“No —­ that I won’t,” said Harry, taking up the letter, and holding it tight.  “It is a beautiful letter, and it does me good.  Don’t you think, though it is not sent to God himself, he may read it, and take it for a prayer?”

“I wish he would, Harry.”

“But it was very wrong of you, Euphra, dear, to speak as you did to the daughter of such a good man.”

“Yes, it was.”

“But then, you see, you got angry before you knew who she was.”

“But I shouldn’t have got angry before I knew all about it.”

“Well, you have only to say you are sorry, and Margaret won’t think anything more about it.  Oh, she is so good!”

Euphra recoiled from making confession of wrong to a lady’s maid; and, perhaps, she was a little jealous of Harry’s admiration of Margaret.  For Euphra had not yet cast off all her old habits of mind, and one of them was the desire to be first with every one whom she cared for.  She had got rid of a worse, which was, a necessity of being first in every company, whether she cared for the persons composing it, or not.  Mental suffering had driven the latter far enough from her; though it would return worse than ever, if her mind were not filled with truth in the place of ambition.  So she did not respond to what Harry said.  Indeed, she did not speak again, except to beg him to leave her alone.  She did not make her appearance again that day.

But at night, when the household was retiring, she rose from the bed on which she had been lying half-unconscious, and going to the door, opened it a little way, that she might hear when Margaret should pass from Mrs. Elton’s room towards her own.  She waited for some time; but judging, at length, that she must have passed without her knowledge, she went and knocked at her door.  Margaret opened it a little, after a moment’s delay, half-undressed.

“May I come in, Margaret?”

“Pray, do, Miss Cameron,” answered Margaret.

And she opened the door quite.  Her cap was off, and her rich dark hair fell on her shoulders, and streamed thence to her waist.  Her under-clothing was white as snow.

“What a lovely skin she has!” thought Euphra, comparing it with her own tawny complexion.  She felt, for the first time, that Margaret was beautiful —­ yes, more:  that whatever her gown might be, her form and her skin (give me a prettier word, kind reader, for a beautiful fact, and I will gladly use it) were those of one of nature’s ladies.  She was soon to find that her intellect and spirit were those of one of God’s ladies.

“I am very sorry, Margaret, that I spoke to you as I did today.”

“Never mind it, Miss Cameron.  We cannot help being angry sometimes.  And you had great provocation under the mistake you made.  I was only sorry because I knew it would trouble you afterwards.  Please don’t think of it again.”

“You are very kind, Margaret.”