Surprised and terrified at her daughter’s disappearance, the old lady went to the door and, shading her eyes, looked anxiously up the road, but with her failing eyesight she was unable to catch sight of the fugitive.

“The child must be crazy,” she said to herself. “She’ll catch her death of cold, going out so soon after the fever. I must go after her and bring her back.”

Putting on her hood once more, the old lady went out, and took the road towards the city. But she did not find her daughter. Returning with a heavy heart and a sense of deep perplexity she sat down to her knitting, first carefully putting away the orange, which she thought Margaret might like to eat if, as she hoped, she should discover her weakness and return home at night.

But Margaret did not come that night, nor yet again the next.

When she left her mother’s house she hurried forward at a greater speed than her strength admitted, so great was her anxiety to elude pursuit. She had not gone half a mile when she found her strength failing her. Quite exhausted, she staggered to a flat stone by the side of the road, and sat down.

“Mother was right,” she said to herself; “I am not strong enough for this journey; but I must get on somehow now that I have started.”

At this moment her eye rested on the half dollar which she had taken, and which she still held in her hand.

“Perhaps this will procure me a ride,” she thought. “What matter if I am penniless afterwards. I only care to live long enough to be revenged.”

She looked back on the road she had travelled, hoping to see some wagon which might serve her purpose.

A little distance off was a covered market wagon, advancing at a good round pace. The driver was a stout, pleasant-looking man, and Margaret, hurriedly scanning his features, judged that she might venture to accost him.

She accordingly rose from the stone on which she had been sitting, and made a gesture for him to stop.

Somewhat surprised, he called out: “Hold up, Dick! Now, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“Would you be willing to take a passenger to New York?”

“Yes, ma’am, just as lieves as not.”

“I am quite willing to pay you. Will that be enough?” asked Margaret, offering the half dollar.

“Yes, ma’am; enough, and fifty cents too much. Your company will be pay enough. But, hold on a minute; I’ll jump out and help you in.”

“Thank you; I have been sick, and am not so strong as usual, otherwise I would not trouble you.”

“No trouble at all. You look as if you’d been sick,—kinder peaked, just as my Sarah Jane looked after she’d had the fever. Ain’t it rather imprudent for you to be out?”

“Perhaps it is; but I have something to do which cannot be delayed.”

The driver seemed disposed to be social and communicative.

“I’d orter be pretty well used to this road; I’ve come on it twice a week for the last fifteen years.”

“Have you?” said Margaret, listlessly.

“Yes, marketing. That’s my business. I’ve got a regular run of customers, you see, and they’ve got used to me, and know I’ll never bring anything but what’s good. There’s Judge Harcouth now; may be you to know the judge?”

“No.”

“His wife won’t never buy no sausages except what I bring. Well, mine are pretty good, if I do say it. I get old Marm Brown to make ‘em, and she’d orter know how, for she’s been in the business for forty years. Do you like sausages?”

“I don’t know,” said Margaret, who had not heard a word that was said.

“Don’t know,” repeated the driver, staring at her in surprise.

“Excuse me; I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I asked if you liked sausages. Some folks have a prejudice agin ‘em.”

“Yes, pretty well.”

“I like to have company,” continued the driver; “like to have somebody to talk to. Talkin’s natural to the family. My mother had a pretty long tongue, and used to use it most all the time, so that none of the rest of us could get in a word edgeways.”

Apparently, the mother’s gift had descended to the son, for he kept up a constant stream of talk, which was fortunate for Margaret, for he expected little in the way of response, and so was less likely to notice her abstraction.

“Last week I brought my oldest boy, Hamlet, with me. Queer name, isn’t?”

“No.”

“Why, ‘taint very common,” said the driver, a little surprised at this negative.

“That is what I mean,” said Margaret, hurriedly.

“I s’pose you wonder what made me give him such a name, but the fact is my own name is pretty common. You may have heard of John Smith?”

“I think I have heard the name,” said Margaret, absently.

Her grave manner was thought to conceal something jocose by Mr. Smith, who laughed heartily, ejaculating “Good, by jingo!” somewhat to Margaret’s surprise.

