University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE BISHOP'S SON GETS MARGARET'S RING.

IT was not the touch of the moonlight that
started Margaret, and caused her to look up
with surprise and displeasure in her eyes.

“My poor child, I knew you must suffer, as we
all do, indeed; it has been a terrible shock that
we have undergone, but you, from your sensitive nature,
have felt it more, doubtless, than the rest of us, who are of
commoner clay; and yet, knowing all this, as I do, I come
to claim your sympathy and ask your help. It is audacious,
I know, but we men hold women so far above us that we
expect miracles of them; and therefore, being troubled
exceedingly, I fly to my angel.”

Of course it was Mr. Lightwait who said this, Margaret
had recognized him even before the shadow of his hand fell
upon her, and for a moment she almost hated him; and as
she sat up and turned her eyes full upon him, their cold
glance struck like a chill into his blood. His manner became
timid and hesitant, and his voice, always a power upon
her, fell to a tone of such suppliance and pleading, that her
heart, before he paused, was listening with something akin
to pity.

He was not come then with prying curiosity, — not to
insult her in her sorrow with cold advice or affected sympathy;
perhaps he did not know of her love for Samuel at all;
there was no reason to suppose he did, except that her own
heart felt as if all eyes saw it through and through. He
was himself suffering, and it somehow lightened her spirit
to know that she was not set apart, and single in affliction;
and more than this, he was come to her as an equal and a
friend — as to a dear friend. She was surprised out of her
anger, as well as out of her extreme wretchedness. There

was something to be said for another's comfort; something
to be done; a sacrifice to be made, perhaps, and woman
would not be woman if she were not brought to herself in
such circumstances.

If one had seen the glance with which she chilled him at
first, it would have been difficult to conceive that within a
short hour her hand would have been resting confidingly in
his; yet such was the case.

O woman, is thy name, then, frailty, after all!

Not so much so as it would appear, sometimes, perhaps;
she is so many-sided, so impressionable, that she seems one
thing at one moment, and another, at another; but let her
once have a sincere conviction, and she will, for the most
part, be pretty true to it; and what is more, she is dreadfully
true to her prejudices and her imaginations, insomuch that
they may be said to have with her all the force of facts.
But this, perhaps, is damaging the case by proving too much.
And even admitting that, a woman's heart may by possibility
be moved — why not? Get but a place to rest one's lever
and the world may be moved, they say.

The young clergyman found the all important rest in the
only tenable ground which by any possibility he could just
then have selected; he found it in the pity and sympathy
of the girl, and once having this vantage, he well understood
how to avail himself of it. He was weary, worn, sad, suffering,
bewildered, and altogether helpless and despondent;
nay, more, he was not quite clear as to uprightness of conduct,
though he was perfectly so as to uprightness of
purpose.

Would Margaret help his weakness with her strength?
illumine his darkness with her light?

Of course she was flattered now as well as interested, and
listened graciously, almost gratefully.

He began far away, and talked of the trials, troubles,
crosses and tribulations of life in general; of the weakness
and waywardness of men, with constant and regretful allusion
to his own weakness; and of the utter worthlessness
of life without the consolations of Christian faith and hope.

By and by he came round to his own more private and
personal afflictions; he was alone in the world; nobody had
ever cared for him, or understood him, since his dear sainted
mother left the world — not even his sister Kate, though she

was much better than he — she was self-sufficient, self-sustained;
her daily walk and conversation were Christian
models; but it must be admitted, after all, that she was rather
a devotee than a really devout person; he would not say
this to everybody; he would not say it to anybody, but his
own sweet little friend, whose heart was so pure and so
generous and so open.

“Kate is a little proud of me,” he said, “though Heaven
knows she has no reason to be so; but as for loving me —
loving me as I desire to be loved! O, Margaret!” And he
bowed his head on his hands, and was silent a good while.

