"Pretty well, papa." Mr. Rymer sighed. "When I get stronger----" "Margaret! Shop." The loud coarse summons was Mrs. Rymer's. Margaret's spirit recoiled from it the least in the world. In spite of her having been brought up to the "shop," there had always been something in her innate refinement that rebelled against it and against having to serve in it. "A haperth o' liquorish" was the extensive order from a small child, whose head did not come much above the counter. Margaret served it at once: the liquorice, being often in demand, was kept done up in readiness. The child laid down the halfpenny and went out with a bang. "I may as well run over with the letter," thought Margaret--alluding to an order she had written to London for some drug they were out of. "And there's my mother's. Mother," she added, going to the parlour-door, "do you want your letter posted?" "I'll post it myself when I do," replied Mrs. Rymer. "Ain't it almost time you had the gas lighted? That shop must be in darkness." It was so, nearly. But the gas was never lighted until really needed, in the interests of economy. Margaret ran across the road, put her letter into the post in Salmon's window, and ran back again. She stood for a moment at the door, looking at a huge lumbering caravan that was passing--a ménage on wheels, as seen by the light within its small windows. "It must be on its way to Worcester fair," she thought. "Is it you, Margaret? How d'ye do?" Some great rough man had come up, and was attempting to kiss her. Margaret started back with a cry. She would have closed the door against him; but he was the stronger and got in. "Why, what possesses the child! Don't you know me?" Every pulse in Margaret Rymer's body tingled to pain as she recognized him. It was her brother Benjamin. Better, than this, that it had been what she fancied--some rude stranger, who in another moment would have passed on and been gone for ever. Benjamin's coming was always the signal for discomfort at home, and Margaret felt half-paralyzed with dismay. "How are the old folk, Maggie?" "Papa is very ill," she answered, her voice slightly trembling. "My mother is well as usual. I think she was writing to you this afternoon." "Governor ill! So I've heard. Upstairs a good deal, is he not?" "Quite half his time, I think." "Who attends here?" "I do." "You!--you little mite! Brought your knowledge of rhubarb to good use, eh? What's the matter with papa?" "He has not been well for a long while. I don't know what it is. Mr. Darbyshire says"--she dropped her voice a little--"that he is sure there's something on his mind." "Poor old dad!--just like him! If a woman came in with a broken arm, he'd take it to heart." "Benjamin, I think it is _you_ that he has most at heart," the girl took courage to say. Mr. Benjamin laughed. "Me! He needn't trouble about me. I am as steady as old Time, Maggie. I've come home to stay; and I'll prove to him that I am."