How long Margaret laid there, she never knew, but when she came to consciousness she found herself in her own room, and her father bending over her, with a look she had never seen on his face before,—one of deep anxiety for her.

“All this ere comes from letting her go out in the air every day,” were the first words which broke the silence, and conveyed to her senses that any one beside her father was in the room.

All the recollection of her misery came over her then. She had forgotten all, save that her father looked with eyes of love upon her. The shrill voice broke the heavenly spell, and Magdalen knelt again in prayer at the Saviour's feet.

She closed her eyes as though she would shut out the sorrow from her soul, while a look of deep pain settled on her features which her father mistook for physical suffering. There was something in her pale face then, that reminded him of her dear, dead mother. It touched the long buried love which had lain in his uncultured nature many years, and he drew his sleeve roughly across his eyes to wipe away the tears which would come, despite the searching glance of his wife, who looked upon any demonstration of that kind as so much loss to herself.

He thought Margaret would surely die. It must be some terrible disease that caused her to look so white, and made her breathing so low and still, and he resolved to go for a physician.

His decision met with little favor from Mrs. Thorne, who fretted continually about the extra work and expense of a sick person, interspersing her growls with the remark which seemed stereotyped for the occasion:

“A nice job I've got on my hands for the summer.”

“Come, I 'll have no more grumbling to-night. How long the poor girl laid in the woods nobody knows. May-be she fainted and fell, and them ere faintin' spells is dreadful dangerous, and I'm going for the doctor, if it takes the farm to pay for 't.”

When Caleb Thorne spoke like that, his wife well knew that words of her own were of little avail, and she wisely concluded to keep silent.

Margaret might have remained as she had fallen, faint and uncared for in the woods, for a long time, had not the faithful dog, who instinctively knew that something was wrong, ran furiously to the house, and by strange motions and piteous pleading moans attracted the attention of Mr. Thorne from his work. Trot would not act as he did without cause. Caleb knew that, so he left his work and followed the dog, who ran speedily towards the woods, momentarily looking back to be sure that his master was close at hand, until he reached the spot where Margaret laid.

He thought her lifeless, and raising her from the ground, bore her home, while a heavier burden at his heart kept his eyes blinded, his steps slow, and his walk uneven.

When the physician arrived, he saw, at a glance, that some great trouble rested, like a dense cloud, on the girl's mind. Her restless manner and desire to remain silent, showed plainly that some great anguish was working its sorrow within, and silently he prayed to heaven, that the young heart might find that relief which no art or skill of his could impart. He could only allay the fever into which her blood was thrown, and as he went out, left his orders, saying, he would call again on the morrow.

“She's as well able to work as I am, this blessed minit,” impetuously exclaimed Mrs. Thorne, who could ill brook the state of affairs.

“If looks tell anything, her pale face aint no match for yourn in health, Huldah,” remarked Caleb, as he glanced somewhat reproachingly at the full, red features of his wife.

“A white face aint allus a sign of sickness; here I might be next to death, and my face be getting redder and redder at every pain,—but then who cares for me? No one, as I knows on.”

She turned and found she might have left her last words unspoken, for Caleb had gone to milk the cows, and she was alone.

It was no sudden thought. Every hour since the day they found her in the woods insensible, she had busily matured her plans. Those words,—“You can never be my wife,” made life to her of no moment, save to find a spot of obscurity in which to conceal her shame, and spare her old father the grief she knew it must bring him.

She must leave her home, none but strangers must know of her sorrow; and when health returned and she went about her daily toils, a short time prior to the crisis of her grief, she deeply thought upon where she might turn her weary steps. She had heard of a factory in N—, a town twenty miles distant, where girls earned a great deal of money. She would go there and work until-O, the pain, the anguish of her heart, as the terrible truth came close and closer every day upon her. And then she would go. Where? No mother's love to help her, no right granted her to bring another life into being. How keenly upbraiding came to her at that moment the great truth, a truth which cannot be too deeply impressed upon every human mind, that no child should be ushered into this world without due preparation on the part of its parents for its mental, moral and physical well-being. Let pity drop a tear, for sad indeed was her lot.

