After a moment Margaret, taking within hers the fast-stiffening hand, gently unclosed the fingers, and found the crumpled piece of paper on which Carrie had written to her father. CHAPTER XI. MARGARET AND HER FATHER. 'Twas midnight--midnight after the burial. In the library of the old homestead sat its owner, his arms resting upon the table, and his face reclining upon his arms. Sadly was he reviewing the dreary past, since first among them death had been, bearing away his wife, the wife of his first only love. Now, by her grave there was another, on which the pale moonbeams and the chill night-dews were falling, but they could not disturb the rest of the two who, side by side in the same coffin, lay sleeping, and for whom the father's tears were falling fast, and the father's heart was bleeding. "Desolate, desolate--all is desolate," said the stricken man. "Would that I, too, were asleep with my lost ones!" There was a rustling sound near him, a footfall, and an arm was thrown lovingly around his neck. Margaret's tears were on his cheek, and Margaret's voice whispered in his ear, "Dear father, we must love each other better now." Margaret had not retired, and on passing through the hall, had discovered the light gleaming through the crevice of the library door. Knowing that her father must be there, she had come in to comfort him. Long the father and child wept together, and then Margaret, drying her tears said: "It is right--all right; mother has two, and you have two, and though the dead will never return to us, we, in God's good time, will return to them." "Yes, soon, very soon, shall I go," said Mr. Hamilton. "I am weary, weary, Margaret; my life is one scene of bitterness. Oh, why, why was I left to do it?" Margaret knew well to what he referred, but she made no answer; and after he had become somewhat composed, thinking this a good opportunity for broaching the subject which had so troubled Carrie's dying moments, she drew from her bosom the soiled piece of paper, and placing it in his hands, watched him while he read. The moan of anguish which came from his lips as he finished made her repent of her act, and, springing to his side, she exclaimed: "Forgive me, father; I ought not to have done it now. You have enough to bear." "It is right, my child," said Mr. Hamilton; "for after the wound had slightly healed I might have wavered. Not that I love Walter less; but, fool that I am, I fear her who has made me the cowardly wretch you see!" "Rouse yourself, then," answered Margaret. "Shake off her chain, and be free." "I cannot, I cannot," said he. "But this I will do. I will make another will. I always intended to do so, and Walter shall not be wronged." Then rising, he hurriedly paced the room saying, "Walter shall not be wronged, no, no--Walter shall not be wronged."