’Don’t be foolish, John.  Such a creature!  Why, she might be a duke’s daughter, to hear you speak.  And what proof more would you have, I wonder, of her caring for you?  I can believe she has had a struggle with her aristocratic way of viewing things; but I like her the better for seeing clearly at last.  It is a good deal for me to say,’ said Mrs. Thornton, smiling slowly, while the tears stood in her eyes; ’for after to-night, I stand second.  It was to have you to myself, all to myself, a few hours longer, that I begged you not to go till to-morrow!’

‘Dearest mother!’ (Still love is selfish, and in an instant he reverted to his own hopes and fears in a way that drew the cold creeping shadow over Mrs. Thornton’s heart.) ’But I know she does not care for me.  I shall put myself at her feet—­I must.  If it were but one chance in a thousand—­or a million—­I should do it.’

‘Don’t fear!’ said his mother, crushing down her own personal mortification at the little notice he had taken of the rare ebullition of her maternal feelings—­of the pang of jealousy that betrayed the intensity of her disregarded love.  ’Don’t be afraid,’ she said, coldly.  ’As far as love may go she may be worthy of you.  It must have taken a good deal to overcome her pride.  Don’t be afraid, John,’ said she, kissing him, as she wished him good-night.  And she went slowly and majestically out of the room.  But when she got into her own, she locked the door, and sate down to cry unwonted tears.

Margaret entered the room (where her father and mother still sat, holding low conversation together), looking very pale and white.  She came close up to them before she could trust herself to speak.

‘Mrs. Thornton will send the water-bed, mamma.’

‘Dear, how tired you look!  Is it very hot, Margaret?’

‘Very hot, and the streets are rather rough with the strike.’

Margaret’s colour came back vivid and bright as ever; but it faded away instantly.

’Here has been a message from Bessy Higgins, asking you to go to her,’ said Mrs. Hale.  ‘But I’m sure you look too tired.’

‘Yes!’ said Margaret.  ‘I am tired, I cannot go.’

She was very silent and trembling while she made tea.  She was thankful to see her father so much occupied with her mother as not to notice her looks.  Even after her mother went to bed, he was not content to be absent from her, but undertook to read her to sleep.  Margaret was alone.

’Now I will think of it—­now I will remember it all.  I could not before—­I dared not.’  She sat still in her chair, her hands clasped on her knees, her lips compressed, her eyes fixed as one who sees a vision.  She drew a deep breath.