One day she gathered what little clothing she possessed, and made up a small parcel preparatory to her departure, and as her only time of escape would be in the night, she carefully concealed it, and went about her work in her usual, silent manner.

One moonlight night when all was still, she took her little bundle and went softly down stairs. Noiselessly she trod across the kitchen floor, pulled the bolt, lifted the latch, and stood outside. For an instant she paused. A rush of feelings came over her, a feeling of regret, for it was hard even for her to break away from familiar scenes, and leave the roof that had sheltered her; but it would not do to linger long, for Trot might bark and arouse her father. Then she could not bear the thought that she should never see the faithful old dog again; and almost decided to go to him, but the thought had scarcely entered her mind ere her old companion was at her side. His keen sense of hearing had caught the sound of her movements, though to her they had seemed noiseless, and he had come from his kennel and stood at her side, looking up in her face as though he knew all her plans.

Her courage almost forsook her as he stood there, wagging his tail and eyeing her so closely. She feared that he would follow her, and thought she must go back to her room and make a new start; but now she was out of the house, and, perhaps she could not escape another time without disturbing her parents. This thought nerved her to carry out her resolve, and she walked rapidly away. One look at the old house, as her step was on the hill which would soon hide it from her view. One more look at old Trot, then she waved her hand for him to go back, and swiftly walked as though borne by some unseen power. The grey light of morning touched the eastern hills just as she lost sight of her native village.

New scenes were before her, and from them she gathered fresh inspiration. The houses scattered along the roadside, from which persons were just coming forth to labor, gave her new feelings and enlivened her way, until at length something like fear that she might be recognized and sent back came upon her; but her fears were groundless, and she passed on and soon came to a deep, wooded road, closely hedged on either side by tall trees, whose spreading branches seemed to her like protecting arms. There she could walk slower, and breathe more free, and for the first time for many days her mind relaxed its tension.

She was plodding along, musing upon the past and trying to discern some outline of her future, when the sound of steps following her caused the blood to leap to her face. Looking around she beheld Trot, and ordered him back; but words were of no avail; he had scented her footsteps thus far, and seemed determined to follow her to her journey's end.

“Poor fellow,” she said, patting his head, “I would not send you back if I had a home for you,” and she tried again to induce him to return, but he only gave a sigh, or sort of moan, as though imploring her to keep him with her.

She could no more bid him depart. Was he not her only friend, and did he not love her as none other did? So she patted him again and said,—

“Perhaps God will provide for us both. Come on, dear, old brave fellow,” and then the faithful animal's eyes lit up with almost human gratitude, and he ran on joyfully before her.

The tall trees waved their branches in the morning breeze, and their music touched her soul, and attuned it to sweeter harmony than it had known for years. The flame of hope began to kindle anew. There might be some one, after all, who would pity her, who would not wholly condemn her; while the music of the tall pines seemed like angel voices, saying: “Yes, love her, pity her, and all on whom the blight of sorrow falls.”

She loved the music of the singing trees, and was grieved when the road turned off towards a hill, and she was obliged to part with the protection and seclusion which they afforded her. But taking fresh courage from the guide-board, which indicated her approach to N—, she travelled bravely on. She had provided herself with provisions for a single day only, and had scarcely dared to take even that from the plenty of her father's home. Reaching a sheltered spot by the roadside, and feeling faint and weary, she sat down and shared her food with her dog.

Ten miles of her journey had been passed, and more rapidly than she could hope to continue, and she found that on a renewal of it, she must proceed more leisurely.

A sad, but interesting picture they made. She, with her young, fair face, touched by lines of grief; the once dreamy eyes, so soft, now full of nervous fire, and wild with restless fear. Her bonnet was thrown back from her shoulders, and the golden sun of morning touched her wavy hair, till it glowed and seemed like a halo of light about her pale brow.

When their little repast was over, she rested her head upon her hands, and from her soul went forth a prayer for guidance and protection,—more deep and earnest than words can portray.