the three prepared for bed; Mr. Bell
muttered forth a little condemnation, of
Mr. Thornton.

"I never saw a fellow so spoiled by
success. He can't bear a word; a jest of
any kind. Everything seems to touch on the
soreness of his high dignity. Formerly, he
was as simple and noble as the open day;
you could not offend him, because he had no
vanity."

"He is not vain now," said Margaret, turning
round from the table, and speaking with
quiet distinctness. " To-night he has not been
like himself. Something must have annoyed
him before he came here."

Mr. Bell gave her one of his sharp glances
from above his spectacles. She stood it quite
calmly; but after she had left the room he
suddenly asked,—

"Hale! did it ever strike you that Thornton
and your daughter have what the French
call a tendresse for each other?"

"Never! " said Mr. Hale, first startled,
and then flurried by the new idea. "No,
I am sure you are wrong. I am almost
certain you are mistaken. If there is anything,
it is all on Mr. Thornton's side. Poor fellow!
I hope and trust he is not thinking of her,
for I am sure she would not have him."

"Well! I'm a bachelor, and have steered
clear of love affairs all my life; so perhaps
my opinion is not worth having. Or else I
should say there were very pretty symptoms
about her!"

"Then I am sure you are wrong," said

Mr. Hale. " He may care for her, though
she really has been almost rude to him at times.
But she!—why, Margaret would never think
of him, I'm sure! Such a thing has never
entered her head."

"Entering her heart would do. But I
merely threw out a suggestion of what might
be. I dare say I was wrong. And whether
I was wrong or right, I'm very sleepy; so,
having disturbed your night's rest (as I can
see) with my untimely fancies, I'll betake
myself with an easy mind to my own."

But Mr. Hale resolved that he would not
be disturbed by any such nonsensical idea;
so he lay awake, determining not to think
about it.

Mr. Bell took his leave the next day,
bidding Margaret look to him as one who
had a right to help and protect her in all
her troubles, of whatever nature they might
be. To Mr. Hale he said,—

"That Margaret of yours has gone deep
into my heart. Take care of her, for she is a
very precious creature,—a great deal too
good for Milton,—only fit for Oxford, in fact.
The town, I mean; not the men. I can't
match her yet. When I can, I shall bring
my young man to stand side by side with
your young woman, just as the genie in the
Arabian nights brought Prince Caralmazan
to match with the fairy's Princess Badoura."

"I beg you'll do no such thing. Remember
the misfortunes that ensued; and besides,
I can't spare Margaret."

"No; on second thoughts we'll have her
to nurse us ten years hence, when we shall
be two cross old invalids. Seriously, Hale!
I wish you 'd leave Milton; which is a most
unsuitable place for you, though it was my
recommendation in the first instance. If you
would, I'd swallow my shadows of doubts,
and take a college living; and you and
Margaret should come and live at the parsonage—
you to be a sort of lay curate, and take the
unwashed off my hands; and she to be our
housekeeper—the village Lady Bountiful—
by day; and read us to sleep in the evenings.
I could be very happy in such a life. What
do you think of it?"

"Never! " said Mr. Hale, decidedly. " My
one great change has been made and my
price of suffering paid. Here I stay out my
life; and here will I be buried, and lost in
the crowd."

"I don't give up my plan yet. Only I
won't bait you with it any more just now.
Where's the Pearl? Come, Margaret, give
me a farewell kiss; and remember, my dear,
where you may find a true friend, as far as
his capability goes. You are my child,
Margaret. Remember that, and God bless you!"

So they fell back into the monotony of the
quiet life they would henceforth lead. There
was no invalid to hope and fear about; even
the Higginses—so long a vivid interest—
seemed to have receded from any need of
immediate thought. The Boucher children,
left motherless orphans, claimed what of
Margaret's care she could bestow; and
she went pretty often to see Mary
Higgins, who had the charge of them. The
two families were living in one house:
the elder children were at humble schools,
the younger ones were tended, in Mary's
absence at her work, by the kind neighbour
whose good sense had struck Margaret at the
time of Boucher's death. Of course she was
paid for her trouble; and indeed, in all his
little plans and arrangements for these
orphan children, Nicholas showed a sober
judgment, and regulated method of thinking,
which were at variance with his former more
eccentric jerks of action. He was so steady
at his work, that Margaret did not often see
him during these winter months; but when
she did, she saw that he winced away from
any reference to the father of those children,
whom he had so fully and heartily taken
under his care. He did not speak easily of
Mr. Thornton.

"To tell the truth," said he, "he fairly
bamboozles me. He is two chaps. One chap
I knowed of old as were measter all o'er.
T' other chap hasn't an ounce of measter's
flesh about him. How them two chaps is
bound up in one body is a craddy for me to
find out. I'll not be beat by it, though.
Meanwhile he comes here pretty often; that's
how I know the chap that's a man, not a