And some will die, these are the gentle hearted,
Shook down like flowers by early frost: and some
Will grow in scorn and bitterness of heart,
As giving unto others, the full measure
Of that which hath been meted unto them.
Some look to Heaven, and garner up their hearts
Where disappointment cannot touch them more;
And these few are the wise; but there be many,
Whose life is stronger than their agony,
And one outlasts the other.—Pity them.
ANON.

As soon as it was possible the next morning, Hubert Gage, paid the visit that Margaret had almost demanded of him the evening before. The most favoured suitor might have felt gratified by the eagerness with which she evidently awaited his approach; for she was standing half way down the pathway of the garden, watching him as he neared the cottage. His embarrassment was far greater than her own, he hardly dared raise his eyes to her face, and when he did so, he was as much startled by its steady and fixed expression, as by the icy paleness that overspread her features.

"I desired to see you again," she said, when he reached her, "I was very foolish and unreasonable, yesterday; and I was anxious that no friend of mine should go away with such an impression of me. I wished to meet you when I was calm again. You see, Mr. Hubert, that I consider you as a friend."

"A friend!" he exclaimed; "if the devotion of my whole life could supply—"

"Stop!" cried Margaret, in a tone of suffering, so much at variance with the even calmness of her first address, that he felt appalled by it. "If all you have ever professed for me has not been a mockery and an insult, you will spare me this. You will feel as securely as if the future were the past, that I can never love again. You will not offend me, if you value the friendship and regard I have yet to give, by imagining that I can at any period listen to such language."

"Then, there is nothing but misery an store for both of us," said Hubert Gage.

"I do not look forward with so much despondency as you do, Mr. Hubert," said Margaret, "even now in the first anguish of discovery and despair; in all the shame and the agony of having been duped and trifled with—a suffering that you can never fully comprehend; I look forward more courageously than you do. Let me first speak of myself. I have often heard of a dream of entire happiness—a state of being, too brilliant to last; dispelled by accident, or misfortune, or death. My dream has been dispelled. All is over with me but life and its duties; but I have no suspense and I sometimes think that suspense is the only torture under which we cannot be still. Any thing else, believe me, Mr. Hubert, is endurable. I wake to a deeper sense of the duties of life; the great lesson which we should ever learn by the loss of its pleasures. Let me urge the same thing upon you. You have, forgive me, in seeking a happiness that has been denied you, lost sight of all that is better than happiness. As I have been some-what the cause of this, let me, if I can, atone it. Let me, if you esteem me—I hope you do—urge you to retrieve this great mistake. Let me entreat you to resume your profession—to direct your mind to subjects worthy of your energy and your talent. You know how you would delight your father by this determination; and let it be your great consolation, as it is mine, that when happiness is denied to ourselves, we have still the power of conferring it upon others; and while we keep in mind that there is a Heaven above us, let us not concern ourselves too deeply with the thorns beneath our feet."

As Margaret spoke with an earnestness of feeling that forced the tears from her eyes, the soft but strong west wind brought distinctly to the porch where they sat, the sound of a passing bell.

The tones were so appropriate; they seemed so completely the echo of her sentiments, that both remained perfectly silent for some time. Margaret thought that her companion was moved by her words, for he remained with his face hidden in his hands; and still at intervals, the dull sound struck upon their ears.

"There," he said looking up at length, "that is the knell of the poor girl you saw yesterday."

"Is it?" said Margaret, "I envy her," and she dried her eyes once or twice; but she scarcely had power left to weep. She had passed half the night in tears, and she was now feeling the exhaustion which follows strong emotion. "But I am surprised;" she said, "I should never have imagined that she was as near her end. It is a very treacherous complaint. Is it not?"

"I believe so," he returned absently. "The poor mother!" said Margaret, her voice trembling, "what sad distress there is all around us in this world, and others are suffering too, Mr. Hubert; there is no sorrow like the death of those we love."

"You are thinking of Haveloc," said her companion, "it galls me to hear you speak of him with compassion."

"And yet I think, Mr. Hubert," said Margaret, "that you would forgive your greatest enemy under such affliction, and even speak kindly of him; indeed, I am sure you would."

"I must go away," he exclaimed, "I cannot stand this. Every instant you make yourself more dear to me. I cannot resolve to abandon the hope of one day winning your regard."

"Shall I try and argue you out of it?" said Margaret, "shall I convince you that, like most quiet people my feelings are very tenacious; and that when I say I have done with love. I do not make use of the expression common to disappointed women, but that I speak a determination that can never undergo any change. And yet I assure you, Mr. Hubert, that my friendship is worth having. For instance, I give you very good advice."

Margaret tried to speak cheerfully, but the smile would not come.

"I will follow it to the letter," said he; "you shall never see me again until I can say proudly that I have proved myself worthy of your interest. If all women would so use their influence"—He paused, unable, from emotion, to complete his sentence.

Margaret changed the subject.

