played with his little boy for another hour,
and lounged away the rest of his time at his
club, when he was not engaged out to dinner.
Just before Margaret had recovered
from her necessity for quiet and repose- before
she had begun to feel her life wanting
and dull- Edith came down-stairs and
resumed her usual part in the household:
and Margaret fell into the old habit of watching,
and admiring, and ministering to her
cousin. She gladly took all charge of the
semblances of duties off Edith's hands;
answered notes, reminded her of engagements,
tended her when no gaiety was in
prospect, and she was consequently rather inclined
to fancy herself ill. But all the rest of
the family were in the full business of the
London season, and Margaret was often left
alone. Then her thoughts went back to
Milton, with a strange sense of the contrast
between the life there, and here. She was
getting surfeited of the eventless ease in
which no struggle or endeavour was required.
She was afraid lest she should even become
sleepily deadened into forgetfulness of anything
beyond the life which was lapping her
round with luxury. There might be toilers
and moilers there in London, but she never
saw them; the very servants lived in an
underground world of their own, of which
she knew neither the hopes nor the fears;
they only seemed to start into existence
when some want or whim of their master
and mistress needed them. There was a
strange unsatisfied vacuum in Margaret's
heart and mode of life; and, once when she
had dimly hinted this to Edith, the latter,
wearied with dancing the night before,
languidly stroked Margaret's cheek as she
sat by her in the old attitude,- she on a
footstool by the sofa where Edith lay.

"Poor child!" said Edith. "It is a
little sad for you to be left, night after night,
just at this time when all the world is so gay!
But we shall be having our dinner-parties
soon as soon as Henry comes back from
circuit and then there will be a little pleasant
variety for you. No wonder it is moped,
poor darling!"

Margaret did not feel as if the dinner-parties
would be a panacea. She looked forward
with more interest to the homely object
of Dixon's return from Milton; where, until
now, the old servant had been busily engaged
in winding up all the affairs of the Hale
family, under Mr. Bell's direction. He had
been once up to London to see Margaret, and
consult her about several of the arrangements,
as well as on law business connected
with his administration of her father's effects.
It was at this particular time that Margaret
had been thrown with Mr. Henry Lennox,
enough to wear off, in a great measure, the
shyness on her side, and the symptoms
of mortified pride and vanity on his. They
could now meet, as Margaret believed, very
comfortably as friends; though they had
drifted strangely apart from their former
anchorage, side by side, in many of their
opinions, and all their tastes. One of the
great pleasures of Margaret's life, at this
time, was in Edith's boy. He was the pride
and plaything of both father and mother,
as long as he was good; but he had a strong
will of his own, and as soon as he burst out
into one of his stormy passions, Edith would
throw herself back in despair and fatigue,
and sigh out, "Oh dear! what shall I do
with him! Do, Margaret, please ring the
nursery bell for Hanley."

But Margaret almost liked him better in
these manifestations of character than in his
good, blue-sashed moods. She would carry
him off into a room, where they two alone
battled it out; she, with a firm power which
subdued him into peace, while every sudden
charm and wile she possessed was exerted on
the side of right, until he would rub his little
hot and tear-smeared face all over hers, kissing
and caressing, till he often fell asleep in
her arms, or on her shoulder. Those were
Margaret's sweetest moments. They gave
her a taste of the feeling that she believed
would be denied to her for ever.

At length Dixon came to assume her post
as Margaret's maid; and the dinner-parties
began. Both were pleasant events; but
neither of them sufficient to still Margaret's
craving for something different. Dixon
brought endless pieces of Milton gossip:
How Martha had gone to live with Miss
Thornton on the latter's marriage; with an
account of the bridesmaids, dresses, and
breakfast at that interesting ceremony;- how
people thought that Mr. Thornton had made
too grand a wedding of it, considering he
had lost a deal by the strike; and had had to
pay so much for the failure of his contracts;
- how little money articles of furniture, long
cherished by Dixon, fetched; which was a
shame, considering how rich folks were at
Milton:- how Mrs. Thornton had come, one
day, and got two or three good bargains, and
Mr. Thornton had come the next, and, in his
desire to obtain one or two things, had
bid against himself, much to the by-standers'
enjoyment; so that, as Dixon observed, made
things even; if Mrs.Thornton paid too little, Mr.
Thornton paid too much. Mr. Bell had been
for ever backwards and forwards about the
books; he had asked Dixon if she would go
with him and Miss Hale, when they went
to Spain in the autumn, to see Master
Frederick and his wife; and Dixon took
great credit to herself for the answer she had
made,- namely, that her soul was dearer to
her than even Master Frederick's own self;
and that she would never trust herself in a
Papish country. But she seemed a little to
regret this reply, which Mr. Bell had understood
so literally as never to renew his application
to her; and now Dixon asked Margaret
whether, if she took care never to see a
priest, or enter into one of their churches,