“It was so dreadful,” he said, at length, “to have those
of one's household unsympathetic, to live in such nearness
of relation, and yet be so strange, — to be so untrue, and
obliged to be so, for he could speak plainly to his dear little
friend. And how could one be true when one's nature was
constantly cramped, hampered, thwarted or put to shame in
one way or another?”

If he had any sorrow, but more especially any secret of a
tender sort, why he would never dare go to Kate with it!
He would conceal it, of necessity, and perhaps assume a
feeling the directly opposite of the true one, and thus to
make the heart's treasure a burden to the heart, was an unnatural
condition of suffering against which all that was
best in us rebelled, and of right, ought to rebel. Margaret
sighed; he had, as he very well understood, described her
own situation, and thus brought her sympathy to the dangerous
edge of pity, a pity that was very tender, to say the
least.

“Oh! my child, I am making you sad,” he said, responsive
to the sigh, at the same time taking her hand and folding it
between his palms. And then he said he had no right to
trouble her with such melancholy recitals, for she, of course,
in her own experience, could know nothing of such. They
seemed trifles to be sure, but it was, after all, trifles like these
that made all the difference in life; that made one man's
house a heaven, and another's a hell. He could not feel that
he was all destitute of manhood; he thought there was
yet something in him that would rise up to meet a great
trial or an honest opposition, but the tease and worry incident
to unsympathetic relations he knew not how to parry
or overcome.

And having thus brought himself into oneness of feeling
with Margaret, he said, pressing the hand he still held,
“Forgive me, but my heart has been deeply stirred to-day,
and I am in the humor of pouring it all out.”

He spoke of Samuel Dale, and of the hardness that was
generally expressed towards him, and he gave Margaret to
understand that that was what had so sorely touched his
heart.

“I have felt so kindly toward the young man,” he said,
“nay, kindness would not express the warmth of my regard,
that I was pained inexpressibly to hear bitter words spoken
of him, and to see him subjected to harsh and what seemed
cruel treatment.”

“And yet it appeared utterly useless,” he went on to say,
“for him to stand out alone against the popular sentiment,
just then.” When a few days had gone by, and the unreasonable
wrath and indignation had subsided a little, he proposed
to call a church meeting, and suggest and lead in
certain movements in behalf of their poor friend. It had
seemed to him, all things considered, wisest and best that
the tide should take its natural flow, for the present, for that
it must inevitably ebb in a short time, and perhaps take a
favorable turn; at the worst Samuel would suffer nothing
except it were some trifling restraint of person, and perhaps
a little mental disquietude.

But, after all, he was not quite satisfied, not perfectly
assured but that it was his duty to go himself, with the party
who had him in charge, to see and know that his instructions
were carried out to the letter, and that nothing, either
by word or act, was done that could aggravate his unfortunate
malady. He trusted and believed that nothing of this
nature would be done; certainly not, if he could suppose
himself possessed of any influence, as he had not failed to
exert his poor eloquence to its very utmost, in his favor.

Yet, somehow, his conscience was not quite easy, — he
might possibly have done or said something further, though
he did not clearly see how; there was so little of humanitary
sentiment in the mob. Margaret could have no idea.
Here he related his experience of the morning pretty nearly
as it occurred, but how different a coloring he gave the facts!
so different that he appeared in the representation as the
sweetest and most anxious of peacemakers. His visit to

the butcher's loft he recapitulated, and repeated his conversation
with Samuel almost word for word; he was insane
past all doubt, poor fellow—“for instance,” said he, “though
he seemed to recognize me, he at the same time called me
Bishop John — a name that nobody ever heard of — very
remarkable, wasn't it?” He had forgotten that he had told
Margaret about the “communication” purporting to be from
his mother's spirit, in which he was addressed by the same
name, but Margaret had not forgotten it, and the coincidence
struck her as very remarkable indeed. She said nothing,
however, and he went on. “He also said that he knew my
mother before me, my mother who has been dead these
twenty years, heaven rest her soul, and he insisted upon
giving her some strange name, too, let me see, well, no matter,
it has slipped my memory, but it was fantastic enough.”

