"What can we do to spare mamma such
another night?" asked Margaret on the
third day.

"It is to a certain degree, the reaction after
the powerful opiates I have been obliged to use.
It is more painful for you to see than for her
to bear, I believe. But, I think, if we could
get a water-bed it might be a good thing. Not
but what she will be better to-morrow;
pretty much like herself as she was before
this attack. Still, I should like her to have a
water-bed. Mrs. Thornton has one, I know.
I'll try and call there this afternoon. Stay,"
said he, his eye catching on Margaret's face,
blanched with watching in a sick-room, "I'm
not sure if I can go; I've a long round to
take. It would do you no harm to have a
brisk walk to Marlborough Street, and ask
Mrs. Thornton if she can spare it."

"'Certainly," said Margaret. " I could go
while; mamma is asleep this afternoon. I am
sure Mrs. Thornton would lend it to us."

Dr. Donaldson's experience told them
rightly. Mrs. Hale seemed to shake off the
consequences of her attack, and looked
brighter and better this afternoon than
Margaret had ever hoped to see her again. Her
daughter left her after dinner, sitting in her
easy chair, with her hand lying in her
husband's, who looked more worn and suffering
than she by far. Still, he could smile now
—rather slowly, rather faintly, it is true; but
a day or two before, Margaret never thought
to see him smile again.

It was about two miles from their house in
Crampton Crescent to Marlborough Street.
It was too hot to walk very quickly. An
August sun beat straight down into the street
at three o'clock in the afternoon. Margaret
went along without noticing anything very
different from usual in the first mile and a
half of her journey; she was absorbed in her
own thoughts, and had learnt by this time to
thread her way through the irregular stream
of human beings that flowed through Milton
streets. But, by and by, she was struck with
an unusual heaving among the mass of people
in the crowded road on which she was
entering. They did not appear to be moving
on so much as talking, and listening, and
buzzing with excitement, without much
stirring from the spot where they might
happen to be. Still, as they made way for
her, and, wrapt up in the purpose of her
errand, and the necessities that suggested it,
she was less quick of observation than she
might have been, if her mind had been
at ease, she had got into Marlborough
Street before the full conviction forced itself
upon her that there was a restless oppressive
sense of irritation abroad among the people;
a thunderous atmosphere, morally as well as
physically, around her. From every narrow
lane opening out on Marlborough Street came
up a low distant roar, as of myriads of fierce,
indignant voices. The inhabitants of each
poor squalid dwelling were gathered round
the doors and windows, if indeed they were
not actually standing in the middle of the
narrow ways—all with looks intent towards
one point. Marlborough Street itself was the
focus of all those human eyes, that betrayed
intensest interest of various kinds; some
fierce with anger, some lowering with relentless
threats, some dilated with fear, or
imploring entreaty; and, as Margaret reached
the small side-entrance by the folding doors,
in the great dead wall of Marlborough mill-yard,
and awaited the porter's answer to the
bell, she looked round and heard the first
long far-off roll of the tempest; saw the first
slow-surging wave of the dark crowd come,
with its threatening crest, tumble over, and
retreat, at the far end of the street, which a
moment ago seemed so full of repressed
noise, but which now was ominously still;—
all these circumstances forced themselves on
Margaret's notice, but did not sink down into
her pre-occupied heart. She did not know
what they meant—what was their deep
significance; while she did know, did feel the keen
sharp pressure of the knife that was soon to
stab her through and through, by leaving her
motherless. She was trying to realise that,
in order that when it came she might be
ready to comfort her father.

The porter opened the door cautiously, not
nearly wide enough to admit her.

"It's you, is it, ma'am?" said he, drawing
a long breath, and widening the entrance, but
still not opening it fully. Margaret went in.
He hastily bolted it behind her.

"Th' folk are all coming up here, I reckon?"
asked he.

"I don't know. Something unusual seemed
going on; but this street is quite empty I
think."

She went across the yard and up the steps
to the house-door. There was no near sound,
—no steam-engine at work with beat and
pant,—no click of machinery, or mingling
and clashing of many sharp voices; but far
away, the ominous gathering roar,
deep-clamouring.

JEAN RAISIN.

IT has been my lot, of late, to take outdoor
exercise on the skirts of an extensive forest
which crowns the summit of a range of hills.
Its length is so considerable, that to walk
from one end of it to the other is more than,
my legs, though good legs, would like; but
its breadth, in most parts, is more easily
traversable. I can enter on one side, and
by means of a mental mariner's compass,
which phrenologists would call the organ of
locality, can pursue my way to the opposite
side, to enjoy the prospect which meets me
there. During the transit I am overshadowed
by oaks and beeches. The ground in some
places is covered by a dense thicket of underwood,
whose branches I am obliged to put
aside with my arms, in order to pursue my