And her filmy wandering eyes fixed themselves with an intensity of wistfulness on Mrs. Thornton’s face For a minute, there was no change in its rigidness; it was stern and unmoved;—­nay, but that the eyes of the sick woman were growing dim with the slow-gathering tears, she might have seen a dark cloud cross the cold features.  And it was no thought of her son, or of her living daughter Fanny, that stirred her heart at last; but a sudden remembrance, suggested by something in the arrangement of the room,—­of a little daughter—­dead in infancy—­long years ago—­that, like a sudden sunbeam, melted the icy crust, behind which there was a real tender woman.

‘You wish me to be a friend to Miss Hale,’ said Mrs. Thornton, in her measured voice, that would not soften with her heart, but came out distinct and clear.

Mrs. Hale, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Thornton’s face, pressed the hand that lay below hers on the coverlet.  She could not speak.  Mrs. Thornton sighed, ’I will. be a true friend, if circumstances require it Not a tender friend.  That I cannot be,’—­(’to her,’ she was on the point of adding, but she relented at the sight of that poor, anxious face.)—­’It is not my nature to show affection even where I feel it, nor do I volunteer advice in general.  Still, at your request,—­if it will be any comfort to you, I will promise you.’  Then came a pause.  Mrs. Thornton was too conscientious to promise what she did not mean to perform; and to perform any-thing in the way of kindness on behalf of Margaret, more disliked at this moment than ever, was difficult; almost impossible.

‘I promise,’ said she, with grave severity; which, after all, inspired the dying woman with faith as in something more stable than life itself,—­flickering, flitting, wavering life!  ’I promise that in any difficulty in which Miss Hale’——­

‘Call her Margaret!’ gasped Mrs. Hale.

’In which she comes to me for help, I will help her with every power I have, as if she were my own daughter.  I also promise that if ever I see her doing what I think is wrong’——­

‘But Margaret never does wrong—­not wilfully wrong,’ pleaded Mrs. Hale.  Mrs. Thornton went on as before; as if she had not heard: 

’If ever I see her doing what I believe to be wrong—­such wrong not touching me or mine, in which case I might be supposed to have an interested motive—­I will tell her of it, faithfully and plainly, as I should wish my own daughter to be told.’

There was a long pause.  Mrs. Hale felt that this promise did not include all; and yet it was much.  It had reservations in it which she did not understand; but then she was weak, dizzy, and tired.  Mrs. Thornton was reviewing all the probable cases in which she had pledged herself to act.  She had a fierce pleasure in the idea of telling Margaret unwelcome truths, in the shape of performance of duty.  Mrs. Hale began to speak: 

’I thank you.  I pray God to bless you.  I shall never see you again in this world.  But my last words are, I thank you for your promise of kindness to my child.’