Then he asked Margaret if she could see wherein he had
failed of his duty, and begged her, if she were not satisfied
with his conduct in the matter, to say so plainly, that he
might make what amends it was yet possible to make.

And somehow, in all this, he bolstered himself up, and
took a sort of comfort, as though he had really spoken the
honest truth and asked honestly for advice. He so made
the truth he had mingled in cover all the evasions, sanctify
all the — shall we say falsehoods? He would not, it is to
be presumed.

So there he sat, looking so meek, so patient under suffering,
under wrong, almost, Margaret could not have the heart
to find fault with him. She only hung her head aside and
sighed, “Poor Samuel, poor, poor Samuel.”

He seemed to enter at once into her feeling, and talked
of Samuel apparently without the least reserve, and what he
said appeared the more frank that it was not all in his justification,
for as Margaret was forced to admit to herself, it
was all just. He spoke for the most part in praise, and
where he was forced to blame, with great tenderness. He
would get the better, under skilful treatment, of this possession,
and be with them again in a few days, he hoped, in his
right mind. “And then we shall all be so happy again,
shan't we?”

“And do you really believe he will be with us again so
soon?” and Margaret looked up hopefully in his face.

“I trust so, darling.”

She drew herself away — her brow clouding. “Ay, I
trust so, my darling child,” he repeated, and took her again
quite in his arms. Then he said, “But for such freaks of
fancy as I have told you of, he seemed lucid and behaved
for the most part well enough; the doctor is very encouraging,
and we have all good reason to hope.”

She nestled to his side and began to prattle almost gayly
of this and that, and to laugh as a child, at anything and
nothing.

Then quickly, and as if he were not quite pleased with
her pleasure, he said there were, however, it must be owned,
symptoms that justified the worst apprehensions; his eyes
had now a wild, wandering look, and now a glassy stare.
“And, would you believe it, at one time he even threatened
my life!”

“Is it possible?” very coldly.

“Ay, and moreover, he told the crowd I had stolen his
money, or something to that effect; they all heard it, and
their evidence will corroborate mine.”

Then Margaret asked him, dryly, if anybody doubted what
he said, that he had need to bring other witnesses?

He looked upon her with gentle, sorrowful reproach.

“My own heart doubts and questions me, not yours, my
child, I know. Now that the terrible scene is over, and as
I sit here in the rapt serenity of your presence, it all seems
like some dark deception, or dreadful dream; to think that
Samuel, our good, loving, great-hearted Samuel, should have
accused me of theft, and have lifted a murderous hand
against me! Really, it is not a thing to be received without
concurrent testimony. Ah, you do not and cannot understand
how I have suffered about this matter, first and last.”

This was the truth, and his pathetic utterance of it so
affected him that the tears came to his eyes.

Margaret was all trust and tenderness again, and hid her
eyes in the arm that embraced her. With every kind word
he spoke of Samuel he grappled her to him with hooks
of steel. Was this, then, his object? The reader knows as
much as Margaret knew at the time, but it may be said, that
if such had been his sole object, he could not have played
his cards more adroitly.

She lifted her face at last with such beseeching — “You
said just now his symptoms justified the worst apprehensions
— do you, then, think his life in danger?”

“Is it so much to you, my darling? so very much?” And
the drooping cheek of the pastor touched the bright head
of the young girl.

“I thought it was much to us all,” Margaret said, with
that evasion so characteristic of the sex. And then she
said: “I am not sure that I have quite understood you.
You say he is insane, past doubt, and yet you say the people
are all indignant toward him. Now it seems to me if he is
crazy they ought to pity him; you say, too, that he is
possessed, whatever that means, and that you think he will be
well again in a few days, and back here amongst us, and
then you intimate that his life is in danger! I suppose I am
very dull, but I don't know what to think.” And then she
fell to sobbing and cried, “O, what if he was to die!”

