ay here," responded Margaret. "I could have
Dinah's son Abram to sleep in the house, if necessary."

"You could never stay here alone, you ought not to think of it," said
Winthrop. "We know better than you do about that." He had seated himself
at some distance from her. Mr. Moore still kept his place before the
fire, and Margaret was beside him; she held a little fan-shaped screen
in her hand to shade her face from the glow.

"I am sure Mr. Moore will say that it is safe," she answered.

"I included him; I said 'we,'" said Winthrop, challengingly.

Mr. Moore extended his long legs with a slightly uneasy movement. "I
regret to say that I fear Mr. Winthrop is right; it would not be safe at
present, even with Abram in the house. The river is no longer what it
was" (he refrained from saying "your northern steamers have made the
change;") "the people who live in the neighborhood are respectable, but
the increased facilities for traffic have brought us dangerous
characters."

"Of course you will go back to East Angels," Winthrop began.

"I think not. If I cannot stay here, I shall go north."

"North? Where?"

"There are plenty of places. There is my grandmother's old house in the
country, where I lived when I was a child; it is closed now, but I could
open it; I should like to see the old rooms once more." She spoke
quietly, her manner was that she was taking it for granted that the
clergyman knew everything, that Winthrop had told him all. She was a
deserted wife, there was no need for any of them to go through the form
of covering that up.

"That would be a perfectly crazy idea," began Winthrop. Then he stopped.

"We should be exceedingly sorry to lose you, Mrs. Harold--Penelope would
be exceedingly sorry," said Mr. Moore, in his amiable voice. "I can
understand that it would afford you much pleasure to revisit your
childhood's home. But East Angels, too--after so long a stay there, may
we not hope that it presents to you a friendly aspect?"

"I prefer to go north," Margaret answered.

Mr. Moore did not combat this decision; he did not, in truth, know quite
what to advise just at present; it required thought. Here was a woman
who had been cruelly outraged by the scandalous, by the incredibly
abandoned conduct of the worst of husbands. She had no mother to go to
(the clergyman felt this to be an unspeakable misfortune), but she was
not a child; they could not dictate to her, she was a free agent. But
women--wom