get her to say anything more than this. At last, her sympathy, and Dixon's scolding, forced out a few facts. Nicholas Higgins had gone out in the morning, leaving Bessy as well as on the day before. But in an hour she was taken worse; some neighbour ran to the room where Mary was working; they did not know where to find her father; Mary had only come in a few minutes before she died.
"It were a day or two ago she axed to be buried in somewhat o' yourn. She were never tired o' talking o' yo'. She used to say yo' were the prettiest thing she'd ever clapped eyes on. She loved yo’ dearly. Her last words were, 'Give her my affectionate respects; and keep father fro' drink.' Yo'll come and see her, ma'am. She would ha' thought it a great compliment, I know."
Margaret shrank a little from answering.
"Yes, perhaps I may. Yes, I will. I'll come before tea. But where's your father, Mary?"
Mary shook her head, and stood up to be going.
"Miss Hale," said Dixon, in a low voice, "where's the use o' your going to see the poor thing laid out? I'd never say a word against it, if it could do the girl any good; and I wouldn't mind a bit going myself, if that would satisfy her. They've just a notion, these common folks, of its being a respect to the departed. Here," said she, turning sharply round, "I'll come and see your sister. Miss Hale is busy, and she can't come, or else she would."
The girl looked wistfully at Margaret. Dixon's coming might be a compliment, but it was not the same thing to the poor sister, who had had her little
