to tell him of her temptation and her sin;
but latterly they had not spoken much on
such subjects; and she knew not how, in his
change of opinions, he would reply if the
depth of her soul called unto his. No; she
would keep her secret, and bear the burden
alone. Alone she would go before God, and
cry for His absolution. Alone she would
endure her disgraced position in the opinion
of Mr. Thornton. She was unspeakably
touched by the tender efforts of her father to
think of cheerful subjects on which to talk,
and so to take her thoughts away from
dwelling on all that had happened of late.
It was some months since he had been so
talkative as he was this day. He would not
let her sit up, and offended Dixon desperately
by insisting on waiting upon her himself.

At last she smiled; a poor, weak little
smile; but it gave him the truest pleasure.

"It seems strange to think, that what gives
us most hope for the future should be called
Dolores," said Margaret. The remark was
more in character with her father than with
her usual self; but to-day they seemed to
have changed natures.

"Her mother was a Spaniard, I believe:
that accounts for her religion. Her father
was a stiff Presbyterian when I knew him.
But it is a very soft and pretty name."

"How young she is!—younger by fourteen
months than I am. Just the age that Edith
was when she was engaged to Captain
Lennox. Papa, we will go and see them in
Spain."

He shook his head. But he said, "If you
wish it, Margaret. Only let us come back
here. It would seem unfair—unkind to
your mother, who always, I'm afraid, disliked
Milton so much, if we left it now she is lying
here, and cannot go with us. No, dear; you
shall go and see them, and bring me back a
report of my Spanish daughter."

"No, papa, I won't go without you. Who
is to take care of you when I am gone?"

"I should like to know which of us is taking
care of the other. But if you went, I
should persuade Mr. Thornton to let me give
him double lessons. "We would work up the
classics famously. That would be a perpetual
interest. You might go on, and see
Edith at Corfu, if you liked."

Margaret did not speak all at once. Then
she said rather gravely: " Thank you, papa.
But I don't want to go. We will hope that
Mr. Lennox will manage so well, that Frederick
may bring Dolores to see us when they
are married. And as for Edith, the regiment
won't remain much longer in Corfu. Perhaps
we shall see both of them here before another
year is out."

Mr. Hale's cheerful subjects had come to
an end. Some painful recollection had stolen
across his mind, and driven him into silence.
By and by Margaret said:

"Papa—did you see Nicholas Higgins at
the funeral? He was there, and Mary too.
Poor fellow! it was his way of showing sympathy.
He has a good warm heart under his
bluff abrupt ways."

"I am sure of it," replied Mr. Hale. "I
saw it all along, even while you tried to persuade
me that he was all sorts of bad things.
We will go and see them to-morrow, if you
are strong enough to walk so far."

"Oh yes. I want to see them. We did
not pay Mary—or rather she refused to take
it, Dixon says. We will go so as to catch him
just after his dinner, and before he goes to
his work."

Towards evening Mr. Hale said:

"I half expected Mr. Thornton would have
called. He spoke of a book yesterday which
he had, and which I wanted to see. He said
he would try and bring it to-day."

Margaret sighed. She knew he would not
come. He would be too delicate to run the
chance of meeting her while her shame must
be so fresh in his memory. The very mention
of his name renewed her trouble, and
produced a relapse into the feeling of depressed
pre-occupied exhaustion. She gave
way to listless languor. Suddenly it struck
her that this was a strange manner to show
her patience, or to reward her father for his
watchful care of her all through the day.
She sate up, and offered to read aloud. His
eyes were failing, and he gladly accepted her
proposal. She read well; she gave the due
emphasis; but had any one asked her, when
she had ended, the meaning of what she
had been reading, she could not have told.
She was smitten with a feeling of ingratitude
to Mr. Thornton, inasmuch as, in the
morning, she had refused to accept the kindness
he had shown her in making further
inquiry from the medical men, so as to obviate
any inquest being held. Oh! she was
grateful! She had been cowardly and false,
and had shown her cowardliness and falsehood
in action that could not be recalled;
but she was not ungrateful. It sent a glow
to her heart to know how she could feel towards
one who had reason to despise her.
His cause for contempt was so just that she
should have respected him less if she had
thought he did not feel contempt. It was
a pleasure to feel how thoroughly she respected
him. He could not prevent her
doing that; it was the one comfort in all
this misery.

Late in the evening the expected book
arrived, "with Mr. Thornton's kind regards,
and wishes to know how Mr. Hale is."

"Say that I am much better, Dixon, but
that Miss Hale—"

"No, papa," said Margaret, eagerly—
"don't say anything about me. He does not
ask."

"My dear child, how you are shivering!"
said her father, a few minutes afterwards.
"You must go to bed directly. You have
turned quite pale!"

Margaret did not refuse to go, though