dead swoon, till Mary come in; and I telled
her to fetch yo to me. And now dunnot talk
to me, but just read out th' chapter. I'm
easier in my mind for having spit it out; but
I want some thoughts of the world that's far
away to take the weary taste of it out o' my
mouth. Read me—not a sermon chapter, but
a story chapter; they've pictures in them,
which I see when my eyes are shut. Read
about the New Heavens, and the New Earth;
and m'appen I'll forget this."

Margaret read in her soft low voice. Though
Bessy's eyes were shut, she was listening for
some time, for the moisture of tears gathered
heavy on her eyelashes. At last she slept;
with many starts, and muttered pleadings.
Margaret covered her up, and left her, for she
had an uneasy consciousness that she might
be wanted at home, and yet, until now, it
seemed cruel to leave the dying girl.

Mrs. Hale was in the drawing-room on her
daughter's return. It was one of her better
days, and she was full of praises of the water-bed.
It had been more like the beds at Sir
John Beresford's than anything she had
slept on since. She did not know how it
was, but people seemed to have lost the art
of making the same kind of beds as they
used to do in her youth. One would think it
was easy enough; there was the same kind
of feathers to be had, and yet somehow, till
this last night she did not know when she
had had a good sound resting sleep.

Mr. Hale suggested that something of the
merits of the feather-beds of former days
might be attributed to the activity of youth,
which gave a relish to rest; but this idea
was not kindly received by his wife.

"No, indeed, Mr. Hale, it was those beds
at Sir John's. Now, Margaret, you're young
enough, and go about in the day; are the beds
comfortable? I appeal to you. Do they
give you a feeling of perfect repose when you
lie down upon them; or rather, don't you
toss about, and try in vain to find an easy
position, and waken in the morning as tired
as when you went to bed?"

Margaret laughed. "To tell the truth,
mamma, I've never thought about my bed
at all, what kind it is. I am so sleepy at
night, that if I only lie down anywhere, I nap
off directly. So I don't think I'm a
competent witness. But then, you know, I
never had the opportunity of trying Sir John
Beresford's beds. I never was at Oxenham."

"Were not you? Oh, no! to be sure. It
was poor darling Fred I took with me, I
remember. I only went to Oxenham once
after I was married, — to your Aunt Shaw's
wedding; and poor little Fred was the baby
then. And I know Dixon did not like changing
from lady's maid to nurse, and I was
afraid that if I took her near her old home,
and amongst her own people, she might want
to leave me. But poor baby was taken ill
at Oxenham, with his teething; and, what
with my being a great deal with Anna just
before her marriage, and not being very
strong myself, Dixon had more of the charge
of him than she ever had before; and it
made her so fond of him, and she was so
proud when he would turn away from every
one and cling to her, that I don't believe she
ever thought of leaving me again; though it
was very different from what she'd been
accustomed to. Poor Fred! Every body loved
him. He was born with the gift of winning
hearts. It makes me think very badly of
Captain Reid when I know that he disliked
my own dear boy. I think it a certain proof
he had a bad heart. Ah! Your poor father,
Margaret. He has left the room. He can't
bear to hear Fred spoken of."

"I love to hear about him, mamma. Tell
me all you like; you never can tell me too
much. Tell me what he was like as a baby."

"Why! Margaret, you must not be hurt,
but he was much prettier than you were. I
remember, when I first saw you in Dixon's
arms, I said, 'Dear, what an ugly little
thing!' And she said, 'It's not every child
that's like Master Fred, bless him!' Dear!
how well I remember it. Then I could have
had Fred in my arms every minute of the
day, and his cot was close by my bed; and
now, now—Margaret—I don't know where
my boy is, and sometimes I think I shall
never see him again."

Margaret sat down by her mother's sofa on
a little stool, and softly took hold of her
hand, caressing it and kissing it, as if to comfort.
Mrs. Hale cried without restraint. At
last, she sat straight, stiff up on the sofa, and
turning round to her daughter, she said with
tearful, almost solemn earnestness,
"Margaret, if I can get better,—if God lets me
have a chance of recovery, it must be through
seeing my son Frederick once more. It will
waken up all the poor springs of health left
in me."

She paused, and seemed to try and gather
strength for something more yet to be said.
Her voice was choked as she went on; was
quavering as with the contemplation of some
strange, yet closely-present idea.

"And, Margaret, if I am to die—if I am
one of those appointed to die before many
weeks are over, I must see my child first. I
cannot think how it must be managed; but
I charge you, Margaret, as you yourself hope
for comfort in your last illness, bring him to
me that I may bless him. Only for five
minutes, Margaret. There could be no danger
in five minutes. Oh, Margaret, let me see
him before I die!"

Margaret did not think of anything that
might be utterly unreasonable in this speech:
we do not look for reason or logic in the
passionate entreaties of those who are sick
unto death; we are stung with the recollection
of a thousand slighted opportunities of
fulfilling the wishes of those who will soon
pass away from among us: and do they ask
us for the future happiness of our lives, we