in that quarter of the horizon from which we watch for it.  There had been slight complaints and passing regrets on her mother’s part, over some trifle connected with Helstone, and her father’s position there, when Margaret had been spending her holidays at home before; but in the general happiness of the recollection of those times, she had forgotten the small details which were not so pleasant.  In the latter half of September, the autumnal rains and storms came on, and Margaret was obliged to remain more in the house than she had hitherto done.  Helstone was at some distance from any neighbours of their own standard of cultivation.

’It is undoubtedly one of the most out-of-the-way places in England,’ said Mrs. Hale, in one of her plaintive moods.  ’I can’t help regretting constantly that papa has really no one to associate with here; he is so thrown away; seeing no one but farmers and labourers from week’s end to week’s end.  If we only lived at the other side of the parish, it would be something; there we should be almost within walking distance of the Stansfields; certainly the Gormans would be within a walk.’

‘Gormans,’ said Margaret.  ’Are those the Gormans who made their fortunes in trade at Southampton?  Oh!  I’m glad we don’t visit them.  I don’t like shoppy people.  I think we are far better off, knowing only cottagers and labourers, and people without pretence.’

‘You must not be so fastidious, Margaret, dear!’ said her mother, secretly thinking of a young and handsome Mr. Gorman whom she had once met at Mr. Hume’s.

’No!  I call mine a very comprehensive taste; I like all people whose occupations have to do with land; I like soldiers and sailors, and the three learned professions, as they call them.  I’m sure you don’t want me to admire butchers and bakers, and candlestick-makers, do you, mamma?’

’But the Gormans were neither butchers nor bakers, but very respectable coach-builders.’

’Very well.  Coach-building is a trade all the same, and I think a much more useless one than that of butchers or bakers.  Oh! how tired I used to be of the drives every day in Aunt Shaw’s carriage, and how I longed to walk!’

And walk Margaret did, in spite of the weather.  She was so happy out of doors, at her father’s side, that she almost danced; and with the soft violence of the west wind behind her, as she crossed some heath, she seemed to be borne onwards, as lightly and easily as the fallen leaf that was wafted along by the autumnal breeze.  But the evenings were rather difficult to fill up agreeably.  Immediately after tea her father withdrew into his small library, and she and her mother were left alone.  Mrs. Hale had never cared much for books, and had discouraged her husband, very early in their married life, in his desire of reading aloud to her, while she worked.  At one time they had tried backgammon as a resource; but as Mr. Hale grew to take an increasing interest in