came away she found it impossible to cheer
her father.

"It is the town life," said she. "Their
nerves are quickened by the haste and bustle
and speed of everything around them, to say
nothing of the confinement in these pent-up
houses, which of itself is enough to induce
depression and worry of spirits. Now in the
country people live so much more out of
doors, even children, and even in the winter."

"But people must live in towns. And in
the country some get such stagnant habits of
mind that they are almost fatalists."

"Yes; I acknowledge that. I suppose each
mode of life produces its own trials and its
own temptations. The dweller in towns must
find it as difficult to be patient and calm, as
the country-bred man must find it to be
active, and equal to unwonted emergencies.
Both must find it hard to realise a future of
any kind; the one because the present is so
living and hurrying and close around him;
the other because his life tempts him to revel
in the mere sense of animal existence, not
knowing of, and consequently not caring for
any pungency of pleasure, for the attainment
of which he can plan, and deny himself and
look forward."

"And thus both the necessity for engrossment,
and the stupid content in the present,
produce the same effects. But this poor Mrs.
Boucher! how little we can do for her."

"And yet we dare not leave her without
our efforts, although they may seem so
useless. Oh papa! it's a hard world to live in!"

"So it is, my child. We feel it so just now,
at any rate; but we have been very happy,
even in the midst of our sorrow. What a
pleasure Frederick's visit was!"

"Yes, that it was," said Margaret, brightly.
"It was such a charming, snatched, forbidden
thing." But she suddenly stopped speaking.
She had spoiled the remembrance of Frederick's
visit to herself by her own cowardice.
Of all the faults she most despised in others
was the want of bravery; the meanness of
heart which leads to untruth. And here had
she been guilty of it! Then came the thought
of Mr. Thornton's cognisance of her falsehood.
She wondered if she should have minded
detection half so much from any one else. She
tried herself in imagination with her Aunt
Shaw and Edith; with her father; with
Captain and Mr. Lennox; with Frederick.
The thought of this latter knowing of what
she had done, even in his own behalf, was the
most painful, for the brother and sister were
in the first flush of their mutual regard and
love; but even any fall in Frederick's opinion
was as nothing to the shame, the shrinking
shame she felt at the thought of meeting
Mr. Thornton again. And yet she longed to
see him, to get it over; to understand where
she stood in his opinion. Her cheeks burnt
as she recollected how proudly she had
implied an objection to trade (in the early days
of their acquaintance), because it too
often led to the deceit of passing off inferior
for superior goods, in the one branch; of
assuming credit for wealth and resources not
possessed, in the other. She remembered
Mr. Thornton's look of calm disdain, as in few
words he gave her to understand that in the
great scheme of commerce all dishonourable
ways of acting were sure to prove injurious
in the long run, and that, testing such actions
simply according to the poor standard of
success, there was folly and not wisdom in all
such, and every kind of deceit in trade, as
well as in other things. She remembered—
she, then strong in her own untempted truth
—asking him, if he did not think that buying
in the cheapest and selling in the dearest
market proved some want of the transparent
justice which is so intimately connected with
the idea of truth; and she had used the word
chivalric—and her father had corrected her
with the higher word, Christian; and so
drawn the argument upon himself, while
she sate silent by with a slight feeling of
contempt.

No more contempt for her!—no more talk
about the chivalric! Henceforward she must
feel humiliated and disgraced in his sight.
But when should she see him? Her heart
leaped up in apprehension at every ring of
the door-bell; and yet when it fell down to
calmness, she felt strangely saddened and
sick at heart at each disappointment. It was
very evident that her father expected to see
him, and was surprised that he did not come.
The truth was, that there were points in their
conversation the other night on which they
had no time then to enlarge; but it had been
understood that if possible on the succeeding
evening—if not then, at least the very first
evening that Mr. Thornton could command,
—they should meet for further discussion.
Mr. Hale had looked forward to this meeting
ever since they had parted. He had not yet
resumed the instructions to his pupils, which
he had relinquished at the commencement of
his wife's more serious illness, so he had
fewer occupations than usual; and the great
interest of the last day or so (Boucher's
suicide) had driven him back with more
eagerness than ever upon his speculations.
He was restless all evening. He kept saying,
"I quite expected to have seen Mr. Thornton.
I think the messenger who brought the book
last night must have had some note, and
forgot to deliver it. Do you think there has
been any message left to-day?"

"I will go and inquire, papa," said
Margaret, after the changes on these sentences
had been rung once or twice. "Stay, there's
a ring!" She sate down instantly, and bent
her head attentively over her work. She
heard a step on the stairs, but it was only
one, and she knew it was Dixon's. She lifted
up her head and sighed, and believed she
felt glad.

"It's that Higgins, sir. He wants to see
you, or else Miss Hale. Or it might be Miss