"There! that will do," said Hester, struggling between her better and worse feelings--her remorse of this morning, and her present jealousy-- and losing her temper between the two. "You have said quite enough about what you do not understand, my dears. I cannot have you make so free with your cousin's name, children." The little girls looked at each other in wonder; and Hester thought she detected a lurking smile. "I see what you are thinking, children. Yes, look, the rain is nearly over; and then you may go and tell Mrs Howell and Miss Nares, and all the people you see on your way home, that they had better attend to their own concerns than pretend to understand what would have been felt if your cousin had been drowned. I wonder at their impertinence." "Are you in earnest, cousin Hester? Shall we go and tell them so?" "No; she is not in earnest," said Margaret. "But before you go, Morris shall give you some pieces for your quilt--some very pretty ones, such as she knows I can spare." Margaret rang, and Morris took the children up-stairs, to choose for themselves out of Margaret's drawer of pieces. When the door had closed behind them, Margaret said--"Sister, do not make me wish that I had died under the ice yesterday." "Margaret, how dare you say anything so wicked?" "If it be wicked, God forgive me! I was wretched enough before--I would fain have never come to life again: and now you almost make me believe that you would have been best pleased if I never had." At this moment Hope entered. He had left them in a far different mood: it made him breathless to see his wife's face of passion, and Margaret's of woe. "Hear her!" exclaimed Hester. "She says I should have been glad to have lost her yesterday!" "Have mercy upon me!" cried Margaret, in excessive agitation. "You oppress me beyond what I can bear. I cannot bear on as I used to do. My strength is gone, and you give me none. You take away what I had!" "Will you hear me spoken to in this way?" cried Hester, turning to her husband. "I will." Margaret's emotion prevented her hearing this, or caring who was by. She went on--"You leave me nothing--nothing but yourself--and you abuse my love for you. You warn me against love--against marriage--you chill my very soul with terror at it. I have found a friend in Maria; and you poison my comfort in my friendship, and insult my friend. There is not an infant in a neighbour's house but you become jealous of it the moment I take it in my arms. There is not a flower in your garden, not a book on my table, that you will let me love in peace. How ungenerous--while you have one to cherish and who cherishes you, that you will have me lonely!--that you quarrel with all who show regard to me!--that you refuse me the least solace, when my heart is breaking with its loneliness! Oh, it is cruel!" "Will you hear this, Edward?"