‘Oh!’ said Mr. Hale, sighing, ’your Union in itself would be beautiful, glorious,—­it would be Christianity itself—­if it were but for an end which affected the good of all, instead of that of merely one class as opposed to another.’

‘I reckon it’s time for me to be going, sir,’ said Higgins, as the clock struck ten.

‘Home?’ said Margaret very softly.  He understood her, and took her offered hand.  ‘Home, miss.  Yo’ may trust me, tho’ I am one o’ th’ Union.’

‘I do trust you most thoroughly, Nicholas.’

‘Stay!’ said Mr. Hale, hurrying to the book-shelves.  ’Mr. Higgins!  I’m sure you’ll join us in family prayer?’

Higgins looked at Margaret, doubtfully.  Hey grave sweet eyes met his; there was no compulsion, only deep interest in them.  He did not speak, but he kept his place.

Margaret the Churchwoman, her father the Dissenter, Higgins the Infidel, knelt down together.  It did them no harm.

CHAPTER XXIX

A RAY OF SUNSHINE

’Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it,
And one or two poor melancholy pleasures,
Each in the pale unwarming light of hope,
Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by—­
Moths in the moonbeam!’
Coleridge.

The next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith.  It was affectionate and inconsequent like the writer.  But the affection was charming to Margaret’s own affectionate nature; and she had grown up with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it.  It was as follows:—­

’Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see my boy!  He is a superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially in the one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered, persevering little lady!  Having made all the mothers here envious, I want to show him to somebody new, and hear a fresh set of admiring expressions; perhaps, that’s all the reason; perhaps it is not—­nay, possibly, there is just a little cousinly love mixed with it; but I do want you so much to come here, Margaret!  I’m sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale’s health; everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue, and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from morning till night; and, to come back to the burden of my ditty, my baby always smiles.  I am constantly wanting you to draw him for me, Margaret.  It does not signify what he is doing; that very thing is prettiest, gracefulest, best.  I think I love him a great deal better than my husband, who is getting stout, and grumpy,—­what he calls “busy.”  No! he is not.  He has just come in with news of such a charming pic-nic, given by the officers of the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below.  Because he has brought in such a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just now.  Did not somebody burn his hand for having said or done something he was sorry for?  Well, I can’t burn mine,