A loud bang of the entrance-door, and a noisy burst into the room, proclaimed the return of Mrs. Rymer. Her mass of scarlet curls garnished her face on either side, and looked particularly incongruous with her widow's cap and bonnet. Mr. Sale, rising to hand her a chair, broke off what he had been about to say to Margaret, and addressed Mrs. Rymer instead; simply saying that the decision, as to her going out with him, or not going, could no longer be put off, but must be made. "It has been made," returned Mrs. Rymer, disregarding the offered chair, and standing to hold her boots, one after the other, to the fire. "Margaret can't go, Mr. Sale; you know it." "But I wish her to go, and she wishes it." "It's a puzzle to me what on earth you can see in her," cried Mrs. Rymer, flinging her grey muff on the table, and untying her black bonnet-strings to tilt back the bonnet. "Margaret won't have any money. Not a penny piece." "I am not thinking about money," replied the curate; who somehow could never keep his temper long in the presence of this strong-minded Amazon. "It is Margaret that I want; not money." "And it's Margaret, then, that you can't have," she retorted. "Who is to keep the shop on if she leaves it?--it can't go to rack and ruin." "I see you serving in it yourself sometimes." "I can serve the stationery--and the pickles and fish sauce--and the pearl barley," contended she, "but not the drugs. I don't meddle with them. When a prescription comes in to be made up, if I attempted to do it I might put opium for senna, and poison people. I have not learnt Latin, as Margaret has." "But, Mrs. Rymer----" "Now we'll just drop the subject, sir, if it's all the same to you," loudly put in Mrs. Rymer. "I have told you before that Margaret must stay where she is, and keep the business together for me and her brother. No need to repeat it fifty times over." She caught up her muff, and went out of the room and up the stairs as she delivered this final edict. Mr. Sale rose. "You see how it is," said Margaret, in a low tone of emotion, and keeping her eyelids down to hide the tears. "You must go without me. I cannot leave. I can only say, God speed you." "There are many wrongs enacted in this world, and this is one," he replied in a hard voice--not hard for her--as he took her hands in his, and stood before her. "I don't know that I altogether blame you, Margaret; but it is cruel upon you and upon me. Good-night." He went out quite abruptly without kissing her, leaving her alone with her aching heart. * * * * * Tuesday afternoon, and the ice and the snow on the ground still. We were to dine at five o'clock--the London codfish and a prime turkey--and the Coneys were coming in as well as the Rector and his wife.