s, did any work for any wretched sum: a day and night of labor for as
many farthings as there were figures on the dial. If she had quarreled
with it; if she had neglected it; if she had looked upon it with a
moment's hate! if, in the frenzy of an instant, she had struck it! No!
His comfort was, She loved it always.

She told no one of her extremity, and wandered abroad in the day lest
she should be questioned by her only friend: for any help she received
from her hands, occasioned fresh disputes between the good woman and her
husband; and it was new bitterness to be the daily cause of strife and
discord, where she owed so much.

She loved it still. She loved it more and more. But a change fell on the
aspect of her love.

One night she was singing faintly to it in its sleep and walking to and
fro to hush it, when her door was softly opened, and a man looked in.

"For the last time," he said.

"William Fern!"

"For the last time."

He listened like a man pursued: and spoke in whispers.

"Margaret, my race is nearly run, I couldn't finish it, without a
parting word with you. Without one grateful word."

"What have you done?" she asked: regarding him with terror.

He looked at her but gave no answer.

After a short silence, he made a gesture with his hand, as if he set her
question by; as if he brushed it aside; and said:

"It's long ago, Margaret, now; but that night is as fresh in my memory
as ever 'twas. We little thought then," he added, looking round, "that
we should ever meet like this. Your child, Margaret? Let me have it in
my arms. Let me hold your child."

He put his hat upon the floor, and took it. And he trembled as he took
it, from head to foot.

"Is it a girl?"

"Yes."

He put his hand before its little face.

"See how weak I'm grown, Margaret, when I want the courage to look at
it! Let her be, a moment. I won't hurt her. It's long ago, but--What's
her name?"

"Margaret," she answered quickly.

"I'm glad of that," he said. "I'm glad of that!"

He seemed to breathe more freely; and after pausing for an instant, took
away his hand, and looked upon the infant's face. But covered it again,
immediately.

"Margaret!" he said; and gave her back the child. "It's Lilian's."

"Lilian's!"

"I held the same face in my arms when Lilian's mother died and left
her."

"When Lilian's mother died and left her!" she repeated, wildly.

"How shrill you speak! Why do you fix your eyes upon me so? M