Edith, triumphantly. "I knew it would suit
her the moment I saw it."

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Lennox, in
the half-contemptuous, half-indulgent tone he
generally used to Edith. "But I believe I
know the difference between the charms of a
dress and the charms of a woman. No mere
bonnet would have made Miss Hale's eyes so
lustrous and yet so soft, or her lips so ripe
and red—and her face altogether so full of
peace and light.—She is like, and yet more,"
—he dropped his voice,—"like the Margaret
Hale of Helstone."

From this time the clever and ambitious
man bent all his powers to gaining Margaret.
He loved her sweet beauty. He saw the
latent sweep of her mind, which could easily
(he thought) be led to embrace all the objects
on which he had set his heart. He looked
upon her fortune only as a part of the
complete and superb character of herself and her
position: yet he was fully aware of the rise
which it would immediately enable him, the
poor barrister, to take. Eventually he would
earn such success, and such honours, as
would enable him to pay her back, with
interest, that first advance in wealth which
he should owe to her. He had been to
Milton on business connected with her
property, on his return from Scotland; and with
the quick eye of a skilled lawyer, ready ever
to take in and weigh contingencies, he had
seen that much additional value was yearly
accruing to the lands and tenements which
she owned in that prosperous and increasing
town. He was glad to find that the present
relationship between Margaret and himself,
of client and legal adviser, was gradually
superseding the recollection of that unlucky,
mismanaged day at Helstone. He had thus
unusual opportunities of intimate intercourse
with her, besides those that arose from the
connection between the families.

Margaret was only too willing to listen
as long as he talked of Milton, though he had
seen none of the people whom she more
especially knew. It had been the tone with her
aunt and cousin to speak of Milton with
dislike and contempt; just such feelings as
Margaret was ashamed to remember she had
expressed and felt on first going to live there.
But Mr. Lennox almost exceeded Margaret
in his appreciation of the character of Milton
and its inhabitants. Their energy, their
power, their indomitable courage in struggling
and fighting; their lurid vividness of existence,
captivated and arrested his attention.
He was never tired of talking about them;
and had never perceived how selfish and
material were too many of the ends they
proposed to themselves as the result of all their
mighty, untiring endeavour, till Margaret,
even in the midst of her gratification, had the
candour to point this out, as the tainting sin
in so much that was noble, and to be
admired. Still, when other subjects palled
upon her, and she gave but short answers to
many questions, Henry Lennox found out
that an enquiry as to some Darkshire
peculiarity of character, called back the light into
her eye, the glow into her cheek.

When they returned to town, Margaret
fulfilled one of her sea-side resolves, and took
her life into her own hands. Before they
went to Cromer, she had been as docile to
her aunt's laws as if she were still the scared
little stranger who cried herself to sleep that
first night in the Harley Street nursery. But
she had learnt, in those solemn hours of
thought that she herself must one day answer
for her own life, and what she had done with
it; and she tried to settle that most difficult
problem for women, how much was to be
utterly merged in obedience to authority,
and how much might be set apart for freedom
in working, Mrs. Shaw was as good-tempered
as could be; and Edith had inherited
this charming domestic quality; Margaret
herself had probably the worst temper of the
three, for her quick perceptions, and over-
lively imagination made her hasty, and her
early isolation from sympathy had made her
proud; but she had an indescribable childlike
sweetness of heart, which made her
manners, even in her rarely wilful moods,
irresistible of old; and now, chastened even
by what the world called her good fortune,
she charmed her reluctant aunt into
acquiescence with her will. So Margaret gained
the acknowledgment of her right to follow
her own ideas of duty.

"Only don't be strong-minded," pleaded
Edith. "Mamma wants you to have a footman
of your own; and I'm sure you're very
welcome, for they're great plagues. Only to
please me, darling, don't go and have a strong
mind; it's the only thing I ask. Footman or
no footman, don't be strong-minded."

"Don't be afraid, Edith. I'll faint on your
hands at the servant's dinner-time, the very
first opportunity; and then, what with Sholto
playing with the fire, and the baby crying,
you'll begin to wish for a strong-minded
woman, equal to any emergency."

"And you'll not grow too good to joke and
be merry?"

"Not I. I shall be merrier than I have
ever been, now I have got my own way"

"And you'll not go a figure, but let me buy
your dresses for you?"

"Indeed I mean to buy them for myself.
You shall come with me if you like; but no
one can please me but myself."

"Oh! I was afraid you'd dress in brown
and dust-coloured, not to show the dirt you'll
pick up in all those places. I'm glad you're
going to keep one or two vanities, just by
way of specimens of the old Adam."

"I'm going to be just the same, Edith, if
you and my aunt could but fancy so. Only
as I have neither husband nor child to give
me natural duties, I must make myself some,
in addition to ordering my gowns."

In the family conclave, which was made up