“They have seen me,” she muttered to herself as she hastily darted from the window. “Ay, they exult. They point to me--me, the abandoned--the desolate--soon to be the disgraced! But, no! no! that shall never be. They shall never have that triumph, which is always so grateful a subject of regale to the mean and envious!” The voice of her mother from below disturbed these unhappy meditations. The old lady was prepared for church, and was surprised to find that Margaret had not made her toilet. “What! don't you mean to go, Margaret?” “Not to-day, mother.” “What, and the new preacher too, that takes the place of John Cross! They say he makes a most heavenly prayer.” But the inducement of the heavenly prayer of the new preacher was not enough for Margaret. The very suggestion of a new preacher would have been conclusive against her compliance. The good old lady was too eager herself to get under way to waste much time in exhortation, and hurrying off, she scarcely gave herself time to answer the inquiry of the widow Thackeray, at her own door, after the daughter's health. “I will go in and see her,” said the lighthearted but truehearted woman. “Do, do, ma'am---if you please! She'll be glad to see you. I'll hurry on, as I see Mrs. Hinkley just ahead.” The widow Thackeray looked after her with a smile, which was exchanged for another of different character when she found herself in the chamber of Margaret. She put her arms about the waist of the sufferer; kissed her cheeks, and with the tenderest solicitude spoke of her health and comfort. To her, alone, with the exception of her mother--according to the belief of Margaret--her true situation had been made known. “Alas!” said she, “how should I feel--how should I be! You should know. I am as one cursed--doomed, hopeless of anything but death.” “Ah! do not speak of death, Margaret,” said the other kindly. “We must all die, I know, but that does not reconcile me any more to the thought. It brings always a creeping horror through my veins. Think of life--talk of life only.” “They say that death is life.” “So it is, I believe, Margaret; and now I think of it, dress yourself and go to church where we may hear something on this subject to make us wiser and better. Come, my dear--let us go to God.” “I can not--not to-day, dear Mrs. Thackeray.” “Ah, Margaret, why not? It is to the church, of all places, you should now go.” “What! to be stared at? To see the finger of scorn pointing at me wherever I turn? To hear the whispered insinuation? To be conscious only of sneer and sarcasm on every hand? No, no, dear Mrs. Thackeray, I can not go for this. Feeling this, I should neither pray for myself, nor find benefit from the prayers of others. Nay, THEY would not pray. They would only mock.” “Margaret, these thoughts are very sinful.” “So they are, but I can not think of any better. They can not but be sinful since they are mine.”