He did not answer at first, but petted and soothed her
much as a gentle mother might pet and soothe her sick and
wayward baby; at last he said, speaking with infinite tenderness,
that madness had many phases, so many that it was
difficult for the wisest to pronounce what was sanity and
what was insanity; “but this of our poor friend” — he patted
Margaret's cheek as he spoke — “seems to me especially
complicated and puzzling.” He had never seen, nor heard
of anything precisely answering to it, of a surety not in
modern times — “but we read of possessions not unlike it,”
he said; and then he made melancholy allusion to the demon
agony of Saul, through which the harp of David melted so
happily at last. And then, giving his voice a softer modulation,
he said he knew a voice as marvelously sweet as that
harp could have been, and that he was not without hope
that it might yet melt through and melt away this latter
possession, whether demoniac or insane.

Margaret was not much wiser than before, and not a bit
less wretched and hopeless. The anger that had at first
worked like madness in her brain, against Samuel, had
burned itself down now and lay smouldering in black and
bitter discontent, with herself, with everybody.

She saw the clouds going across the faces of the stars,
and it seemed to her as if there were mists creeping over
the clear lights of her judgment in the same way, and yet
she felt utterly powerless to free herself from the obscuration;
felt, in fact, no inclination to free herself, getting somehow a
sort of comfort out of the thing that she suspected to be

false — such strange absurdities are there in the human
heart, especially in the heart of woman.

“And so you think me muddled or inconsistent or both?”
Mr. Lightwait said, breaking a somewhat embarrassing
silence.

“No, sir. I only said I didn't quite understand you.”

“Very well; it is all one, and I love you all the better for
coming so near to me — do you know I don't like to have
the width of the world between us,” and he drew her very
close to him as he spoke.

Margaret tapped the ground silently with her foot, but
made no other reply, and he went on, “Yes, I love you all
the better; this plain speaking quite charms me; there is so
little downright honesty in the world; besides, it is just
what I need. We preachers are apt to become arrogant,
and require a little preaching to now and then. I see myself
constantly running into modes of thought and habits of
behavior that are almost disgusting to me when I get outside
my accustomed trammels and look squarely at myself.
You are the friend I need, just the friend I need, my dear.”

“You are very good to say so,” Margaret answered, “but
it is not possible that I should be the least serviceable to
you.”

“As a man thinketh, pretty one; but allow me to be the
best judge; in your modesty you do not truly estimate yourself.”

Margaret did not know how to reply to such talk as this,
and said simply that she had always been taught by her
mother that she thought too much of herself.

“Never do you believe that!” he answered, “Mothers
are of all persons the least able to form correct judgments
of their children, more especially of their daughters. Trust
me, you are in no danger of thinking too much of yourself,
but, on the contrary, you are in great danger of underrating
yourself — of marrying beneath you, for instance.”

“I am in no danger of marrying at all,” Margaret
answered coldly.

“Pardon me, but I say you are, all the same, and of marrying
beneath yourself, too.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Well, for one thing, the best and loveliest women always
do, and then, perhaps, there is another reason why I think
so.”

“What is that, sir?” and Margaret spoke freezingly this
time.

He answered gayly, “Who can view the ripened rose, nor
seek to wear it.” And then more seriously, “Good women
are so unconscious, and withal, have so much need of being
loved, that they are likely to be won by whoever comes to
woo, and the rudest hand will always single out the brightest
flower.” And then he said, “Shakespeare understood women,
as instance his marrying Desdemona to the Moor.”

He might as well have spoken Greek as for all Margaret
received of his meaning, but she had that great wisdom that
knows enough not to talk of what it knows nothing, and she
therefore remained silent.

Directly he broke out with:—

“`Scene first. — Venice; a street. Enter Roderigo and
Iago.

He paused after this flourish, and then, without gesture
and as if speaking to himself, he began anew:—

Then he sighed, and then he said, “I would like to read
you that whole play sometime, my little Desdemona — I
read Shaespeare beautifully! I ought to have been an actor
by rights.”

“O, Mr. Lightwait, not a playactor?”

