Margaret had not retired, and on passing through the hall, had discovered the light gleaming through the crevice of the library door.  Knowing that her father must be there, she had come in to comfort him.  Long the father and child wept together, and then Margaret, drying her tears said: 

“It is right—­all right; mother has two, and you have two, and though the dead will never return to us, we, in God’s good time, will return to them.”

“Yes, soon, very soon, shall I go,” said Mr. Hamilton.

“I am weary, weary, Margaret; my life is one scene of bitterness.  Oh, why, why was I left to do it?”

Margaret knew well to what he referred, but she made no answer; and after he had become somewhat composed, thinking this a good opportunity for broaching the subject which had so troubled Carrie’s dying moments, she drew from her bosom the soiled piece of paper, and placing it in his hands, watched him while he read.  The moan of anguish which came from his lips as he finished made her repent of her act, and, springing to his side, she exclaimed: 

“Forgive me, father; I ought not to have done it now.  You have enough to bear.”

“It is right, my child,” said Mr. Hamilton; “for after the wound had slightly healed I might have wavered.  Not that I love Walter less; but, fool that I am, I fear her who has made me the cowardly wretch you see!”

“Rouse yourself, then,” answered Margaret.  “Shake off her chain, and be free.”

“I cannot, I cannot,” said he.  “But this I will do.  I will make another will.  I always intended to do so, and Walter shall not be wronged.”  Then rising, he hurriedly paced the room saying, “Walter shall not be wronged, no, no—­Walter shall not be wronged.”

After a time he resumed his former seat, and taking his daughter’s hand in his, he told her of all he had suffered, of the power which his wife held over him, and which he was too weak to shake off.  This last he did not say, but Margaret knew it and it prevented her from giving him other consolation than that of assuring him of her own unchanged, undying love.

The morning twilight was streaming through the closed shutters ere the conference ended; and then Mr. Hamilton, kissing his daughter, dismissed her from the room, but as she was leaving him he called her back, saying: 

“Don’t tell Walter; he would despise me; but he shan’t be wronged—­no, he shan’t be wronged.”

Six weeks from that night Margaret stood, with her brother, watching her father as the light from his eyes went out, and the tones of his voice ceased forever.  Grief for the loss of his children, and remorse for the blight which he had brought upon his household, had undermined his constitution, never strong; and when a prevailing fever settled upon him it found an easy prey.  In ten days’ time Margaret and Walter alone were left of the happy band who, two years before, had gathered around the fireside of the old homestead.