Margaret sighed, for though she knew full well the “possible harm” which might come of it, she could not tell it to her pale, dying mother; and ere she had time for any answer, the black bombazine dress, white linen, collar, and white, smooth face of Widow Carter moved silently into the room.  There was a gleam of intense hatred in the dark eyes which for a moment flashed on Margaret’s face, and then a soft hand gently stroked the glossy hair of the indignant girl, and in the most musical tones imaginable a low voice murmured, “Maggie, dear, you look flushed and wearied.  Are you quite well?”

“Perfectly so,” answered Margaret; and then rising, she left the room, but not until she had heard her mother say, “Dear Mrs. Carter, I am so glad you’ve come!”

“Is everybody bewitched,” thought Mag, as she repaired to her chamber, “father, mother, Carrie, and all?  How I wish Walter was here.  He always sees things as I do.”

Margaret Hamilton was a high-spirited, intelligent girl, about nineteen years of age.  She was not beautiful, but had you asked for the finest-looking girl in all Glenwood, Mag would surely have been pointed out.  She was rather above the medium height, and in her whole bearing there was a quiet dignity, which many mistook for hauteur.  Naturally frank, affectionate, and kind-hearted, she was, perhaps, a little strong in her prejudices, which, when once satisfactorily formed, could not easily be shaken.

For Mrs. Carter she had conceived a strong dislike, for she believed her to be an artful, hypocritical woman, and now, as she sat by the window in her room, her heart swelled with indignation toward one who had thus usurped her place by her mother’s bedside, whom Carrie was learning to confide in, and of whom even the father said, “she is a most excellent woman.”

“I will write to Walter,” said she, “and tell him to come immediately.”

Suiting the action to the word, she drew up her writing desk, and soon a finished letter was lying before her.  Ere she had time to fold and direct it, a loud cry from her young brother Willie summoned her for a few moments from the room, and on her return she met in the doorway the black bombazine and linen collar.

“Madam,” said she, “did you wish for anything?”

“Yes, dear,” was the soft answer, which, however, in this case failed to turn, away wrath.  “Yes, dear, your mother said you knew where there were some fine bits of linen.”

“And could not Carrie come for them?” asked Mag.

“Yes, dear, but she looks so delicate that I do not like to send her up these long stairs oftener than is necessary.  Haven’t you noticed how pale she is getting of late?  I shouldn’t be at all surprised—­” but before the sentence was finished the linen was found, and the door closed upon Mrs. Carter.