‘On earth is known to none

The smile that is not sister to a tear.’

ELLIOTT.

Margaret and her father walked home. The night was fine, the streets clean, and with her pretty white silk, like Leezie Lindsay’s gown o’ green satin, in the ballad, ‘kilted up to her knee,’ she was off with her father — ready to dance along with the excitement of the cool, fresh night air.

‘I rather think Thornton is not quite easy in his mind about this strike. He seemed very anxious to-night.’

‘I should wonder if he were not. But he spoke with his usual coolness to the others, when they suggested different things, just before we came away.’

‘So he did after dinner as well. It would take a good deal to stir him from his cool manner of speaking; but his face strikes me as anxious.’

‘I should be, if I were he. He must know of the growing anger and hardly smothered hatred of his workpeople, who all look upon him as what the Bible calls a “hard man,”— not so much unjust as unfeeling; clear in judgment, standing upon his “rights” as no human being ought to stand, considering what we and all our petty rights are in the sight of the Almighty. I am glad you think he looks anxious. When I remember Boucher’s half mad words and ways, I cannot bear to think how coolly Mr. Thornton spoke.’

‘In the first place, I am not so convinced as you are about that man Boucher’s utter distress; for the moment, he was badly off, I don’t doubt. But there is always a mysterious supply of money from these unions; and, from what you said, it was evident the man was of a passionate, demonstrative nature, and gave strong expression to all he felt.’

‘Oh, papa!’

‘Well! I only want you to do justice to Mr. Thornton, who is, I suspect, of an exactly opposite nature — a man who is far too proud to show his feelings. Just the character I should have thought beforehand, you would have admired, Margaret.’

‘So I do — so I should; but I don’t feel quite so sure as you do of the existence of those feelings. He is a man of great strength of character — of unusual intellect, considering the few advantages he has had.’

‘Not so few. He has led a practical life from a very early age; has been called upon to exercise judgment and self-control. All that developes one part of the intellect. To be sure, he needs some of the knowledge of the past, which gives the truest basis for conjecture as to the future; but he knows this need — he perceives it, and that is something. You are quite prejudiced against Mr. Thornton, Margaret.’

‘He is the first specimen of a manufacturer — of a person engaged in trade — that I had ever the opportunity of studying, papa. He is my first olive: let me make a face while I swallow it. I know he is good of his kind, and by and by I shall like the kind. I rather think I am already beginning to do so. I was very much interested by what the gentlemen were talking about, although I did not understand half of it. I was quite sorry when Miss Thornton came to take me to the other end of the room, saying she was sure I should be uncomfortable at being the only lady among so many gentlemen. I had never thought about it, I was so busy listening; and the ladies were so dull, papa — oh, so dull! Yet I think it was clever too. It reminded me of our old game of having each so many nouns to introduce into a sentence.’

‘What do you mean, child?’ asked Mr. Hale.

‘Why, they took nouns that were signs of things which gave evidence of wealth — housekeepers, under-gardeners, extent of glass, valuable lace, diamonds, and all such things; and each one formed her speech so as to bring them all in, in the prettiest accidental manner possible.’

‘You will be as proud of your one servant when you get her, if all is true about her that Mrs. Thornton says.’

‘To be sure, I shall. I felt like a great hypocrite to-night, sitting there in my white silk gown, with my idle hands before me, when I remembered all the good, thorough, house-work they had done today. They took me for a fine lady, I’m sure.’

‘Even I was mistaken enough to think you looked like a lady my dear,’ said Mr. Hale, quietly smiling.

But smiles were changed to white and trembling looks, when they saw Dixon’s face, as she opened the door.

‘Oh, master! — Oh, Miss Margaret! Thank God you are come! Dr. Donaldson is here. The servant next door went for him, for the charwoman is gone home. She’s better now; but, oh, sir! I thought she’d have died an hour ago.’

Mr. Hale caught Margaret’s arm to steady himself from falling. He looked at her face, and saw an expression upon it of surprise and extremest sorrow, but not the agony of terror that contracted his own unprepared heart. She knew more than he did, and yet she listened with that hopeless expression of awed apprehension.

‘Oh! I should not have left her — wicked daughter that I am!’ moaned forth Margaret, as she supported her trembling father’s hasty steps up-stairs. Dr. Donaldson met them on the landing.

‘She is better now,’ he whispered. ‘The opiate has taken effect. The spasms were very bad: no wonder they frightened your maid; but she’ll rally this time.’

‘This time! Let me go to her!’ Half an hour ago, Mr. Hale was a middle-aged man; now his sight was dim, his senses wavering, his walk tottering, as if he were seventy years of age.

Dr. Donaldson took his arm, and led him into the bedroom. Margaret followed close. There lay her mother, with an unmistakable look on her face. She might be better now; she was sleeping, but Death had signed her for his own, and it was clear that ere long he would return to take possession. Mr. Hale looked at her for some time without a word. Then he began to shake all over, and, turning away from Dr. Donaldson’s anxious care, he groped to find the door; he could not see it, although several candles, brought in the sudden affright, were burning and flaring there. He staggered into the drawing-room, and felt about for a chair. Dr. Donaldson wheeled one to him, and placed him in it. He felt his pulse.

‘Speak to him, Miss Hale. We must rouse him.’

‘Papa!’ said Margaret, with a crying voice that was wild with pain. ‘Papa! Speak to me!’ The speculation came again into his eyes, and he made a great effort.

‘Margaret, did you know of this? Oh, it was cruel of you!’

‘No, sir, it was not cruel!’ replied Dr. Donaldson, with quick decision. ‘Miss Hale acted under my directions. There may have been a mistake, but it was not cruel. Your wife will be a different creature tomorrow, I trust. She has had spasms, as I anticipated, though I did not tell Miss Hale of my apprehensions. She has taken the opiate I brought with me; she will have a good long sleep; and tomorrow, that look which has alarmed you so much will have passed away.’

‘But not the disease?’

Dr. Donaldson glanced at Margaret. Her bent head, her face raised with no appeal for a temporary reprieve, showed that quick observer of human nature that she thought it better that the whole truth should be told.

‘Not the disease. We cannot touch the disease, with all our poor vaunted skill. We can only delay its progress — alleviate the pain it causes. Be a man, sir — a Christian. Have faith in the immortality of the soul, which no pain, no mortal disease, can assail or touch!’

But all the reply he got, was in the choked words, ‘You have never been married, Dr. Donaldson; you do not know what it is,’ and in the deep, manly sobs, which went through the stillness of the night like heavy pulses of agony. Margaret knelt by him, caressing him with tearful caresses. No one, not even Dr. Donaldson, knew how the time went by. Mr. Hale was the first to dare to speak of the necessities of the present moment.

‘What must we do?’ asked he. ‘Tell us both. Margaret is my staff — my right hand.’

Dr. Donaldson gave his clear, sensible directions. No fear for to-night — nay, even peace for tomorrow, and for many ............