“And why not, my innocence? all men are actors, more
or less, especially all men who speak in public; 'tis their
vocation, and what difference whether the wood they stand
on be called platform, pulpit, or boards — the acting is all
one — but I shock you, I see. Well, let's be serious, and
call executors and make our wills; for heaven's sake let's sit
upon the ground, for I perceive you think a preacher ought
not to be a man, whereas, as I conceive, only a man should
be a preacher. I am obliged to yield to the popular prejudice
and keep straightlaced, and appear sanctimonious nine

hours out of ten; pray be lenient and suffer me to be myself
for that tenth hour; I shall be all the better for it.”

“Of course; so far as I am concerned you may be what
you like.”

“That is granting too much, for though I want to be myself,
I don't want you to be indifferent about it; I should
distrust my own judgment as against yours, most assuredly.”

Then Margaret said Father Goodman was a man, and a
preacher too, and that for her part she didn't believe he ever
in his life regretted that he had not been a playactor!

“And so you think you have made a bad exchange?
Well, I dare say you have — nay, more, I know you have;
I am in no way so worthy as he; dear, pure, single-hearted,
devout old man.”

Then Margaret's conscience smote her, and she replied,
“I didn't say we had made a bad exchange.”

“No, you didn't say so, dear, but if you had I should have
quite agreed with you. I wish I could be apprenticed to
Father Goodman for a year or two, and see if I would not
come out a better workman.”

He spoke with such sincerity, and seemed so contrite and
smitten that Margaret's sympathies were all enlisted again.

He changed his tone suddenly, “I see you are growing
tired, perhaps it is late. I never know the hour, not when I
enjoy it. Can you see the time, my dear?” and pulling out
his watch, he held it before Margaret's face, passing his arm
around her neck as he did so. She announced the time,
which was not late to be sure, and said very emphatically
that she was by no means tired; the truth was, she wished
and hoped to hear something further about Samuel. “And
you can see the time plainly by this light. Can you tell it
at this distance? and at this?” And still he kept his arm
about her neck as he raised the position of the watch, then
he praised her eyes — he had never seen such light in human
orbs — why it reached quite across the church and struck
him like an arrow every time he preached.

“O, if my eyes are so terrible, I must look another way,
that is all.”

“Not for the world!” And he drew the arm so tight
that it brought her head quite against his bosom.

She was frightened, and fluttered out of his arm so
hurriedly as to alarm him in turn; he well knew how to

change the ruffled mood, however: “By the way, Margaret,”
he said, “we have strayed, somehow, far away from the
central subject of our talk; let us get back, if we can
manage to tell where we were. Oh, I know now, you were
accusing me of inconsistency, and perhaps to get away from
the point of your shaft, I ran into all sorts of vagaries.

“You were remarking that the mob was unjust in being
so incensed against Samuel if he were really insane, and you
were right, but you know there is never any justice nor
sense in a mob; and do you know, I believe they were
dreadfully disappointed and vexed to find that he was not
really a murderer, and that there would be no execution,
after all. Not very flattering to me, is it? this view, for
they certainly left me quite out of the question. Poor
Samuel! I wonder if he had any secret grudge in his heart
against me before the insanity came on? But it is not
possible he could have had. Did you ever hear him speak
of me, darling?”

“Not that I know of,” Margaret answered promptly, but
what she had said was not true and she could not stick to it,
and added directly, “O, yes, I remember now, I have heard
him speak of you.”

“And what said he?”

“Well, I hardly know, nothing that I can repeat.” And
in this way she quieted her conscience, though she had made
her first lie not a whit the less.

I am sorry to have to record this of Margaret, but I see
no other way, if I truly represent her, as I certainly wish to
do.

“You don't remember what he said of me! Pardon me,
my dear, but, somehow, I half think you do.”

He spoke playfully, so that Margaret could not feel a right
to be offended — for which she was sorry; so she answered,
without apparent hesitation: “What makes you think so?”

“O, I don't know. If you will allow me to come upon
your ground.”

“But I will not.”

“That is like the sex, always arrogating special privileges.”

