continually meddling, with their imperfect
legislation. We stand up for self-government,
and oppose centralisation."

"In short, you would like the Heptarchy
back again. Well, at any rate, I revoke
what I said this morning—that you Milton
people did not reverence the past. You are
regular worshippers of Thor."

"If we do not reverence the past as you do
in Oxford, it is because we want something
which can apply to the present more directly.
It is fine when the study of the past leads to
a prophecy of the future. But to men
groping in new circumstances, it would be
finer if the words of experience could direct
us how to act in what concerns us most
intimately and immediately; which is full of
difficulties that must be encountered; and
upon the mode in which they are met and
conquered—not merely pushed aside for the
time—depends our future. Out of the wisdom
of the past, help us over the present. But
no! People can speak of Utopia much more
easily than of the next day's duty; and yet
when that duty is all done by others, who so
ready to cry, ' Fie, for shame!'"

"And all this time I don't see what you
are talking about. Would you Milton men
condescend to send up your to-day's difficulty
to Oxford? You have not tried us yet."

Mr. Thornton laughed outright at this.
"I believe, I was talking with reference to a
good deal that has been troubling us of late;
I was thinking of the strikes we have gone
through, which are troublesome and injurious
things enough, as I am finding to my cost.
And yet this last strike under which I am
smarting has been respectable."

"A respectable strike! " said Mr. Bell.
''That sounds as if you were far gone in the
worship of Thor."

Margaret felt, rather than saw, that Mr.
Thornton was chagrined by the repeated
turning into jest of what he was feeling as
very serious. She tried to change the
conversation from a subject about which one
party cared little, while to the other it was
deeply, because personally, interesting. She
forced herself to say something.

"Edith says she finds the printed calicoes
in Corfu better and cheaper than in London."

"Does she? " said her father. "I think
that must be one of Edith's exaggerations.
Are you sure of it, Margaret?"

"I am sure she says so, papa."

"Then I am sure of the fact," said Mr.
Bell. " Margaret, I go so far in my idea of
your truthfulness, that it shall cover your
cousin's character. I don't believe a cousin
of yours could exaggerate."

"Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?"
said Mr. Thornton, bitterly. The moment he
had done so, he could have bitten his tongue
out. What was he? And why should he stab
her with her shame in this way? How evil
he was to-night; possessed by ill-humour at
being detained so long from her; irritated by
the mention of some name, because he thought
it belonged to a more successful lover; now
ill-tempered because he had been unable to
cope, with a light heart, against one who was
trying, by gay and careless speeches, to make
the evening pass pleasantly away, the kind
old friend to all parties, whose manner by
this time might be well known to Mr. Thornton,
who had been acquainted with him for
many years. And then to speak to Margaret
as he had done! She did not get up and
leave the room as she had done in former
days, when his abruptness or his temper had
annoyed her. She sat quite still, after the
first momentary glance of grieved surprise,
that made her eyes look like some child's
who has met with an unexpected rebuff;
they slowly dilated into mournful, reproachful
sadness; and then they fell, and she bent
over her work, and did not speak again. But
he could not help looking at her; and he
saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she
quivered in some unwonted chill. He felt as
the mother would have done, in the midst of
"her rocking it, and rating it," had she been
called away before her slow confiding smile
implying perfect trust in mother's love had
proved the renewing of its love. He gave
short sharp answers; he was uneasy and
cross, unable to discern between jest and
earnest; anxious only for a look, a word of
hers, before which to prostrate himself in
penitent humility. But she neither looked
nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew in
and out of her sewing, as steadily and swiftly
as if that were the business of her life. She
could not care for him, he thought, or else
the passionate fervour of his wish would have
forced her to raise those eyes, if but for an
instant, to read the late repentance in his.
He could have struck her before he left, in
order that by some strange overt act of
rudeness, he might earn the privilege of telling
her the remorse that gnawed at his
heart. It was well that the long walk in the
open air wound up this evening for him. It
sobered him back into grave resolution, that
henceforth he would see as little of her as
possible,—since the very sight of that face
and form, the very sounds of that voice (like
the soft winds of pure melody) had such
power to move him from his balance. Well!
He had known what love was—a sharp pang,
a fierce experience, in the midst of whose
flames he was struggling! but, through that
furnace he would fight his way out into the
serenity of middle age,—all the richer and
more human for having known this great
passion.

When he had somewhat abruptly left the
room, Margaret rose from her seat, and began
silently to fold up her work. The long seams
were heavy, and had an unusual weight for
her languid arms. The round lines in her
face took a lengthened straighter form, and
her whole appearance was that of one who
had gone through a day of great fatigue. As