‘And does he not answer you?’ asked Mr. Hale.

‘Well!  I’ll not say th’ advantage is all on his side, for all I take credit for improving him above a bit.  Sometimes he says a rough thing or two, which is not agreeable to look at at first, but has a queer smack o’ truth in it when yo’ come to chew it.  He’ll be coming to-night, I reckon, about them childer’s schooling.  He’s not satisfied wi’ the make of it, and wants for t’ examine ’em.’

’What are they’—­began Mr. Hale; but Margaret, touching his arm, showed him her watch.

‘It is nearly seven,’ she said.  ’The evenings are getting longer now.  Come, papa.’  She did not breathe freely till they were some distance from the house.  Then, as she became more calm, she wished that she had not been in so great a hurry; for, somehow, they saw Mr. Thornton but very seldom now; and he might have come to see Higgins, and for the old friendship’s sake she should like to have seen him to-night.

Yes! he came very seldom, even for the dull cold purpose of lessons.  Mr. Hale was disappointed in his pupil’s lukewarmness about Greek literature, which had but a short time ago so great an interest for him.  And now it often happened that a hurried note from Mr. Thornton would arrive, just at the last moment, saying that he was so much engaged that he could not come to read with Mr. Hale that evening.  And though other pupils had taken more than his place as to time, no one was like his first scholar in Mr. Hale’s heart.  He was depressed and sad at this partial cessation of an intercourse which had become dear to him; and he used to sit pondering over the reason that could have occasioned this change.

He startled Margaret, one evening as she sate at her work, by suddenly asking: 

’Margaret! had you ever any reason for thinking that Mr. Thornton cared for you?’

He almost blushed as he put this question; but Mr. Bell’s scouted idea recurred to him, and the words were out of his mouth before he well knew what he was about.

Margaret did not answer immediately; but by the bent drooping of her head, he guessed what her reply would be.

‘Yes; I believe—­oh papa, I should have told you.’  And she dropped her work, and hid her face in her hands.

’No, dear; don’t think that I am impertinently curious.  I am sure you would have told me if you had felt that you could return his regard.  Did he speak to you about it?’

No answer at first; but by-and-by a little gentle reluctant ‘Yes.’

‘And you refused him?’

A long sigh; a more helpless, nerveless attitude, and another ‘Yes.’  But before her father could speak, Margaret lifted up her face, rosy with some beautiful shame, and, fixing her eyes upon him, said: 

’Now, papa, I have told you this, and I cannot tell you more; and then the whole thing is so painful to me; every word and action connected with it is so unspeakably bitter, that I cannot bear to think of it.  Oh, papa, I am sorry to have lost you this friend, but I could not help it—­but oh!  I am very sorry.’  She sate down on the ground, and laid her head on his knees.