“And if they do,” said Margaret, “they have cause; so
much they ought to have is denied them that they take what
they can get, and I am sure you men have no right to complain.”

“Whew! Why, what a little reprobate you are! Woman's
rights, to be sure.”

“I don't know anything about woman's rights, but I do
know that women can't do a good many things that men
can do, things there would be no harm in doing, too.”

“For instance?”

“Well, then, for instance, I suppose I couldn't go to see
Samuel if I should want to ever so bad!”

“Certainly; why not? I will take you myself; I propose
to visit him in a day or two, at any rate.”

“And will you really take me?” And Margaret looked
up in his face with such joy.

“Take, O take those eyes away,” he cried, turning his
face from her as if he were dazzled.

“To be sure, I will take you; it will be a great delight to
me, but if it cost me some sacrifice I would do it all the
same, if it gave you pleasure. I am not so utterly frivolous,
nor so entirely destitute of Christian grace, I hope, as you
thought me just now.”

“I didn't think you so.”

“Ah, but you did! and thought worse than that, I am
afraid.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Well, I can't explain; for one of your woman's reasons,
maybe — just because.”

“But that will not do; if you accuse me of such thoughts,
you must explain.”

“Well, then, I don't know why I said so. Will that do?'

“No; that will not do.”

“Will this, then?” His lips touched her forehead so
lightly that it could hardly be called a kiss, and yet it
admitted of no other intepretation. Margaret withdrew
herself to the other end of the doorstone, and pulled the
long grass at her feet. Then the young man said he was
the most unfortunate and ill-starred of men — that he could
not even touch the least lamb of his flock without alarming
or wounding it; adding, “But when shall we go to visit
your friend, — to-morrow?”

Margaret had not hoped that it would be so soon, and she
smiled brightly again, and left off pulling the grasses. “Yes,
to-morrow; and should it not be in the morning? and how
early? Mother will let us have the little market wagon.”

Then she hung her head abashed. “Maybe he wouldn't
like to ride in anything so common,” she said.

“Ah, my child, I do not so forget the meekness of my
Master! I know I follow him very,very far away, but I try
with all my might.” Then he said his name should have
been Peter, and not John.

Margaret stood up, all on tiptoe, and said she would go
and ask mother about the cart. He drew her to his side
again; “No darling,” he said, “pray don't ask such a favor
of your mother, not on Samuel's account.”

Margaret's cheek burned like fire, if he knew her mother's
dislike of Samuel, he knew her liking too! So one way or
another he contrived to keep her uneasy, or irritated, or
both, all the while. She felt, however, in this instance, that
her plan would not be feasible, and remained silent.

“No, don't trouble Mrs. Fairfax,” he went on — “I'll
borrow Mr. Timpson's new dearbin, as he calls it, and that
will answer nicely — let me see, is it too late to call at his
house on my way home?”

He referred to his watch again and concluded that it
would be too late — “but I will make it a point to see him
the first thing in the morning,” he concluded.

“Now don't forget it,” pleaded Margaret in her childish
anxiety.

“You may tie a string round my finger!” and laughing,
he held up his hand.

She shook her head — “but you won't forget.”

“I fear I shall, without some reminder, but this will do!”

And before she could prevent it, he had stript Samuel's
ring from her finger.

“O, not that!” she cried reaching eagerly to recover it.

“And why, my pet? is it so specially sacred?” And he
examined the ring curiously, and then he put it on his own
finger, saying it was of trifling worth in itself, and he could
easily replace it if that were all.

What could Margaret do? She could not for her life say
lightly, nor otherwise, that it was of value to her and that
nothing could replace it, and that she would prefer to have
it back.

“The gift of some school-girl, I suspect,” he continued,
still eyeing it.

Margaret felt that Samuel's precious gift was disparaged,
and could have cried.

He saw the uneasiness she could not conceal, and went
on, “if it is really the gift of a sweetheart — a betrothal
pledge, or anything of that sort, you may have it back; I
did not dream it was of so much importance.” And he
made as if he would return it, but did not do so, nevertheless.

