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Margaret rose up stealthily from her seat on the carpet, and unlocked the door. "Is lunch ready?" she asked, in her usual calm voice. Then tell papa that I'll come directly. And don't cry so, Nora; I wish you wouldn't, darling; I should be so thankful if you wouldn't."

Nora went down-stairs, sobbing twice as passionately as before, and a few minutes afterwards Margaret followed her, quiet, grave, and self-possessed, with no trace of tears on her face.

Scarcely a word was said at luncheon. Nora could not control herself, and had to leave the table. The vicar made but a pretence of eating, and kept furtively wiping his eyes. And Margaret sat in her own place, half shading her face with her hand, as if she didn't wish to be looked at; and only spoke when her father asked if he could help her to anything, to answer gently, "No, thank you, papa; I'm not hungry."

And as soon as lunch was over, she crept up-stairs to her room again and turned the key in the door; and she took her old place on the floor before the window, wound her arms round her knees, and laid her face upon them, and then presently began to rock and moan as if she would never cease.

She sat there until it grew dark, and until she heard Nora go to her little room to prepare for dinner; then, at last, she rose up noiselessly, and, without lighting candles, proceeded to dress herself. She came down-stairs at six o'clock, arrayed in black, looking as pale as death, but quite calm; and she sat through the dinner (though no persuasion could make her eat anything) with a quietness and composure that troubled the vicar sorely. Once she caught him looking at her hard and anxiously from his place at the other end of the table, and her face changed. The cloth had been drawn and the dessert placed before them; so she rose suddenly from her chair to go to the drawing-room. As he opened the door for her to pass out, she kissed him, and said in a hurried whisper, "Papa, you won't mind me just at first? We will talk of it by and by."

He did not follow her into the drawing-room that night, nor did Nora. While the two sat together over their dessert, taking counsel as to what they could do best to comfort and help her, they heard her play a few bars of the accompaniment of one of Gray's favourite songs, and they thought it would be better to leave her alone. So little Bertie was brought into the dining-room, and tea was served there at nine o'clock, and Margaret was not disturbed in her solitude till the bell rung for prayers. She went into

the study of her own accord, and as she entered she saw the servants standing near the door, with tears in their eyes too, and held out her hand to each of them in mute acknowledgment of their sympathy. Then she went and knelt in her place near the prayer-desk, drawing a little further back into the corner than usual, and when prayers were over, and all had left the room, crept up-stairs to bed without bidding any one good night.

Nora came to her two or three hours afterwards, white and barefooted, like a wandering ghost, and found her in the old place before her window, sitting on the floor.

'Mayn't I come and sleep with you, Margaret?"

"No, my darling," lifting her head and speaking softly, “not to-night. I'd rather be alone; I'm used to being alone, you know. Run back to bed, or you'll catch cold, dearie. It's horribly cold to-night, and my fire has gone out, you see."

"Mayn't I stay with you just a little while, then?" pleaded Nora, going down on the floor and taking Margaret's head in her arms. 'Mayn't I help you to undress ?"

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"No, no; run away, or papa will wonder what's the matter. Kiss me, love, and run away." And unclasping her hands from her knees, she clasped them tightly for a moment round Nora's waist, and then got up and led her back to her own room. But probably, if the child had not thus interrupted her, she would have sat on the floor all night, staring out into the darkness.

She went to bed, and there she lay awake till the morning, tossing and turning and rocking herself recklessly; every now and then breaking out into a long, bitter sigh, or that low, helpless, hopeless little moan. She could not cry. Even when she said her prayers-even when she turned out Gray's keepsakes and kissed them-even when she thought of him lying stiff and stark in his bloody sepulchre, she could not cry.

She came down-stairs early in the morning-more than an hour before the postman's time; and during the interval walked up and down the terrace in the wind and rain.

