and Dixon put her head in. Perceiving that Margaret was awake, she came forwards with a letter.
"Here's something to do you good, miss. A letter from Master Frederick."
"Thank you, Dixon. How late it is!"
She spoke very languidly, and suffered Dixon to lay it on the counterpane before her, without putting out a hand to take it.
"You want your breakfast, I'm sure. I will bring it you in a minute. Master has got the tray all ready, I know."
Margaret did not reply; she let her go; she felt that she must be alone before she could open that letter. She opened it at last. The first thing that caught her eye was the date two days earlier than she received it. He had then written when he had promised, and their alarm might have been spared. But she would read the letter and see. It was hasty enough, but perfectly satisfactory. He had seen Henry Lennox, who knew enough of the case to shake his head over it, in the first instance, and tell him he had done a very daring thing in returning to England, with such an accusation, backed by such powerful influence, hanging over him. But when they had come to talk it over, Mr. Lennox had acknowledged that there might be some chance of his acquittal, if he could but prove his statements by credible witnesses—that in such case it might be worth while to stand his trial, otherwise it would be a great risk. He would examine—he would take every pains. "It struck me," said Frederick, "that your introduction, little sister of mine, went a long way. Is it so? He made many inquiries, I can
