mother ought to have been told: that whatever her faults of discontent and repining might have been, it was an error in her father to have left her to learn his change of opinion, and his approaching change of life, from her better-informed child. Margaret sat down by her mother, and took her unresisting head on her breast, bending her own soft cheeks down caressingly to touch her face.
"Dear, darling mamma! we were so afraid of giving you pain. Papa felt so acutely—you know you are not strong, and there must have been such terrible suspense to go through."
"When did he tell you, Margaret?"
"Yesterday, only yesterday," replied Margaret, detecting the jealousy which prompted the inquiry. "Poor papa!"—trying to divert her mother's thoughts into compassionate sympathy for all her father had gone through. Mrs. Hale raised her head.
"What does he mean by having doubts?" she asked. "Surely, he does not mean that he thinks differently—that he knows better than the Church."
Margaret shook her head, and the tears came into her eyes, as her mother touched the bare nerve of her own regret.
"Can't the bishop set him right?" asked Mrs. Hale, half impatiently.
"I'm afraid not," said Margaret. "But I did not ask. I could not bear to hear what he might answer. It is all settled at any rate. He is going to leave Helstone in a fortnight. I am not sure if he did not say he had sent in his deed of resignation."
"In a fortnight!" exclaimed Mrs. Hale, "I do think this is very strange—not at all right. I call