Then came letters and papers, bringing full particulars of the Inkermann fight, and she went in and laid them on the study table, asking Nora to give them to her father as soon as he came down, and when he had read them to bring them up to her Nora carried them up, therefore, after morning prayers, before taking the vacant place at the head of the breakfast-table,

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together with a cup of coffee and a morsel of roll. And Margaret, with a quiet "Thank you, dear Nora," closed the door, and sat down by her fireside table to read them. In the newspapers were all the detailed particulars of the struggle, from first to last, with a short notification of Gray's death; and the report of the commander-in-chief, which, while giving the outline of the battle, withheld the names of the officers who had distinguished themselves for a second despatch. There was a letter from Frank, scrawled on his sick bed,-a most touching and pitiful lament! There was a longer one from Captain Hamilton, written earnestly and respectfully, with a delicacy and feeling that did him great credit, recounting Gray's valorous life and death in the Crimean campaign; Frank's devotion in the fatal battle; the love and pride and sorrow of the regiment; and all which his manly instincts told him might soften the bitterness of the dreadful blow. There was also one from an officer in the Guards, whose intimate friend Gray had been; and one from a private soldier in the second division, to whom Gray had shown great kindness in the cholera-time. As Margaret read them, one by one, she shivered and trembled, but she did not cry; only, when she came to the end, she put out her hands to gather letters and papers into a heap before her, and then laid her face down amongst them, and began to rock restlessly, breaking out into a little spasmodic moan every now and then. She tried so hard to cry, and couldn't!

The chimes came out for service as she sat there, but she made no movement to get up and dress. She heard the three changes of the bells, the opening and closing of the front door as her father and Nora went out, and then the striking of the hour; but she did not stir. Then there came a sound of rolling wheels on the road, and clattering hoofs at the garden gate. She looked up, and perceived through a thin network of leafless branches, a close dark carriage and a pair of bays; and then she dropped her head again, and looked no more. She did not want to know who it was; somebody to offer condolences, no doubt. And nurse

would take care that she wasn't disturbed. She heard the ring of the door-bell, the measured footsteps of John crossing the hall, and then a little soft bustle and low-toned confabulation, followed by a heavy closing of the door again. By and by came nurse's tramping step up the stairs, and the sound of a silk dress sweeping past the balustrade, and the next moment a pause-the echo of creaking shoes dying along the passage—and a gentle rat-tat

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at the door. It was not locked; and so, without rising from her seat, Margaret said wearily, " Come in," expecting to behold one of the ladies from the manor-house.

Her eyes fell upon some one whom she little thought to see -some one whom she had never but once looked upon in all her life, yet who was nearer and dearer to her now than any person living, saving the four that were always about her-Gray's adopted sister, Lady Dalrymple.

She stood in the doorway-tall and stately,—all her perfect, high-bred beauty made doubly beautiful by the sweet pity and gentleness that it wore; a sight to be remembered for many a day. She was dressed in black-long black garments of the most costly material, which French artist-fingers had fashioned and finished, but which had no single ornament, no bit of superfluous trimming, no shine on them anywhere-save just where the light softly penetrated to the folds of black fox fur, lining her cloak. Round the sweet proud face lay a tiny cap of tulle -which might have been intended for a graceful modification of a widow's cap, and might not-scarcely drawing a definite line between the wavy hair and the small black bonnet; and all over and around her head and shoulders a veil of fine gossamer made a cloud and darkness—as if to keep her face from all contact with inharmonious backgrounds.

In the midst of her misery, Margaret's artist spirit was conscious of a momentary sensation of satisfaction and pleasure, as her eyes rested (literally) upon this picture in the doorway. And then she looked up into those other eyes-so soft, so sad, so pitiful-remembering whose they were, and who had lived in the light of them so many years-and, without rising, without speaking, stretched out both her hands.

Lady Dalrymple closed the door, and glided swiftly across the room; and then, half lifting Margaret from her chair, sat down in it, and took her into her arms.

"My poor child!" she said, in her gentle, low voice, "my poor child my poor darling!"

The words, and the tone, and the tender, motherly caresses, opened Margaret's heart, and brought out all her great, bitter sorrow in a resistless flood. Probably Lady Dalrymple had never heard any one cry as Margaret cried for the next half-hour; but she made no effort to check her, or to hush the violence of her passion in any way. She only stroked her head softly, and kept saying, from time to time, "My poor child! my poor child!"

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"She was dressed in black-long black garments of the most costly material, which French artist-fingers had fashioned and finished, but which had no single ornament, no bit of superfluous trimming, no shine on them anywhere-save just where the light softly penetrated to the folds of black fox fur, lining her cloak." -Page 566.

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