It was past seven when Margaret came in from posting her letter; she had walked on almost unconsciously for an hour or two—into the city, deserted after the business of the day, and back by the Embankment, to avoid the traffic near the theatres.

The last few hours had been so full of events they had changed the whole current of her life; but as yet she was hardly able to take in all the meanings attached to them. She was like a woman in a dream struggling to awake; it seemed as if everything that had happened concerned some one else rather than herself. Oh, if she could feel more acutely—she even longed for pain, for anything that would make her realize that she was still alive.

Mrs. Gilman let her in, evidently full of pleasant excitement. "Miss Hunstan is coming back," she exclaimed. "I have just had a letter, and knew you would like to be told. She expects to be here in a day or two. She will be pleased about you and Mr. Carringford."

Margaret stopped, dumfounded; but Mrs. Gilman would have to know. She thought it would be better to get it over. "But perhaps we are not going to be married, after all—Mr. Carringford and I," she said, lamely. "We made up our minds too quickly."

"Oh no, miss, I couldn't think that; and, if I know anything about it, he loves the ground you walk on. There was a glow in his face whenever I let him in, or whenever he was with you, that did one good to see."

But Margaret was on her way up-stairs and answered nothing.

Mrs. Gilman called after her: "Oh, Miss Vincent, I forgot to say there's a letter for you—you'll find it on the drawing-room table."

A letter! She went almost headlong into the room, while her heart beat quickly with hope and wonder.

The letter had the Chidhurst postmark; it was directed in an uneducated hand, and inside there was written, almost illegibly:

"I think mother is very ill, but Hannah will not have it. Do not say I wrote. Better come at once. From

"Towsey."

A cry escaped from Margaret's lips; pain had come to her now acutely enough.

"Oh, mother, mother, if you should die! How could I think of anything else in the world when you were ill; but I didn't know, darling, I never dreamed it."

In ten minutes she was on her way to Waterloo. The hansom went so slowly she beat the doors with her fists in her impatience. All thought of Tom had vanished or been pushed into the background of her life; the older love asserted itself, and every thought was concentrated on the dear life at Chidhurst. She had just time to catch the train—it went at 7.45. It wanted two minutes to the quarter when she reached the station. She flew out of the cab almost before it had stopped, handed the fare to the man, and hurried to the booking-office. It seemed as if the clerk gave her a ticket with deliberate slowness; she snatched it, and ran to the platform. The doors were being closed; she had just time to enter an empty carriage before the train started. Thank Heaven, she was alone. She could walk up and down and wring her hands or throw herself upon the seat, or lean her head against the side of the carriage and pray—to any power that existed and was merciful. "Let her live—let her live! She mustn't die while father is away; it would be so cruel. Mother—mother, darling, you mustn't die. Father is on his way back, and I am coming to you; don't you feel that I am coming?"

Oh, the misery of it, and the slow, slow plodding of a train that goes towards a house over which death hovers. It seemed to Margaret as if it were hours before she even reached Woking; but it was something to be in the dear Surrey country once again. The door opened when the train stopped and two people got in; they looked like man and wife. Margaret locked her hands and clinched her teeth, as she had done in the morning in order to bear the presence of Mrs. Lakeman, and presently in her dim corner she shut her eyes and pretended to sleep, though every sense was throbbing with impatience. She heard the woman say to the man—and it made her start, for Annie was her mother's name, though they, of course, had nothing to do with her:

"I think Annie's growing taller; don't you?"

"I dare say," the man answered; "she's a girl I never cared for myself." He stopped a moment as if considering. "Do you think Tom means anything by it?"

Tom, too! Margaret thought.

"Well, they seem to think he's looking after Mabel Margetson," the woman answered.

"There'd be some money there," the man said.

"A good bit, no doubt," the woman answered; "but money isn't everything."

No, money isn't everything, Margaret's heart answered them. Money is nothing, after a certain point; nothing is anything except the love of your dearest, the sound of a living voice, the sight of a dear face, the touch of a thin, gaunt cheek against your own. "Oh, she must live," she cried dumbly to herself, though never a sign or movement betrayed it. "I wish I could send my own life into your heart, darling; but live—live till father comes. Oh, dear Christ, if You can see into our hearts, as people say, let my mother live, or, if she must die soon, still let her live till my father comes—or till I get to her," she added, in despair, for in her heart she felt as if the rest must be denied. "We love her, love her best on earth, as she does us."

