For little Margaret she had no love, nought but bitter words; while her father, growing more silent and morose each day, and finding his home a scene of contest, absented himself, and passed most of his leisure hours with more congenial companions in the village.

Margaret grew to womanhood with but a limited education; indeed, a very meagre one, such only as she could obtain from an irregular attendance at the village school, in summer when the farm work was lightest, and in winter, a day now and then when the bleak weather and the rough, almost impassable roads allowed her to reach the place which was to her far more pleasant than any other on earth.

It was her hands which done the heaviest and hardest work of the family.  No word of cheer or praise ever passed her mother’s lips.  All this, and it was no wonder her life was crushed out, that her step had no lightness, and her eye none of the vivacity of youth.  The out-door work, such as caring for the cattle, was, at last added to her other burdens; yet all this she would have done willingly, could her soul have received something which she felt she so much needed-the light and blessing of love.  She was deeply impressed with this when she entered other homes on errands, and she longed for the warmth of affection she saw manifested in every look and word of their happy inmates.  Yet her poor, crushed nature dared not rise and assert its rights.  She had been oppressed so long, that the mind had lost all native elasticity, and one whose sympathies were alive would have looked on her as a blighted bud-a poor uncared for flower, by life’s road-side.

It was quite dark when she finished her milking, and went to give the young heifer her hay.  She loved this animal more than any living thing beside the old house dog, and as she patted her soft hide, the creature turned on her eyes which seemed full of love, as if to show to her that there is some light in the darkest hour, something compensatory in the lowliest form of labor.  Margaret lingered beside the animal, and thought how much better she loved her than she did her present mother.  “I love you, Bessie,” she said, as the creature stretched forth her head to scent the warm milk in the pail.  “I ’ve a good mind to, Bessie; you want some, don’t you?” and without stopping to think of the consequences, she turned some of the contents of the pail into Bessie’s trough.

“Margaret Thorne!  I wonder if you don’t know when it’s dark.  It’s high time your work was done!” screamed her mother at the top of her voice.  She seized her pails and ran to the house, making all possible haste to strain and set the milk away.  But Mrs. Thorne took it from her hands, saying, “Go and ’tend to the supper.  I’ll do this myself.”

“There ain’t as much as there ought to be inter two quarts,” said her mother, returning and looking the girl squarely in the eye.  “What does this mean?  I’d like to know.”

Margaret was awe-struck.  She dared not tell her that she had given some to Bessie, and yet she could not tell an untruth.  One struggle, and she answered:  “I gave some to Bessie,” letting fall a dish in her fright.  It broke into atoms.