shaking with suppressed laughter; and though I
could not imagine what had excited her mirth, I had known her convulsed
by a ridiculous thought of her own, in the midst of general seriousness.

But all at once unmistakable sobs broke forth, and I found she was
crying heartily, genuinely,--crying without any self control, with all
the abandonment of a child.

"Margaret!" I exclaimed, laying my hand gently on her quivering
shoulder, "what is the matter? What can have excited you in this manner?
Don't, Madge,--you terrify me."

"I can't help it," she sobbed. "Now I have began, I can't stop. O dear,
what a fool I am! There is nothing the matter with me. I don't know what
makes me cry; but I can't help it,--I hate myself,--I can't bear myself,
and yet I can't change myself. Nobody that I care for will ever love me.
I am such a hoyden--such a romp--I disgust every one that comes near me;
and yet I can't be gentle and sweet like you, if I die. I used to think
because I made everybody laugh, they liked me. People said, 'Oh! there's
Madge, she will keep us alive.' And I thought it was a fine thing to be
called Wild Madge, and Meg the Dauntless; I begin to hate the names; I
begin to blush when I think of myself."

And Margaret lifted her head, and the feelings of lately awakened
womanhood crimsoned her cheeks, and streamed from her eyes. I was
electrified. What prophet hand had smitten the rock? What power had
drawn up the rosy fluid from the Artesian well of her heart?

"My dear Margaret," I cried, "I hail this moment as the dawn of a new
life in your soul. Your childhood has lingered long, but the moment you
feel that you have the heart of a woman, you will discard the follies of
a child. Now you begin to live, when you are conscious of the golden
moments you have wasted, the noble capacities you have never yet
exerted. Oh Margaret, I feel more and more every day I live, that I was
born for something more than the enjoyment of the passing moment,--that
life was given for a more exalted purpose than self-gratification, and
that as we use or abuse this gift of God we become heirs of glory or of
shame."

Margaret listened with a subdued countenance and a long drawn sigh. She
strenuously wiped away the traces of her tears, and shook back the hair
from her brow, with a resolute motion.

"You despise me--I know you do," she said, gloomily.

"No, indeed," I answered, "I never liked you half as well before; I
doubted your sensi