretted that the invitations for this dinner
had been sent out, still, as it was to be, he
was glad to see the old magnificence of
preparation.

Margaret and her father were the first to
arrive. Mr. Hale was anxiously punctual to
the time specified. There was no one upstairs
in the drawing-room but Mrs. Thornton and
Fanny. Every cover was taken off, and the
apartment blazed forth in yellow silk damask
and a brilliantly-flowered carpet. Every corner
seemed filled up with ornament, until it
became a weariness to the eye, and presented a
strange contrast to the bald ugliness of the
look-out into the great mill-yard, where wide
folding gates were thrown open for the
admission of carriages. The mill loomed high
on the left-hand side of the windows, casting
a shadow down from its many stories which
darkened the summer evening before its
time.

"My son was engaged up to the last
moment on business. He will be here directly,
Mr. Hale. May I beg you to take a seat?"

Mr. Hale was standing at one of the
windows as Mrs. Thornton spoke. He turned
away, saying,

"Don't you find such close neighbourhood
to the Mill rather unpleasant at times?"

She drew herself up:

"Never. I am not become so fine as to
desire to forget the source of my son's wealth
and power. Besides, there is not such another
factory in Milton. One room alone is two
hundred and twenty square yards."

"I meant that the smoke and the noise—
the constant going out and coming in of the
work-people, might be annoying!"

"I agree with you, Mr. Hale! " said Fanny.
"There is a continual smell of steam, and oily
machinery—and the noise is perfectly
deafening."

"I have heard noise that was called music
far more deafening. The engine-room is at
the street-end of the factory; we hardly hear
it, except in summer weather when all the
windows are open; and as for the continual
murmur of the work-people, it disturbs me
no more than the humming of a hive of bees.
If I think of it at all, I connect it with my
son, and feel how all belongs to him, and that
his is the head that directs it. Just now there
are no sounds to come from the mill; the
hands have been ungrateful enough to turn
out, as perhaps you have heard. But the
very business (of which I spoke, just now),
had reference to the steps he is going to take
to make them learn their place." The
expression on her face, always stern,
deepened into dark anger, as she said this. Nor
did it clear away when Mr. Thornton entered
the room; for she saw in an instant the weight
of care and anxiety which he could not shake
off, although his guests received from him a
greeting that appeared both cheerful and
cordial. He shook hands with Margaret. He
knew it was the first time their hands had
met, though she was perfectly unconscious of
the fact. He inquired after Mrs. Hale, and
heard Mr. Hale's sanguine hopeful account;
and glancing at Margaret, to understand how
far she agreed with her father, he saw that no
dissenting shadow crossed her face. And as
he looked with this intention, he was struck
anew with her great beauty. He had never