“What a shameful waste of time!” he exclaimed one day in a sudden fit of virtuous indignation. “To be sure, she does a great deal else: She writes, reads, draws, sews for the poor, &c., &c.; but then many a moment, which might be more profitably employed, is squandered in this preposterous occupation, which she really seems to make a business of.” “What a shameful waste of time!” whispered conscience in return. “To be sure you ride, lounge, sleep, eat, &c. &c., but then many a moment, which might be more profitably employed, is squandered in these preposterous reveries, which you really seem to make a business of.” In one of his daily rides, Vivian felt himself irresistibly impelled towards the Hall, and after wandering for some time within sight of the house, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of its fair inhabitant, he strolled without any definite object into the village. As he approached a low cottage, he saw a form, which he could not mistake, entering the door, followed by a footman. The door closed after them; but the window was open, and Vivian glanced in. It _was_ Margaret! She was in the act of taking a pillow from the hand of her attendant. “See!” she said to the poor woman of the cottage, who was lying on a bed, looking very ill, “I have brought you another pillow. I hope it will ease your poor shoulders; it is softer than the last, for I tore the papers, with which it is stuffed, much finer;” and tenderly raising the invalid, she placed the pillow beneath her. “The papers, with which it is stuffed! and this, then, is their destination! and Sir George’s note is in the old woman’s pillow! And I called it a waste of time!” Vivian was half wild with joy and surprise. He staid to hear no more, but flew rather than walked back to the Hall, and contrived to make his peace with Mr. Walton, and accept an invitation for dinner, before the unconscious Margaret had returned from her errand of benevolence. As he saw her approach from the window, he hurried out to meet her, his face glowing with the joyous excitement of his discovery, and, hastily drawing her arm through his, exclaimed,—“I’m so happy! It is all right! I was quite mistaken; I’m so happy!” When she first recognized him, Margaret’s beautiful features lighted up, for a moment, with irrepressible joy; but the glow faded as she recalled the discourteous manner of his departure, and though she did not withdraw the arm he had taken, she received his protestations of happiness at their meeting, with a quiet dignity and reserve, which amply punished our impetuous lover for his fault. But though she would not deign to inquire in _what_ he was mistaken, by degrees the reserve wore off beneath the genial and irresistible influence of Vivian’s frank and joyous demeanor, and for the rest of the day she allowed herself to be as happy as her heart bade her.