Margaret’s heart bled to hear that the mother, in her selfish requirement of sympathy, had taken her children upstairs to see their disfigured father.  It was intermingling the coarseness of horror with the profoundness of natural grief She tried to turn their thoughts in some other direction; on what they could do for mother; on what—­for this was a more efficacious way of putting it—­what father would have wished them to do.  Margaret was more successful than Mr. Hale in her efforts.  The children seeing their little duties lie in action close around them, began to try each one to do something that she suggested towards redding up the slatternly room.  But her father set too high a standard, and too abstract a view, before the indolent invalid.  She could not rouse her torpid mind into any vivid imagination of what her husband’s misery might have been before he had resorted to the last terrible step; she could only look upon it as it affected herself; she could not enter into the enduring mercy of the God who had not specially interposed to prevent the water from drowning her prostrate husband; and although she was secretly blaming her husband for having fallen into such drear despair, and denying that he had any excuse for his last rash act, she was inveterate in her abuse of all who could by any possibility be supposed to have driven him to such desperation.  The masters—­Mr. Thornton in particular, whose mill had been attacked by Boucher, and who, after the warrant had been issued for his apprehension on the charge of rioting, had caused it to be withdrawn,—­the Union, of which Higgins was the representative to the poor woman,—­the children so numerous, so hungry, and so noisy—­all made up one great army of personal enemies, whose fault it was that she was now a helpless widow.

Margaret heard enough of this unreasonableness to dishearten her; and when they came away she found it impossible to cheer her father.

‘It is the town life,’ said she.  ’Their nerves are quickened by the haste and bustle and speed of everything around them, to say nothing of the confinement in these pent-up houses, which of itself is enough to induce depression and worry of spirits.  Now in the country, people live so much more out of doors, even children, and even in the winter.’

’But people must live in towns.  And in the country some get such stagnant habits of mind that they are almost fatalists.’

’Yes; I acknowledge that.  I suppose each mode of life produces its own trials and its own temptations.  The dweller in towns must find it as difficult to be patient and calm, as the country-bred man must find it to be active, and equal to unwonted emergencies.  Both must find it hard to realise a future of any kind; the one because the present is so living and hurrying and close around him; the other because his life tempts him to revel in the mere sense of animal existence, not knowing of, and consequently not caring for any pungency of pleasure for the attainment of which he can plan, and deny himself and look forward.’