"My uncle is better to-day than he has been for some time," she said, "I think the prospect of going home has wrought this change, and I hope that when he is once settled comfortably again at Ashdale, his improvement will be rapid."

"I hope so," said Hubert, "but my present anxiety is about yourself; how am I ever to hear of you?"

"If you are kindly anxious to learn how I am, I dare say Bessy will tell you as much in her letters," said Margaret; "but I expect my life to be so monotonous henceforth, that I shall furnish nothing but a bulletin."

"I must live upon that, then," he said. "Well and Single. That will be something for me to hear. And if I could not catch some of your fortitude," he added, looking admiringly at her calm face, "I should be unworthy of the name of a man. But you do not know how hard it is for me to leave you while you are looking so ill. You did not sleep last night."

"Sleep, no!" said Margaret, with naivetÈ.

"And I am afraid," said Hubert, "that you will not take proper care of yourself without some one to overlook your proceedings."

"There is one great cure for my ailments. Time," said Margaret, tranquilly; "and I think his wings, or wheels will move as well in your absence as in your presence, Mr. Hubert."

"That is true, I cannot hasten the movements of your physician," said Hubert, with a smile.

"That is right," said Margaret, rising, "let us part now, cheerfully."

"Well, but give me your commands," he replied, "you cannot tell the charm of following implicitly the direction of a person one loves."

"You know them, I think," said Margaret smiling, "you are to go to sea; and you are to remember the days, when every English gentleman was a scholar, as well as a soldier. And as you are a sailor, you will find no difficulty in following the examples of Elizabeth's reign. In fact, when I see you again, I shall find you very like your father. You must come in, and say good bye to my uncle, for perhaps when you return again to England, you may regret that you had not taken leave of so old a friend."

She passed into the house: her uncle was in his arm chair, drawn close to the fire, he was as chilly as ever in that summer weather.

"Mr. Hubert Gage is come to take leave of you, uncle," said Margaret leaning over his chair.

"Oh! these leave-takings," said Mr. Grey turning and offering his hand to Hubert; "they are the worst part of life. And where are you going, my dear friend?"

"To sea, if I can get afloat," said Hubert.

"The very best thing in the world," said Mr. Grey. "Your father is delighted, is he not?"

"I do not think he knows of my resolution; it was rather sudden," said Hubert with some confusion of manner.

"Ah, indeed!" said Mr. Grey "and I am going home, Hubert."

There was a slight accent on the word "home" that quite unnerved poor Margaret.

"That poor child is not well," said Mr. Grey; "she distresses herself about my health; and sickness is almost the only suffering that we cannot spare our friends. Well, good bye, and may God bless you!"

The tone was so much more solemn than was common with Mr. Grey, that it seemed like a last farewell.

Hubert Gage wrung his hand in silence, and left him.

The next day they set out on their return home. Mr. Grey was perfectly happy at the idea of seeing Ashdale again. Margaret was glad of change and motion. To her uncle's anxious inquiries, she always replied that she was pretty well, and he imagined that she looked so pale from her close attendance upon himself.

As they drew near Ashdale, he greeted each familiar object with as much satisfaction as if he had been absent for years instead of weeks. Every cottage, every brook, every turn in the road, aroused his attention.

Margaret shivered as the carriage drew up before the house; she dreaded the recollections which those familiar rooms would bring to her mind. The fire was burning brightly in the drawing-room. Mr. Casement was standing on the hearth-rug. This circumstance completed Mr. Grey's satisfaction. It was really like home, with Mr. Casement at the fire-side.

Margaret trembling and shivering, and hardly able to restrain her tears, now crouched over the fire, which was as welcome to her as to her uncle.

"Holloa, little woman! you are the invalid now, it seems," said Mr. Casement, marking her altered looks.

"The child is tired; don't talk to her, Casement," said Mr. Grey.

"Oh! have you heard the news of Master Claude?" asked Mr. Casement. "He has been courting again; that's all. I never knew such a fellow."

"Nonsense; I never listen to such reports," said Mr. Grey. "I don't believe one word of it!"

"Very well—ask old Warde; that's all. It was he who told me," said Mr. Casement, persisting in his news because he saw it annoyed his old friend.

"I will never believe it; I know him better," said Mr. Grey.

"Well, well! I did not accuse him of any crime: did I, little woman?"

"Not at all, Sir," said Margaret steadily.

Mr. Grey looked at Margaret with a smile. He was re-assured by her calm voice, she no more believed the report than he did; so he turned the subject, and thought no more about it.

But his return home, to which he had looked forward with so much pleasure, did not produce the good effect he had wished and expected. He grew daily weaker, more unfit for exertion, either of mind or body. At last, when it became too great an exertion to leave his room, and when he was unable to sit up for more than a few hours in a day, he said to Margaret one evening that he had felt more languid than usual, "My child, I think you must write to Claude Haveloc. Tell him that I desire to see him without delay."