fruit-shop in Milton, and chose out the bunch
of purple grapes with the most delicate bloom
upon them,—the richest-coloured peaches,—
the freshest vine-leaves. They were packed
into a basket, and the shopman awaited the
answer to his inquiry, "Where shall we send
them to, sir?"

There was no reply. "To Marlborough
Mills, I suppose, sir?"

"No!" Mr. Thornton said. "Give the
basket to me,—I'll take it."

It took up both his hands to carry it; and
he had to pass through the busiest part of
the town for feminine shopping. Many a
young lady of his acquaintance turned to look
after him, and thought it strange to see him
occupied just like a porter or an errand-boy.

He was thinking, "I will not be daunted
from doing as I choose by the thought of her.
I like to take this fruit to the poor mother,
and it is simply right that I should. She
shall never scorn me out of doing what I
please. A pretty joke, indeed, if, for fear of
a haughty girl, I failed in doing a kindness to
a man I liked! I do it for Mr. Hale,—I do
it in defiance of her."

He went at an unusual pace, and was soon
at Crampton. He went upstairs two steps at
a time, and entered the drawing-room before
Dixon could announce him,—his face flushed,
his eyes shining with kindly earnestness.
Mrs. Hale lay on the sofa heated with fever.
Mr. Hale was reading aloud. Margaret was
working on a low stool by her mother's side.
Her heart fluttered, if his did not, at this
interview. But he took no notice of her,—
hardly of Mr. Hale himself; he went up
straight with his basket to Mrs. Hale, and
said, in that subdued and gentle tone which
is so touching when used by a robust man in
full health speaking to a feeble invalid—

"I met Dr. Donaldson, ma'am, and as he
said fruit would be good for you, I have taken
the liberty—the great liberty—of bringing
you some that seemed to me fine." Mrs.
Hale was excessively surprised; excessively
pleased; quite in a tremble of eagerness. Mr.
Hale with fewer words expressed a deeper
gratitude.

"Fetch a plate, Margaret—a basket—
anything." Margaret stood up by the table, half
afraid of moving or making any noise to
arouse Mr. Thornton into a consciousness of
her being in the room. She thought it would
be so awkward for both to be brought into
conscious collision; and fancied that, from her
being on a low seat at first, and now standing
behind her father, he had overlooked her in
his haste. As if he did not feel the consciousness
of her presence all over, though his eyes
had never rested on her!

"I must go," said he, "I cannot stay. If
you will forgive this liberty,—my rough
ways,—too abrupt, I fear—but I will be
more gentle next time. You will allow me
the pleasure of bringing you some fruit
again, if I should see any that is tempting.
Good afternoon, Mr. Hale. Good bye,
ma'am."

He was gone. Not one word; not one
look to Margaret. She believed that he had
not seen her. She went for a plate in silence,
and lifted the fruit out tenderly, with the
points of her delicate taper fingers. It was
good of him to bring it; and after yesterday
too!

"Oh! it is so delicious!" said Mrs. Hale,
in a feeble voice. "How kind of him to think
of me! Margaret love, only taste these
grapes! Was it not good of him?"

"Yes!" said Margaret, quietly.

"Margaret!" said Mrs. Hale, rather
querulously, "you won't like anything Mr.
Thornton does. I never saw anybody so
prejudiced."

Mr. Hale had been peeling a peach for his
wife, and, cutting off a small piece for himself,
he said:

"If I had any prejudices, the gift of such
delicious fruit as this would melt them all
away. I have not tasted such fruit—no!
not even in Hampshire—since I was a boy;
and to boys, I fancy, all fruit is good. I
remember eating sloes and crabs with a relish.
Do you remember the matted-up currant
bushes, Margaret, at the corner of the west-wall
in the garden at home?"

Did she not? did she not remember every
weather-stain on the old stone wall; the gray
and yellow lichens that marked it like a map;
the little crane's-bill that grew in the
crevices? She had been shaken by the events
of the last two days; her whole life just now
was a strain upon her fortitude; and, somehow,
these careless words of her father's,
touching on the remembrance of the sunny
times of old, made her start up, and, dropping
her sewing on the ground, she went hastily
out of the room into her own little chamber.
She had hardly given way to the first choking
sob, when she became aware of Dixon standing
at her drawers, and evidently searching
for something.

"Bless me, miss! How you startled me!
Missus is not worse, is she? Is anything the
matter?"

"No, nothing. Only I'm silly, Dixon, and
want a glass of water. What are you looking
for? I keep my muslins in that drawer."

Dixon did not speak, but went on
rummaging. The scent of lavender came out and
perfumed the room.

At last Dixon found what she wanted;
what it was Margaret could not see. Dixon
faced round, and spoke to her:

"Now I don't like telling you what I
wanted, because you've fretting enough to go
through, and I know you'll fret about this.
I meant to have kept it from you till night,
may-be, or such times as that."

"What is the matter? pray, tell me,
Dixon, at once."

"That young woman you go to see—
Higgins, I mean."