paragon of beauty, wisdom and virtue.
Frederick's worldly position was raised by this
marriage on to as high a level as they could
desire. Barbour and Co. was one of the most
extensive Spanish houses, and into it he was
received as a junior partner. Margaret
smiled a little, and then sighed as she
remembered afresh her old tirades against
trade. Here was her preux chevalier of a
brother turned merchant, trader! But then
she rebelled against herself, and protested
silently against the confusion implied
between a Spanish merchant and a Milton mill-
owner. Well! trade or no trade, Frederick
was very, very happy. Dolores must be
charming, and the mantilla was exquisite!
And then she returned to the present life.

Her father had occasionally experienced a
difficulty in breathing this spring, which had
for the time distressed him exceedingly.
Margaret was less alarmed, as this difficulty
went off completely in the intervals; but
she still was so desirous of his shaking
off the liability altogether, as to make
her very urgent that he should accept
Mr. Bell's invitation to visit him at Oxford
this April. Mr. Bell's invitation included
Margaret. Nay more, he wrote a special
letter commanding her to come; but she felt
as if it would be a greater relief to her to
remain quietly at home, entirely free from
any responsibility whatever, and so to
rest her mind and heart in a manner which
she had not been able to do for more than two
years past.

When her father had driven off on his way
to the railroad, Margaret felt how great and
long had been the pressure on her time and
her spirits. It was astonishing, almost stunning,
to feel herself so much at liberty; no
one depending on her for cheering care, if
not for positive happiness; no invalid to plan
and think for; she might be idle, and silent,
and forgetful,—and what seemed worth more
than all the other privileges—she might be
unhappy if she liked. For months past, all
her own personal care and troubles had had
to be stuffed away into a dark cupboard; but
now she had leisure to take them out, and
mourn over them, and study their nature,
and seek the true method of subduing them
into the elements of peace. All these weeks
she had been conscious of their existence in
a dull kind of way, though they were hidden
out of sight. Now, once for all she would
consider them, and appoint to each of them
its right work in her life. So she sat almost
motionless for hours in the drawing-room,
going over the bitterness of every remembrance
with an unwincing resolution. Only once she
cried aloud, at the stinging thought of the
faithlessness that gave birth to that abasing
falsehood.

She would not now even acknowledge the
force of the temptation; her plans for Frederick
had all failed, and the temptation lay
there a dead mockery,—a mockery which had
never had life in it; the lie had been so
despicably foolish, seen by the light of the ensuing
events, and faith in the power of truth so
infinitely the greater wisdom!

In her nervous agitation, she unconsciously
opened a book of her father's that lay upon
the table,—the words that caught her eye in
it seemed almost made for her present state
of acute self-abasement:—

"Je ne voudrois pas reprendre mon cœur en ceste
sorte: meurs de honte, aveugle, impudent, traistre et
desloyal à ton Dieu, et sembables choses; mais je
voudrois le corriger par voye de compassion. Or sus,
mon pauvre cœur, nous voilà tombez dans la fosse,
laquelle nous avions tant resolu d' eschapper. Ah!
relevons-nous, et quittons-là pour jamais, reclamons la
misericorde de Dieu, et esperons en elle qu'elle nous
assistera pour desormais estre plus fermes; et remettons-
nous au chemin de I'humilitè. Courage, soyons
meshuy sur nos gardes, Dieu nous aydera."

"The way of humility. Ah," thought
Margaret, "that is what I have missed! But
courage, little heart. We will turn back,
and by God's help we may find the lost
path."

So she rose up, and determined at once to
set to on some work which should take her
out of herself. To begin with, she called
Martha, as she passed the drawing-room door
in going up-stairs, and tried to find out what
was below the grave, respectful, servant-like
manner, which crusted over her individual
character with an obedience that was almost
mechanical. She found it difficult to induce
Martha to speak of any of her personal
interests; but at last she touched the right chord
in naming Mrs. Thornton. Martha's whole
face brightened, and, on a little encouragement,
out came a long story, of how her father
had been in early life connected with Mrs.
Thornton's husband—nay, had even been in a
position to show him some kindness; what,
Martha hardly knew, for it had happened
when she was quite a little child; and
circumstances had intervened to separate the
two families until Martha was nearly grown
up when, her father having sunk lower and
lower from his original occupation as clerk
in a warehouse, and her mother being dead,
she and her sister, to use Martha's own
expression, would have been " lost " but for
Mrs. Thornton; who sought them out, and
thought for them, and cared for them.

"I had had the fever, and was but
delicate; and Mrs. Thornton, and Mr. Thornton
too, they never rested till they had nursed
me up in their own house, and sent me to the
sea and all. The doctors said the fever was
catching, but they cared none for that—only
Miss Fanny, and she went a-visiting these
folk that she is going to marry into. So,
though she was afraid at the time, it has all
ended well."

"Miss Fanny going to be married! "
exclaimed Margaret.

" Yes; and to a rich gentleman, too,
only he's a deal older than she is. His name