"I can't tell," said Ethel, "but it is the being triumphed over that I cannot bear."

"Perhaps this is all a lesson in humility for us," said Margaret "It is teaching us, 'Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.'"

Ethel was silent for some little space, then suddenly exclaimed, "And you think he will really be put down?"

Margaret seemed to have been talking with little effect, but she kept her patience, and answered, "I cannot guess, Ethel, but I'll tell you one thing--I think there's much more chance if he comes to his work fresh and vigorous after a rest, than if he went on dulling himself with it all this time."

With which Ethel was so far appeased that she promised to think as little as she could of the Andersons, and a walk with Richard to Cocksmoor turned the current of her thoughts. They had caught some more Sunday-school children by the help of Margaret's broth, but it was uphill work; the servants did not like such guests in the kitchen, and they were still less welcome at school.

"What do you think I heard, Ethel?" said Flora, the next Sunday, as they joined each other in the walk from school to church; "I heard Miss Graves say to Miss Boulder, 'I declare I must remonstrate. I undertook to instruct a national, not a ragged school;' and then Miss Boulder shook out her fine watered silk and said, 'It positively is improper to place ladies in contact with such squalid objects.'"

"Ladies!" cried Ethel. "A stationer's daughter and a banker's clerk's!

Why do they come to teach at school at all?"

"Because our example makes it genteel," said Flora.

"I hope you did something more in hopes of making it genteel."

"I caught one of your ragged regiment with her frock gaping behind, and pinned it up. Such rags as there were under it! Oh, Ethel!"

"Which was it?"

"That merry Irish-looking child. I don't know her name."

"Oh! it is a real charming Irish name, Una M'Carthy. I am so glad you did it, Flora. I hope they were ashamed."

"I doubt whether it will do good. We are sure of our station and can do anything--they are struggling to be ladies."

"But we ought not to talk of them any more, Flora; here we are almost at the churchyard."

The Tuesday of this week was appointed for the visit of the London surgeon, Sir Matthew Fleet, and the expectation caused Dr. May to talk much to Margaret of old times, and the days of is courtship, when it had been his favourite project that his friend and fellow-student should marry Flora Mackenzie, and there had been a promising degree of liking, but "Mat" had been obliged to be prudent, and had ended by never marrying at all. This the doctor, as well as his daughters, believed was for the sake of Aunt Flora, and thus the girls were a good deal excited about his coming, almost as much on his own account, as because they considered him as the arbiter of Margaret's fate. He only came in time for a seven o'clock dinner, and Margaret did not see him that night, but heard enough from her sisters, when they came up to tell the history of their guest, and of the first set dinner when Flora had acted as lady of the house. The dinner it appeared had gone off very well. Flora had managed admirably, and the only mishap was some awkward carving of Ethel's which had caused the dish to be changed with Norman. As to the guest, Flora said he was very good-looking and agreeable. Ethel abruptly pronounced, "I am very glad Aunt Flora married Uncle Arnott instead."

"I can't think why," said Flora. "I never saw a person of pleasanter manners."

"Did they talk of old times?" said Margaret.

"No," said Ethel; "that was the thing."

"You would not have them talk of those matters in the middle of dinner,"

said Flora.

"No," again said Ethel; "but papa has a way--don't you know, Margaret, how one can tell in a moment if it is company talk."

"What was the conversation about?" said Margaret.

"They talked over some of their fellow-students," said Flora.

"Yes," said Ethel; "and then when papa told him that beautiful history of Dr. Spencer going to take care of those poor emigrants in the fever, what do you think he said? 'Yes, Spencer was always doing extravagant things.' Fancy that to papa, who can hardly speak of it without having to wipe his spectacles, and who so longs to hear of Dr. Spencer."

"And what did he say?"

"Nothing; so Flora and Sir Matthew got to pictures and all that sort of thing, and it was all company talk after that."

"Most entertaining in its kind," said Flora: "but--oh, Norman!" as he entered--"why, they are not out of the dining-room yet!"

"No; they are talking of some new invention, and most likely will not come for an hour."

"Are you going to bed?"

"Papa followed me out of the dining-room to tell me to do so after tea."

"Then sit down there, and I'll go and make some, and let it come up with Margaret's. Come, Ethel. Good-night, Norman. Is your head aching to-night?"

"Not much, now I have got out of the dining-room."

"It would have been wiser not to have gone in," said Flora, leaving the room.

"It was not the dinner, but the man," said Norman. "It is incomprehensible to me how my father could take to him. I'd as soon have Harvey Anderson for a friend!"

"You are like me," said Ethel, "in being glad he is not our uncle."

"He presume to think of falling in love with Aunt Flora!" cried Norman indignantly.

"Why, what is the matter with him?" asked Margaret. "I can't find much ground for Ethel's dislike, and Flora is pleased."

"She did not hear the worst, nor you either, Ethel," said Norman. "I could not stand the cold hard way he spoke of hospital patients. I am sure he thinks poor people nothing but a study, and rich ones nothing but a profit. And his half sneers! But what I hated most was his way of avoiding discussions. When he saw he had said what would not go down with papa, he did not honestly stand up to the point, and argue it out, but seemed to have no mind of his own, and to be only talking to please papa--but not knowing how to do it. He understand my father indeed!"

Norman's indignation had quite revived him, and Margaret was much entertained with the conflicting opinions. The next was Richard's, when he came in late to wish her good-night, after he had been attending on Sir Matthew's examination of his father's arm. He did nothing but admire the surgeon's delicacy of touch and understanding of the case, his view agreeing much better with Dr. May's own than that with Mr. Ward's.

Dr. May had never been entirely satisfied with the present mode of treatment, and Richard was much struck by hearing him say, in answer to Sir Matthew, that he knew his recovery might have been more speedy and less painful if he had been able to attend to it at first, or to afford time for being longer laid up. A change of treatment was now to be made, likely soon to relieve the pain, to be less tedious and troublesome, and to bring about a complete cure in three or four months at latest.

In hearing such tidings, there could be little thought of the person who brought them, and Margaret did not, till the last moment, learn that Richard thought Sir Matthew very clever and sensible, and certain to understand her case. Her last visitor was her father: "Asleep, Margaret?

I thought I had better go to Norman first in case he should be awake."

"Was he?"

"Yes, but his pulse is better to-night. He was lying awake to hear what Fleet thought of me. I suppose Richard told you?"

"Yes, dear papa; what a comfort it is!"

"Those fellows in London do keep up to the mark! But I would not be there for something. I never saw a man so altered. However, if he can only do for you as well--but it is of no use talking about it. I may trust you to keep yourself calm, my dear?"

"I am trying--indeed I am, dear papa. If you could help being anxious for me--though I know it is worse for you, for I only have to lie still, and you have to settle for me. But I have been thinking how well off I am, able to enjoy so much, and be employed all day long. It is nothing to compare with that poor girl you told me of, and you need not be unhappy for me. I have some verses to say over to myself to-night:

"O Lord my God, do Thou Thy holy will, I will lie still, I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm And break the charm That lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast In perfect rest.

"Is not that comfortable?"

"My child--my dear child--I will say no more, lest I should break your sweet peace with my impatience. I will strive for the same temper, my Margaret. Bless you, dearest, good-night."