was, but people seemed to have lost the art of making the same kind of beds as they used to do in her youth.  One would think it was easy enough; there was the same kind of feathers to be had, and yet somehow, till this last night she did not know when she had had a good sound resting sleep.  Mr. Hale suggested, that something of the merits of the featherbeds of former days might be attributed to the activity of youth, which gave a relish to rest; but this idea was not kindly received by his wife.

’No, indeed, Mr. Hale, it was those beds at Sir John’s.  Now, Margaret, you’re young enough, and go about in the day; are the beds comfortable?  I appeal to you.  Do they give you a feeling of perfect repose when you lie down upon them; or rather, don’t you toss about, and try in vain to find an easy position, and waken in the morning as tired as when you went to bed?’

Margaret laughed.  ’To tell the truth, mamma, I’ve never thought about my bed at all, what kind it is.  I’m so sleepy at night, that if I only lie down anywhere, I nap off directly.  So I don’t think I’m a competent witness.  But then, you know, I never had the opportunity of trying Sir John Beresford’s beds.  I never was at Oxenham.’

’Were not you?  Oh, no! to be sure.  It was poor darling Fred I took with me, I remember.  I only went to Oxenham once after I was married,—­to your Aunt Shaw’s wedding; and poor little Fred was the baby then.  And I know Dixon did not like changing from lady’s maid to nurse, and I was afraid that if I took her near her old home, and amongst her own people, she might want to leave me.  But poor baby was taken ill at Oxenham, with his teething; and, what with my being a great deal with Anna just before her marriage, and not being very strong myself, Dixon had more of the charge of him than she ever had before; and it made her so fond of him, and she was so proud when he would turn away from every one and cling to her, that I don’t believe she ever thought of leaving me again; though it was very different from what she’d been accustomed to.  Poor Fred!  Every body loved him.  He was born with the gift of winning hearts.  It makes me think very badly of Captain Reid when I know that he disliked my own dear boy.  I think it a certain proof he had a bad heart.  Ah!  Your poor father, Margaret.  He has left the room.  He can’t bear to hear Fred spoken of.’

’I love to hear about him, mamma.  Tell me all you like; you never can tell me too much.  Tell me what he was like as a baby.’

’Why, Margaret, you must not be hurt, but he was much prettier than you were.  I remember, when I first saw you in Dixon’s arms, I said, “Dear, what an ugly little thing!” And she said, “It’s not every child that’s like Master Fred, bless him!” Dear! how well I remember it.  Then I could have had Fred in my arms every minute of the day, and his cot was close by my bed; and now, now—­Margaret—­I don’t know where my boy is, and sometimes I think I shall never see him again.’