CHAPTER XXIV.
MISTAKES CLEARED UP.
"Your beauty was the first that won the place,
And scal'd the wails of my undaunted heart,
Which, captive now, pines in a caitive case,
Unkindly met with rigour for desert:—
Yet not the less your servant shall abide,
In spite of rude repulse or silent pride."
The next morning, Margaret dragged herself up, thankful that the night was over,—unrefreshed, yet rested. All had gone well through the house; her mother had only wakened once. A little breeze was stirring in the hot air, and though there were no trees to show the playful tossing movement caused by the wind among the leaves, Margaret knew how, somewhere or another, by wayside, in copses, or in thick green woods, there was a pleasant, murmuring dancing sound,—a rushing and falling noise, the very thought of which was an echo of distant gladness in her heart.
She sat at her work in Mrs. Hale's room. As soon as that forenoon slumber was over, she would help her mother to dress; after dinner, she would go and see Bessy Higgins. She would banish all recollection of the Thornton family,—no need to think of
