"Here's something to do you good, miss. A
letter from Master Frederick."

"Thank you, Dixon. How late it is!"

She spoke very languidly, and suffered
Dixon to lay it on the counterpane before
her, without putting out a hand to
take it.

"You want your breakfast, I'm sure. I
will bring it you in a minute. Master has got
the tray all ready, I know."

Margaret did not reply; she let her go;
she felt that she must be alone before she
could open that letter. She opened it at last.
The first thing that caught her eye was the
date two days earlier than she received it.
He had then written when he had promised,
and their alarm might have been spared.
But she would read the letter and
see. It was hasty enough, but perfectly
satisfactory. He had seen Henry Lennox,
who knew enough of the case to shake his
head over it, in the first instance, and tell him
he had done a very daring thing in returning
to England, with such an accusation, backed
by such powerful influence, hanging over him.
But when they had come to talk it over, Mr.
Lennox had acknowledged that there might
be some chance of his acquittal, if he could
but prove his statements by credible witnesses—
that in such case it might be worth
while to stand his trial, otherwise it would be
a great risk. He would examine—he would
take every pains. "It struck me," said Frederick,
"that your introduction, little sister
of mine, went a long way. Is it so? He made
many inquiries, I can assure you. He seemed a
sharp, intelligent fellow, and in good practice
too, to judge from the signs of business and
the number of clerks about him. But these
may be only lawyers' dodges. I have just
caught a packet on the point of sailing—I am
off in five minutes. I may have to come back
to England again on this business, so keep my
visit secret. I shall send my father some rare
old sherry, such as you cannot buy in England,—
(such stuff as I've got in the bottle before
me)! He needs something of the kind—
my dear love to him—God bless him. I'm
sure—here's my cab. P.S.—What an escape
that was! Take care you don't breathe of
my having been—not even to the Shaws."

Margaret turned to the envelope; it was
marked "Too late." The letter had probably
been trusted to some careless waiter, who
had forgotten to post it. Oh! what slight
cobwebs of chances stand between us and
Temptation! Frederick had been safe, and
out of England twenty, nay, thirty hours ago;
and it was only about seventeen hours since
she had told a falsehood to baffle pursuit,
which even then would have been vain. How
faithless she had been! Where now was her
proud motto, "Fais ce que dois, advienne que
pourra?" If she had but dared to bravely tell
the truth as regarded herself, defying them
to find out what she refused to tell concerning
another, how light of heart she would
now have felt! Not humbled before God, as
having failed in trust towards Him, not degraded
and abased in Mr. Thornton's sight.
She caught herself up at this with a miserable
tremor; here was she classing his low opinion
of her alongside with the displeasure of God.
How was it that he haunted her imagination
so persistently?  What could it be? Why
did she care for what he thought in spite of
all her pride; in spite of herself? She believed
that she could have borne the sense of
Almighty displeasure, because He knew all,
and could read her penitence, and hear her
cries for help in time to come. But Mr.
Thornton—why did she tremble, and hide
her face in the pillow? What strong feeling
had overtaken her at last?

She sprang out of bed and prayed long and
earnestly. It soothed and comforted her so
to open her heart. But as soon as she reviewed
her position she found the sting was
still there; that she was not good enough,
nor pure enough to be indifferent to the
lowered opinion of a fellow creature; that
the thought of how he must be looking upon
her with contempt stood between her and her
sense of wrong-doing. She took her letter in
to her father as soon as she was drest.
There was so slight an allusion to their
alarm at the railroad station, that Mr. Hale
passed over it without paying any attention
to it. Indeed, beyond the mere fact of
Frederick having sailed undiscovered and
unsuspected, he did not gather much from the
letter at the time, he was so uneasy about
Margaret's pallid looks. She seemed continually
on the point of weeping.

"You are sadly overdone, Margaret. It is
no wonder. But you must let me nurse you
now."

He made her lie down on the sofa, and
went for a shawl to cover her with. His
tenderness released her tears; and she cried
bitterly.

"Poor child!—poor child! " said he, looking
fondly at her, as she lay with her face to
the wall, shaking with her sobs. After
a while they ceased, and she began to wonder
whether she durst give herself the relief of
telling her father of all her trouble. But
there were more reasons against it than for
it. The only one for it was the relief to
herself; and against it was the thought that
it would add materially to her father's
nervousness, if it were indeed necessary for
Frederick to come to England again; that
he would dwell on the circumstance of his
son's having caused the death of a man, however
unwittingly and unwillingly; that this
knowledge would perpetually recur to trouble
him, in various shapes of exaggeration and
distortion from the simple truth. And about
her own great fault—he would be distressed
beyond measure at her want of courage and
faith, yet perpetually troubled to make
excuses for her. Formerly Margaret would
have come to him as priest as well as father,