’Edith says she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better and cheaper than in London.’

‘Does she?’ said her father.  ’I think that must be one of Edith’s exaggerations.  Are you sure of it, Margaret?’

‘I am sure she says so, papa.’

‘Then I am sure of the fact,’ said Mr. Bell.  ’Margaret, I go so far in my idea of your truthfulness, that it shall cover your cousin’s character.  I don’t believe a cousin of yours could exaggerate.’

‘Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?’ said Mr. Thornton, bitterly.  The moment he had done so, he could have bitten his tongue out.  What was he?  And why should he stab her with her shame in this way?  How evil he was to-night; possessed by ill-humour at being detained so long from her; irritated by the mention of some name, because he thought it belonged to a more successful lover; now ill-tempered because he had been unable to cope, with a light heart, against one who was trying, by gay and careless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly away,—­the kind old friend to all parties, whose manner by this time might be well known to Mr. Thornton, who had been acquainted with him for many years.  And then to speak to Margaret as he had done!  She did not get up and leave the room, as she had done in former days, when his abruptness or his temper had annoyed her.  She sat quite still, after the first momentary glance of grieved surprise, that made her eyes look like some child’s who has met with an unexpected rebuff; they slowly dilated into mournful, reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she bent over her work, and did not speak again.  But he could not help looking at her, and he saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered in some unwonted chill.  He felt as the mother would have done, in the midst of ‘her rocking it, and rating it,’ had she been called away before her slow confiding smile, implying perfect trust in mother’s love, had proved the renewing of its love.  He gave short sharp answers; he was uneasy and cross, unable to discern between jest and earnest; anxious only for a look, a word of hers, before which to prostrate himself in penitent humility.  But she neither looked nor spoke.  Her round taper fingers flew in and out of her sewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the business of her life.  She could not care for him, he thought, or else the passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise those eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance in his.  He could have struck her before he left, in order that by some strange overt act of rudeness, he might earn the privilege of telling her the remorse that gnawed at his heart.  It was well that the long walk in the open air wound up this evening for him.  It sobered him back into grave resolution, that henceforth he would see as little of her as possible,—­since the very sight of that face arid form, the very sounds of that voice (like the soft winds of pure melody) had such power to move him from his balance.  Well!  He had known what love was—­a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling! but, through that furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity of middle age,—­all the richer and more human for having known this great passion.