“I tell you, mamma, I must and will have the dress, whether papa chooses or not.”

This was spoken loudly and resolutely; in such tones as I had never heard from Margaret before.

“Pray—­pray, my dear, don’t talk so,” answered the weak, faltering voice of Mrs. Sherwin; “you know you have had more than your year’s allowance of dresses already.”

“I won’t be allowanced. His sister isn’t allowanced:  why should I be?”

“My dear love, surely there is some difference—­”

“I’m sure there isn’t, now I am his wife.  I shall ride some day in my carriage, just as his sister does. He gives me my way in everything; and so ought you.”

“It isn’t me, Margaret:  if I could do anything, I’m sure I would; but I really couldn’t ask your papa for another new dress, after his having given you so many this year, already.”

“That’s the way it always is with you, mamma—­you can’t do this, and you can’t do that—­you are so excessively tiresome!  But I will have the dress, I’m determined.  He says his sister wears light blue crape of an evening; and I’ll have light blue crape, too—­see if I don’t!  I’ll get it somehow from the shop, myself.  Papa never takes any notice, I’m sure, what I have on; and he needn’t find out anything about what’s gone out of the shop, until they ‘take stock,’ or whatever it is he calls it.  And then, if he flies into one of his passions—­”

“My dear! my dear! you really ought not to talk so of your papa—­it is very wrong, Margaret, indeed—­what would Mr. Basil say if he heard you?”

I determined to go in at once, and tell Margaret that I had heard her—­resolving, at the same time, to exert some firmness, and remonstrate with her, for her own good, on much of what she had said, which had really surprised and displeased me.  On my unexpected entrance, Mrs. Sherwin started, and looked more timid than ever.  Margaret, however, came forward to meet me with her wonted smile, and held out her hand with her wonted grace.  I said nothing until we had got into our accustomed corner, and were talking together in whispers as usual.  Then I began my remonstrance—­very tenderly, and in the lowest possible tones.  She took precisely the right way to stop me in full career, in spite of all my resolution.  Her beautiful eyes filled with tears directly—­the first I had ever seen in them:  caused, too, by what I had said!—­and she murmured a few plaintive words about the cruelty of being angry with her for only wanting to please me by being dressed as my sister was, which upset every intention I had formed but the moment before.  I involuntarily devoted myself to soothing her for the rest of the morning.  Need I say how the matter ended?  I never mentioned the subject more; and I made her a present of the new dress.

Some weeks after the little home-breeze which I have just related, had died away into a perfect calm, I was accidentally witness of another domestic dilemma in which Margaret bore a principal share.  On this occasion, as I walked up to the house (in the morning again), I found the front door open.  A pail was on the steps—­the servant had evidently been washing them, had been interrupted in her work, and had forgotten to close the door when she left it.  The nature of the interruption I soon discovered as I entered the hall.