risk; only it is worth trying. You can sail
from London as well as from Liverpool?"

"To be sure, little goose." Wherever I feel
water heaving under a plank, there I feel at
home. I'll pick up some craft or other to
take me off, never fear. I won't stay twenty-four
hours in London, away from you on the
one hand, and from somebody else on the
other."

It was rather a comfort to Margaret that
Frederick took it into his head to look over
her shoulder as she wrote to Mr. Lennox. If
she had not been thus compelled to write
steadily and concisely on, she might have
hesitated over many a word, and been puzzled
to choose between many an expression, in the
awkwardness of being the first to resume the
intercourse of which the concluding event
had been so unpleasant to both sides.
However, the note was taken from her before she
had even had time to look it over, and
treasured up in a pocket-book, out of which fell a
long lock of black hair, the sight of which
caused Frederick's eyes to glow with pleasure.

"Now you would like to see that, wouldn't
you?" said he. "No! you must wait till you
see her herself. She is too perfect to be
known by fragments. No mean brick shall
be a specimen of the building of my palace."

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND.

ALL the next day they sate together—they
three. Mr. Hale hardly ever spoke but when
his children asked him questions, and forced
him as it were into the present. Frederick's
grief was no more to be seen or heard; the
first paroxysm had passed over, and now he
was ashamed of having been so battered down
by emotion; and though his sorrow for the
loss of his mother was a deep real feeling, and
would last out his life, it was never to be
spoken of again. Margaret, not so passionate
at first, was more suffering now. At times
she cried a good deal; and her manner, even
when speaking on indifferent things, had a
mournful tenderness about it, which was
deepened whenever her looks fell on Frederick,
and thought of his rapidly approaching
departure. She was glad he was going, on
her father's account, however much she
might grieve over it on her own. The anxious
terror in which Mr. Hale lived lest his son
should be detected and captured, far
outweighed the pleasure he derived from his
presence. The nervousness had increased
since Mrs. Hale's death, probably because he
dwelt upon it more exclusively. He started
at every unusual sound; and was never
comfortable unless Frederick sate out of the
immediate view of any one entering the
room. Towards evening he said:

"You will go with Frederick to the
station, Margaret? I shall want to know he is
safely off. You will bring me word that he
is clear of Milton, at any rate?"

"Certainly,"said Margaret. "I shall like
it, if you won't be lonely without me, papa."

"No, no! I should always be fancying
some one had known him, and that lie had
been stopped, unless you could tell me you
had seen him off. And go to the Outwood
station. It is quite as near, and not so many
people about. Take a cab there. There is
less risk of his being seen. What time is
your train, Fred?"

"Ten minutes past six; very nearly dark.
So what will you do, Margaret?"

"Oh, I can manage. I am getting very
brave and very hard. It is a well-lighted
road all the way home, if it should be dark.
But I was out last week much later."

Margaret was thankful when the parting
was over—the parting from the dead mother
and the living father. She hurried Frederick
into the cab, in order to shorten a scene
which she saw was so bitterly painful to her
father, who would accompany his son as he
took his last look at his mother. Partly in
consequence of this, and partly owing to one
of the very common mistakes in Bradshaw as
to the times when trains arrive at the smaller
stations, they found, on reaching Outwood,
that they had nearly twenty minutes to
spare. The booking-office was not open, so
they could not even take the ticket. They
accordingly went down the flight of steps
that led to the level of the ground below the
railway. There was a broad cinder-path
diagonally crossing a field which lay along
side of the carriage-road, and they went there
to walk backwards and forwards for the few
minutes they had to spare.

Margaret's hand lay in Frederick's arm.
He took hold of it affectionately.

"Margaret! I am going to consult Mr.
Lennox as to the chance of exculpating
myself, so that I may return to England
whenever I choose, more for your sake than
for the sake of any one else. I can't bear to
think of your lonely position if anything
should happen to my father. He looks sadly
changed—terribly shaken. I wish you could
get him to think of the Cadiz plan, for many
reasons. What could you do if he were taken
away? You have no friend near. We are
curiously bare of relations."

Margaret could hardly keep from crying at
the tender anxiety with which Frederick was
bringing before her an event which she
herself felt was not very improbable, so severely
had the cares of the last few mouths told
upon Mr. Hale. But she tried to rally as
she said:

"There have been such strange unexpected
changes in my life during this last two years,
that I feel more than ever that it is not
worth while to calculate too closely what I
should do if any future event took place.
I try to think only upon the present." She
paused; they were standing still for a
moment, close on the field side of the stile
leading into the road; the setting sun fell on
their faces. Frederick held her hand in his,
and looked with wistful anxiety into her face,