because it would hurt me, and the scar would be ugly; but I’ll retract all I said as fast as I can.  Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout, and as un-grumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes he is very, very busy.  I may say that without love—­wifely duty—­where was I?—­I had something very particular to say, I know, once.  Oh, it is this—­Dearest Margaret!—­you must come and see me; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I said before.  Get the doctor to order it for her.  Tell him that it’s the smoke of Milton that does her harm.  I have no doubt it is that, really.  Three months (you must not come for less) of this delicious climate—­all sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries, would quite cure her.  I don’t ask my uncle’—­(Here the letter became more constrained, and better written; Mr. Hale was in the corner, like a naughty child, for having given up his living.)—­’because, I dare say, he disapproves of war, and soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he would not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I’ll hide up Cosmo’s red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of grave, solemn things; or, if they do play pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow time.  Dear Margaret, if he would like to accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try and make it pleasant, though I’m rather afraid of any one who has done something for conscience sake.  You never did, I hope.  Tell Aunt Hale not to bring many warm clothes, though I’m afraid it will be late in the year before you can come.  But you have no idea of the heat here!  I tried to wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic.  I kept myself up with proverbs as long as I could; “Pride must abide,”—­and such wholesome pieces of pith; but it was of no use.  I was like mamma’s little dog Tiny with an elephant’s trappings on; smothered, hidden, killed with my finery; so I made it into a capital carpet for us all to sit down upon.  Here’s this boy of mine, Margaret,—­if you don’t pack up your things as soon as you get this letter, a come straight off to see him, I shall think you’re descended from King Herod!’

Margaret did long for a day of Edith’s life—­her freedom from care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies.  If a wish could have transported her, she would have gone off; just for one day.  She yearned for the strength which such a change would give,—­even for a few hours to be in the midst of that bright life, and to feel young again.  Not yet twenty! and she had had to bear up against such hard pressure that she felt quite old.  That was her first feeling after reading Edith’s letter.  Then she read it again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to Edith’s self, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale came into the drawing-room, leaning on Dixon’s arm.  Margaret flew to adjust the pillows.  Her mother seemed more than usually feeble.