‘Oh, mamma!’ said Margaret.

’Yes; it is so, indeed.  He knows it himself; he has said so many a time.  He would do anything for me; you don’t mean he would refuse me this last wish—­prayer, if you will.  And, indeed, Margaret, the longing to see Frederick stands between me and God.  I cannot pray till I have this one thing; indeed, I cannot.  Don’t lose time, dear, dear Margaret.  Write by this very next post.  Then he may be here—­here in twenty-two days!  For he is sure to come.  No cords or chains can keep him.  In twenty-two days I shall see my boy.’  She fell back, and for a short time she took no notice of the fact that Margaret sat motionless, her hand shading her eyes.

‘You are not writing!’ said her mother at last ’Bring me some pens and paper; I will try and write myself.’  She sat up, trembling all over with feverish eagerness.  Margaret took her hand down and looked at her mother sadly.

‘Only wait till papa comes in.  Let us ask him how best to do it.’

’You promised, Margaret, not a quarter of an hour ago;—­you said he should come.’

’And so he shall, mamma; don’t cry, my own dear mother.  I’ll write here, now,—­you shall see me write,—­and it shall go by this very post; and if papa thinks fit, he can write again when he comes in,—­it is only a day’s delay.  Oh, mamma, don’t cry so pitifully,—­it cuts me to the heart.’

Mrs. Hale could not stop her tears; they came hysterically; and, in truth, she made no effort to control them, but rather called up all the pictures of the happy past, and the probable future—­painting the scene when she should lie a corpse, with the son she had longed to see in life weeping over her, and she unconscious of his presence—­till she was melted by self-pity into a state of sobbing and exhaustion that made Margaret’s heart ache.  But at last she was calm, and greedily watched her daughter, as she began her letter; wrote it with swift urgent entreaty; sealed it up hurriedly, for fear her mother should ask to see it:  and then, to make security most sure, at Mrs. Hale’s own bidding, took it herself to the post-office.  She was coming home when her father overtook her.

‘And where have you been, my pretty maid?’ asked he.

’To the post-office,—­with a letter; a letter to Frederick.  Oh, papa, perhaps I have done wrong:  but mamma was seized with such a passionate yearning to see him—­she said it would make her well again,—­and then she said that she must see him before she died,—­I cannot tell you how urgent she was!  Did I do wrong?’ Mr. Hale did not reply at first.  Then he said: 

‘You should have waited till I came in, Margaret.’

‘I tried to persuade her—­’ and then she was silent.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mr. Hale, after a pause.  ’She ought to see him if she wishes it so much, for I believe it would do her much more good than all the doctor’s medicine,—­and, perhaps, set her up altogether; but the danger to him, I’m afraid, is very great.’