“That’s why,” he resumed, “I thought I’d give my children at least one name that wasn’t common, so I concluded to ask the schoolmaster for some. He told me I’d find what I wanted in Shakespeare, so I bought a copy second hand, and the very fust name I come across was Hamlet. So I gave that name to my oldest boy. My second boy’s name is Othello—the boys call him Old Fellow; pretty good joke, isn’t it? I didn’t know till afterwards that it was the name of a nigger, or I shouldn’t have taken it. However, it sounds pretty well; think so?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ve got two girls, I call them Desdemony and Parsley, and the baby we haven’t decided about, but I reckon we shall call him Falstaff. Falstaff was a good-natured old fellow as fur as I’ve read about him. But I don’t know as you’re interested about these matters.”

“Oh, yes,” said Margaret, looking straight before her in the direction of the city, whose spires were now discernible.

“Got any children of your own, ma’am?”

“No.”

“I calculate you’re married?”

“Yes—no,” said Margaret, agitated, for the question opened her wound afresh.

“Queer customer, I calc’late,” thought Mr. Smith. “Don’t seem to know whether she’s married or not. May be she’s been divorced.”

“Excuse me,” said Margaret, feeling it necessary to say something. “I believe I am not strong enough to talk much.”

“Oh well, I’ll do all the talkin’,” said the driver, good-naturedly. “You don’t look very rugged, that’s a fact. Ever tried Dr. Bangs’s Bitters?”

“No.”

“Well, my wife thinks a sight of ‘em; says they go right to the weak spot. Better buy some when you get a good chance.”

So Mr. Smith ran on, satisfied with an occasional response from Margaret, till they reached the paved streets where the noise was too great to admit of being easily heard.

“Where do you want to get out?” shouted Mr. Smith. “I’ll pull up whenever you say so.”

When they reached the central part of the city, Margaret gave the signal, and Mr. Smith assisted her out.

“You had better let me pay you,” she said.

“No, no, you’re perfectly welcome. I like company. It sort of shortens the way. Just hail me again whenever you’re going my way, and I’ll give you a lift and welcome.”

“Thank you; you are very kind.”

Margaret mechanically took the first street that led into Broadway. She felt more at home in a crowd, and scarcely knowing where she was going, walked slowly along the sidewalk, jostled on this side and on that, but apparently without heeding it.

At length her attention was attracted.

On the opposite side of the street a couple were walking slowly, chatting in a lively way as they walked. The lady was gayly dressed, and was evidently pleased with the attentions of her companion. He is an old acquaintance, Jacob Wynne, the scrivener, but no more resembling his former self than a butterfly the chrysalis from which it emerged. Lewis Rand had paid him the thousand dollars agreed upon, and he had patronized the tailor extensively in consequence. He was now fashionably attired, and had the air of one on whom fortune smiles.

It was only by chance that Margaret’s attention was drawn to him.

When she recognized him, all at once her heart sank within her. In her enfeebled state the shock was too great. She sank upon a step half fainting.

It was the step of a fashionable store, and she was directly in the way of those entering.

“Come, be off,” said a clerk, rudely; “we can’t have any vagabonds here.”

Margaret’s look of weakness and helpless misery, as she tried to rise, attracted the attention of a young girl who was passing. It was Helen Ford, just returning from rehearsal at the theatre.

“Are you sick?” she asked, in a tone of sympathy.

“I am afraid I am,” said Margaret, faintly.

“Where is your home? Let me lead you to it.”

“My home!” repeated Margaret. “I have none.”

“No home!” said Helen, in a tone of compassion. “Then where do you expect to sleep to-night?”

“Heaven only knows.”

“If you will come with me, I will take care of you to-night,” said Helen. “You are too sick to be out.”

“Will you, indeed, be so kind?” said Margaret, gratefully.

“I shall be glad to help you. Now lean on my arm. Don’t be afraid; I am strong.”

Margaret rose, and with tottering step accompanied Helen to the boarding-house. She led her up stairs to Martha Grey’s apartment.

Quickly communicating to Martha where and under what circumstances she had found her, she asked the seamstress if she would be willing to allow her to remain with her. Martha readily entered into Helen’s charitable views, and together they strove to make their unexpected visitor comfortable.

Helen little suspected that the woman whom in her compassion she had succored, had it in her power to restore to her father the estate of which he had been defrauded. Sometimes even in this world the good Samaritan receives his reward.