expected. And his treatment of you,
in the matter of that woman's character, was," cried Barton, growing
indignant as he thought of it, "one of the very basest things I ever
heard of. I had seen that woman before; she was not fit to be entrusted
with the care of girls. She was at one time very well known."

Mrs. St. John Deloraine's face had passed through every shade of
expression--doubt, shame, and indignation; but now it assumed an air of
hope.

"Margaret has always spoken so well of him," she said, half to herself.
"He was always very kind to her, and yet she was only the poor daughter
of a humble acquaintance."

"Perhaps he deviated into kindness for once," said Barton; "but as to
his general character, it is certain that it was on a par with the trap
he laid for you. I wish I knew where to find him. You must never let him
get the poor girl back into his hands."

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Si John Deloraine, with conviction in
her voice; "and now I must go back to her, and see whether she wants
anything. Do you think I may soon move her to my own house, in Cheyne
Walk? It is not far, and she will be so much more comfortable there."

"The best thing you can do," said Barton; "and be sure you send for me
if you want me, or if you ever hear anything more of Mr. Cranley. I am
quite ready to meet him anywhere."

"You will call to-morrow?"

"Certainly, about this time," said Barton; and he kept his promise
assiduously, calling often.

A fortnight went by, and Margaret, almost restored to health, and in
a black tea-gown, the property of Mrs. St. John Deloraine, was lying
indolently on a sofa in the house in Cheyne Walk. She was watching the
struggle between the waning daylight and the fire, when the door opened,
and the servant announced "Dr. Barton."

Margaret held forth a rather languid hand.

"I'm so sorry Mrs. St. John Deloraine is out," she said. "She is at
a soap-bubble party. I wish I could go. It is so long since I saw any
children, or had any fun."

So Margaret spoke, and then she sighed, remembering the reason why she
should not attend soap-bubble parties.

"I'm selfish enough to be glad you could not go," said Barton; "for then
I should have missed you. But why do you sigh?"

"I have had a good many things to make me unhappy," said Margaret, "in
addition to my--to my accident. You must not think I am always bewailing
myself. But perhaps you know that I lost my father, just before I
entered Mrs