"Why, it's Guildford already," the woman said. "I declare, this train is in a hurry." She reached down the basket that was in the rack, the man rose, they opened the carriage door, and again Margaret was left alone.

The oil in the lamp burned low and flickered; she opened the window at the other end—they were both open—and the soft darkness of the summer night came in. She knelt by the carriage door, and rested her arms on the window-frame and her face down on them; it gave her a devotional feeling; it made her love the land and trees and the great sky above them; they had always seemed to understand everything; she felt as if they did now. The scent of the pines came to her; she could see the fir-trees black and dim as the train rushed past; but all nature seemed to know the misery in her heart—it soothed her and made her able to bear it calmly. She looked up at the little stars that had been there thousands of years before she was born, and would be there thousands of years to come—at the stars and the black trees that made the shadows, at the woods in which she had never trodden and yet knew so well, at the deep gray sky, the rough fence that bounded the railway line—and everything seemed to know as she passed by that she was going to her mother, only to find that nothing, nothing in this wide world, can alter the inexorable law of nature and the great decree when it has once been given.

There were three little stations to pass before she reached Haslemere. The station-master's gardens were bright with flowers; she could see plainly the patches of color in the darkness, and the scent of late sweet-peas was wafted to her. She could see the cottages of Surrey as the train went on, here and there a light shone from an upper window—lattice windows generally, like her mother's. Behind them people were going to bed; they were not ill, not dying, as perhaps her mother was, in the big bed at Woodside Farm. A brook, some trees, a house built up high on the bank a little way back from the road, the slackening of the train—and Haslemere at last. The train seemed to hurry to the farthest end of the platform on purpose, and she was impatient at every yard she had to tread. She gave up her ticket and passed through the narrow doorway of the station-house and out again on the other side. It was ten o'clock—late hours for the country-side. The inn on the high bank opposite was closed.

"Is it too late for a fly?" she asked the porter.

"Too late to-night, miss, unless it's ordered beforehand," and he turned out an extra gas-light. Almost before the words were said she had darted forward; she was young and strong, and her feet were swift. She hurried up the hill on the right, past the inn at the top—she could see the white post and the little dark patch above that constituted the sign. On and on past the smithy and the wheelwright's, and the little cottages with thatched roofs and white fenced-in gardens. She could have walked a hundred miles—flung them behind her with disdain. It was the time, it was the time! Life hurried away so at the last; it might not stay even for her longing or her praying. She turned off from the main road, over a bridge on the right—a narrow road just wide enough for two carriages to pass—the oaks and plane-trees leaned out above the hedges, she could see the trailing outline, against the sky, of a little clump of larches—a deep blue sky now in which the stars had gathered closer.

Nearly three miles were behind her. She was near the outbuildings of a farm that was half-way to Chidhurst; she smelt the newly garnered grain in them as she passed. Another quarter of a mile and she had come to the edge of the moor. Along the white road beside it—the road she had driven with her father the day she returned from London, and that Mr. Garratt had trotted along so often with his fat, gray pony or on his mare, pleased and jaunty, with his hunting-crop in his right hand. The bell heather was dead, the gorse was turning brown, she knew that there must be patches of ling, but it was too dark to see them.

On she hurried, the white road was stretching behind her instead of in front. Another quarter of a mile and she had come to Chidhurst village; it was still and sleeping. How strange it seemed to skurry through it at this hour! A few minutes more and the square tower of the church stood out before her. The darkness had lifted so well that she could see the clock; it had stopped, of course—at a quarter-past three; a lump came to her throat and her heart stood still, for low on the ground beneath the church tower she saw the whiteness of the tombstones round the church. She turned her head quickly away; on the other side of the road were the gates of Sir George Stringer's house—the sight of them gave her comfort—and on her right, at last, was the little gate that led into the fields that made the short cut to the farm. She gave a cry of thankfulness as she went through it, and stood on her mother's land once more. It was only a month since she had slept on the green ground beneath her feet, and kissed it and wondered when she would walk over it again. She had not thought it would be so soon. Across the field by one of the pathways that made a white line leading to the stile, over the stile and into the second field, and she ran now, for she knew that in a moment she would see the house.

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