“So you give it back to-morrow, it is of no consequence
that you keep it to-night,” Margaret said, with a great effort
to appear indifferent, and covering the finger from which it
had been taken from her own sight as though she feared that
Samuel too might see from far away that it was gone.

“O, thank you! How good you are too trust me with
anything so dear to you; I would not lose it for all the
world; but see how tight it fits; I could not, if I would,
lose it off.” And he put his hand in hers, that she might
satisfy herself of its safety.

Then Margaret said it was not so very dear, but it was all
the ring she had, and for that reason she wanted it back.

O, Samuel, it was well for you that as you tossed on your
narrow lunatic bed that night, divided by your iron door
from the sweet moonlight in which Margaret sat, that you
could not hear her words — that you could not see upon
whose finger the ring shone. Of all things, he would have
desired to look upon his little sweetheart, but in denial his
prayer was answered in God's own best way.

And doubtless it is thus with us all, oftener than we
imagine.

“Yes, I am glad you will trust me so far,” the pastor
renewed, directly, “for now that I come to think of it I
shall certainly need a reminder, for I can't see Brother
Timpson in the morning; I am so sorry, for you are so impatient,
ain't you, my dear?”

“I am disappointed; but why can't you see him?”

“Well, you see I have to write my sermon to-morrow; I
always put it off to the last minute, and I can't possibly delay
it any longer; but if I get on well, I will see him in the
afternoon.”

“Surely you can do so in the evening, at any rate,”
pleaded Margaret.

“No, darling; that is our Bible class, you know, and you

will not fail to be there; perhaps I shall then have matters
arranged.”

“O, I hope so!” And then Margaret said if it were
doubtful about his not having time to spare, she would not
mind to go herself and see Brother Timpson.

“Ah, that would never do, my dear; it might betray too
much. At any rate, it would occasion remark, and you
know you were saying yourself, a little while ago, that there
were some things, harmless in themselves, that a woman
must not do; more's the pity, but so it is.” And then he
said he would himself guard and shield her from all remark,
as far as possible.

Margaret could not have been more thoroughly uncomfortable
than this dubious sort of kindness made her, and
yet she could not quite explain to herself why she was so
uneasy. It was very good of her pastor, to be sure, to come
and see her, and to offer to do so much for her. She ought
to be ashamed of her distrust; nay, more, she ought to be
satisfied, and gratefully content; but, say this as she would,
it did not make her so.

He stood up before her all at once, and began to declaim
again:—

Then, in a lighter tone:—

He stooped, kissed her forehead and was gone.

“What has the bishop's son been saying to you, my dear?”
inquired Mrs. Fairfax, who had been ostensibly busy at her
embroidery all the evening, at that happy distance which
wise mothers know so well how to estimate at a single glance.

“O, about the Bible class, and one thing and another,”
answered Margaret, pretending to yawn, and lighting her
candle, she went to bed.

“By the by, mother,” she said next morning at breakfast,
“Mr. Lightwait asked me, last night, to ride to town with
him sometime within a day or two — may I go?”

“Mr. Lightwait asked you to ride to town with him, and
you not tell of it till now! Why, you are crazy, child, else
you have been dreaming!”

“No, I am neither; he surely asked me to go with him,
and he said he would borrow brother Timpson's Dearbin
for the occasion.”

“Well, of all things! I guess he talked of something,
then, last night, besides the Bible class! And what a sweet,
lovely, handsome man he is. And his coat fits him as if it
was made on him, and the way his name is embroidered in
his handkerchief is exquisite! I wonder if his sister Katherine
does it? I wish I could learn the stitch. His handkerchief,
though, ain't a bit finer than Dr. Allprice's, not one
bit.” Then she said she wondered if the doctor would be
at the class that night, and then she said she didn't know
what made her think of that, she was sure she didn't care
anything about it; and after a little silence she remarked
that Sam Dale, for one, wouldn't be there, anyhow, a-taking
all the room! And this was the first time she had mentioned
his name since that he was carried away.