"Dearest mother!" (Still love is selfish,
and in an instant he reverted to his own
hopes and fears in a way that drew the cold
creeping shadow over Mrs. Thornton's heart.)
"But I know she does not care for me. I
shall put myself at her feet—I must; if it
were but one chance in a thousand—or a
million—I should do it."

"Don't fear!" said his mother, crushing
down her own personal mortification at the
little notice he had taken of the rare ebullition
of her maternal feelings—of the pang of
jealousy that betrayed the intensity of her
disregarded love. "Don't be afraid," she
.said, coldly. "As far as love may go she may
be worthy of you. It must have taken a good
deal to overcome her pride. Don't be afraid,
John," said she, kissing him, as she wished
him good night. And she went slowly and
majestically out of the room. But when she
got into her own, she locked the door, and
sate down to cry unwonted tears.

Margaret entered the room (where her
father and mother still sat, holding low
conversation together), looking very pale and
white. She came close up to them before she
could trust herself to speak.

"Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed,
mamma."

"Dear, how tired you look! Is it very hot,
Margaret?"

"Very hot, and the streets are rather
rough with the strike."

Margaret's colour came back vivid and
bright as ever; but it faded away instantly.

"Here has been a message from Bessy
Higgins, asking you to go to her," said Mrs.
Hale. "But I'm sure you look too tired."

"Yes!" said Margaret."I am tired. I
cannot go."

She was very silent and trembling while
she made tea. She was thankful to see her
father so much occupied with her mother
as not to notice her looks. Even after her
mother went to bed, he was not content to be
absent from her, but undertook to read her
to sleep. Margaret was alone.

"Now I will think of it—now I will
remember it all. I could not before—I dared
not." She sat still in her chair, her hands
clasped on her knees, her lips compressed, her
eyes fixed as one who sees a vision. She
drew a deep breath.

"I, who hate scenes—I, who have despised
people for showing emotion who have
thought them wanting in self-control—I went
down, and must needs throw myself into the
mélée, like a romantic fool! Did I do any
good? They would have gone away without
me, I dare say." But this was over-leaping
the rational conclusion, as in an instant her
well-poised judgment felt. "No, perhaps
they would not. I did some good. But
what possessed me to defend that man as if
he were a helpless child! Ah!" said she,
clenching her hands together, "it is no
wonder those people thought I was in love
with him, after disgracing myself in that
way. I in love—and with him too!" Her
pale cheeks suddenly became one flame of
fire; and she covered her face with her
hands. When she took them away her
palms were wet with scalding tears.

"Oh how low I am fallen that they should
say that of me! I could not have been so
brave for any one else, just because he was
so utterly indifferent to me—if, indeed, I do
not positively dislike him. It made me the
more anxious that there should be fair play
on each side; and I could see what fair play
was. It was not fair," said she vehemently,
"that he should stand there sheltered, awaiting
the soldiers, who might catch those poor
maddened creatures as in a trap—without an
effort on his part, to bring them to reason.
And it was worse than unfair for them to set
on him as they threatened. I would do it
again, let who will say what they like of me.
If I saved one blow, one cruel, angry action,
that might otherwise have been committed,
I did a woman's work. Let them insult my
maiden pride as they will—I walk pure
before God!"

She looked up, and a noble peace seemed
to descend and calm her face, till it was
"stiller than chiselled marble."

Dixon came in:

"If you please, Miss Margaret, here's the
water-bed from Mrs. Thornton's. It's too
late for to-night, I'm afraid, for missus is
nearly asleep: but it will do nicely for
to-morrow."

"Very," said Margaret. "You must send
our best thanks."

Dixon left the room for a moment.

"If you please, Miss Margaret, he says
he's to ask particular how you are. I think
he must mean missus; but he says his last
words were to ask how Miss Hale was."

"Me!" said Margaret, drawing herself
up. "I am quite well. Tell him I am
perfectly well." But her complexion was as
deadly white as her handkerchief; and her
head ached intensely.

Mr. Hale now came in. He had left his
sleeping wife; and wanted, as Margaret saw,
to be amused and interested by something
that she was to tell him. With sweet
patience did she bear her pain, without a
word of complaint; and rummaged up
numberless small subjects for conversation—all
except the riot, and that she never named
once. It turned her sick to think of it.

"Good night, Margaret. I have every
chance of a good night myself, and you are
looking very pale with your watching. I
shall call Dixon if your mother needs
anything. Do you go to bed, and sleep like a
top; for I'm sure you need it, poor child!"

"Good night, papa."

She let her colour go—the forced smile
fade away—the eyes grow dull with heavy
pain. She released her strong will from its