not great. She started up, passed her father, who had never moved at the veiled, dull sound,—returned, and kissed him tenderly. And still he never moved, nor took any notice of her fond embrace. Then she went down softly, through the dark, to the door. Dixon would have put the chain on before she opened it, but Margaret had not a thought of fear in her pre-occupied mind. A man's tall figure stood between her and the luminous street. He was looking away; but at the sound of the latch he turned quickly round.
"Is this Mr. Hale's?" said he, in a clear, full, delicate voice.
Margaret trembled all over ; at first she did not answer. In a moment she sighed out,
"Frederick!" and stretched out both her hands to catch his, and draw him in.
"Oh, Margaret!" said he, holding her off by her shoulders, after they had kissed each other, as if even in that darkness he could see her face, and read in its expression a quicker answer to his question than words could give,—
"My mother! is she alive?"
"Yes, she is alive, dear, dear brother! She— as ill as she can be she is; but alive! She is alive!"
"Thank God!" said he.
"Papa is utterly prostrate with this great grief."
"You expect me, don't you?"
"No, we have had no letter."
"Then I have come before it. But my mother knows I am coming?"
"Oh! we all knew you would come. But wait a
