‘I have spared no expense in her trousseau,’ were the next words Margaret heard.

’She has all the beautiful Indian shawls and scarfs the General gave to me, but which I shall never wear again.’

‘She is a lucky girl,’ replied another voice, which Margaret knew to be that of Mrs. Gibson, a lady who was taking a double interest in the conversation, from the fact of one of her daughters having been married within the last few weeks.

’Helen had set her heart upon an Indian shawl, but really when I found what an extravagant price was asked, I was obliged to refuse her.  She will be quite envious when she hears of Edith having Indian shawls.  What kind are they?  Delhi? with the lovely little borders?’

Margaret heard her aunt’s voice again, but this time it was as if she had raised herself up from her half-recumbent position, and were looking into the more dimly lighted back drawing-room.  ‘Edith!  Edith!’ cried she; and then she sank as if wearied by the exertion.  Margaret stepped forward.

‘Edith is asleep, Aunt Shaw.  Is it anything I can do?’

All the ladies said ‘Poor child!’ on receiving this distressing intelligence about Edith; and the minute lap-dog in Mrs. Shaw’s arms began to bark, as if excited by the burst of pity.

’Hush, Tiny! you naughty little girl! you will waken your mistress.  It was only to ask Edith if she would tell Newton to bring down her shawls:  perhaps you would go, Margaret dear?’

Margaret went up into the old nursery at the very top of the house, where Newton was busy getting up some laces which were required for the wedding.  While Newton went (not without a muttered grumbling) to undo the shawls, which had already been exhibited four or five times that day, Margaret looked round upon the nursery; the first room in that house with which she had become familiar nine years ago, when she was brought, all untamed from the forest, to share the home, the play, and the lessons of her cousin Edith.  She remembered the dark, dim look of the London nursery, presided over by an austere and ceremonious nurse, who was terribly particular about clean hands and torn frocks.  She recollected the first tea up there—­separate from her father and aunt, who were dining somewhere down below an infinite depth of stairs; for unless she were up in the sky (the child thought), they must be deep down in the bowels of the earth.  At home—­before she came to live in Harley Street—­her mother’s dressing-room had been her nursery; and, as they kept early hours in the country parsonage, Margaret had always had her meals with her father and mother.  Oh! well did the tall stately girl of eighteen remember the tears shed with such wild passion of grief by the little girl of nine, as she hid her face under the bed-clothes, in that first night; and how she was bidden not to cry by the nurse, because it would disturb Miss Edith; and how she had cried as bitterly,