‘Now I must go.  You have done me good, Bessy.’

‘I done you good!’

’Yes.  I came here very sad, and rather too apt to think my own cause for grief was the only one in the world.  And now I hear how you have had to bear for years, and that makes me stronger.’

‘Bless yo’!  I thought a’ the good-doing was on the side of gentle folk.  I shall get proud if I think I can do good to yo’.’

’You won’t do it if you think about it.  But you’ll only puzzle yourself if you do, that’s one comfort.’

‘Yo’re not like no one I ever seed.  I dunno what to make of yo’.’

‘Nor I of myself.  Good-bye!’

Bessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her.

’I wonder if there are many folk like her down South.  She’s like a breath of country air, somehow.  She freshens me up above a bit.  Who’d ha’ thought that face—­as bright and as strong as the angel I dream of—­could have known the sorrow she speaks on?  I wonder how she’ll sin.  All on us must sin.  I think a deal on her, for sure.  But father does the like, I see.  And Mary even.  It’s not often hoo’s stirred up to notice much.’

CHAPTER XVIII

LIKES AND DISLIKES

’My heart revolts within me, and two voices
Make themselves audible within my bosom.’ 
Wallenstein.

On Margaret’s return home she found two letters on the table:  one was a note for her mother,—­the other, which had come by the post, was evidently from her Aunt Shaw—­covered with foreign post-marks—­thin, silvery, and rustling.  She took up the other, and was examining it, when her father came in suddenly: 

’So your mother is tired, and gone to bed early!  I’m afraid, such a thundery day was not the best in the world for the doctor to see her.  What did he say?  Dixon tells me he spoke to you about her.’

Margaret hesitated.  Her father’s looks became more grave and anxious: 

‘He does not think her seriously ill?’

’Not at present; she needs care, he says; he was very kind, and said he would call again, and see how his medicines worked.’

’Only care—­he did not recommend change of air?—­he did not say this smoky town was doing her any harm, did he, Margaret?’

‘No! not a word,’ she replied, gravely.  ’He was anxious, I think.’

‘Doctors have that anxious manner; it’s professional,’ said he.

Margaret saw, in her father’s nervous ways, that the first impression of possible danger was made upon his mind, in spite of all his making light of what she told him.  He could not forget the subject,—­could not pass from it to other things; he kept recurring to it through the evening, with an unwillingness to receive even the slightest unfavourable idea, which made Margaret inexpressibly sad.

’This letter is from Aunt Shaw, papa.  She has got to Naples, and finds it too hot, so she has taken apartments at Sorrento.  But I don’t think she likes Italy.’