’Dixon says it is a gift to light a fire; not an art to be acquired.’

‘Poeta nascitur, non fit,’ murmured Mr. Hale; and Margaret was glad to hear a quotation once more, however languidly given.

‘Dear old Dixon!  How we shall kiss each other!’ said Frederick.  ’She used to kiss me, and then look in my face to be sure I was the right person, and then set to again!  But, Margaret, what a bungler you are!  I never saw such a little awkward, good-for-nothing pair of hands.  Run away, and wash them, ready to cut bread-and-butter for me, and leave the fire.  I’ll manage it.  Lighting fires is one of my natural accomplishments.’

So Margaret went away; and returned; and passed in and out of the room, in a glad restlessness that could not be satisfied with sitting still.  The more wants Frederick had, the better she was pleased; and he understood all this by instinct.  It was a joy snatched in the house of mourning, and the zest of it was all the more pungent, because they knew in the depths of their hearts what irremediable sorrow awaited them.

In the middle, they heard Dixon’s foot on the stairs.  Mr. Hale started from his languid posture in his great armchair, from which he had been watching his children in a dreamy way, as if they were acting some drama of happiness, which it was pretty to look at, but which was distinct from reality, and in which he had no part.  He stood up, and faced the door, showing such a strange, sudden anxiety to conceal Frederick from the sight of any person entering, even though it were the faithful Dixon, that a shiver came over Margaret’s heart:  it reminded her of the new fear in their lives.  She caught at Frederick’s arm, and clutched it tight, while a stern thought compressed her brows, and caused her to set her teeth.  And yet they knew it was only Dixon’s measured tread.  They heard her walk the length of the passage, into the kitchen.  Margaret rose up.

I will go to her, and tell her.  And I shall hear how mamma is.’  Mrs. Hale was awake.  She rambled at first; but after they had given her some tea she was refreshed, though not disposed to talk.  It was better that the night should pass over before she was told of her son’s arrival.  Dr. Donaldson’s appointed visit would bring nervous excitement enough for the evening; and he might tell them how to prepare her for seeing Frederick.  He was there, in the house; could be summoned at any moment.

Margaret could not sit still.  It was a relief to her to aid Dixon in all her preparations for ‘Master Frederick.’  It seemed as though she never could be tired again.  Each glimpse into the room where he sate by his father, conversing with him, about, she knew not what, nor cared to know,—­was increase of strength to her.  Her own time for talking and hearing would come at last, and she was too certain of this to feel in a hurry to grasp it now.  She took in his appearance and liked it.  He had delicate features, redeemed from effeminacy