Margaret, still clothed in deep mourning, with her black hair plainly banded each side of her pale, clear, thoughtful face, sat in her low sewing-chair, engaged in plain needlework. She quietly laid it aside, and, with a warm smile of welcome, arose to meet her minister. “You are looking better than when I saw you last, my child,” said the good pastor, pressing her hand, and mistaking the transient glow of pleasure for the permanent bloom of health. “I am quite well, thank you, dear Mr. Wellworth! and you?” “Always well, my child, thank Heaven.” “And dearest Grace? I have not seen her so long.” “Ah! she has even too good health, if possible! it makes her wild. We have to keep her at home to tame her.” “But see--I am housekeeping here to myself, almost. My dear father has placed my maintenance upon the most lavish footing, and Mrs. Houston has given to his requests in regard to me the most liberal interpretation. See! I have, like a little princess, an establishment of my own. This wing of the house, a maid and messenger, a boat and horse; and my dear father has even written to have the carriage brought from the island for my use, so that I may be able to visit or send for my friends at pleasure,” said Margaret, with a transient feeling of girlish delight in her independence. “Yes, my child, I see; and I know that, in addition to this, you have an ample income. These are all great and unusual privileges for a young girl like yourself, not past childhood,” said Mr. Wellworth, very gravely. “Oh! I know they are. I know, too, that these favors are lavished upon me in compassion for--to console me for--as if anything could make me cease to regret----” Here faltering, and finding herself on the verge of tears, Margaret paused, made an effort, controlled herself and resumed: “It is done in kindness toward her child; and I accept it all in the same spirit.” “It is accorded in consideration of your grave and important position, my dear girl--do you never think of it? Young as you are, you are the affianced wife of the heir of this house.” Again a transient flush of bashful joy chased the melancholy from Margaret’s face. Blushing, she dropped her eyes and remained silent. “You think sometimes of your position, Margaret?” asked the clergyman, who, for his purpose, wished to lead and fix her mind upon this subject--“you remember sometimes that you are Ralph Houston’s promised wife?” For an instant she lifted her dark eyelashes, darting one swift, shy, but most eloquent glance deep into his face, then, dropping them, crimsoned even to the edges of her black hair, and still continued silent. “Ah! I see you do. I see you do. But do you know my dear, that something of the same discreet exclusiveness, reserve, circumspection, is demanded of a betrothed maiden as of a wife?” inquired the clergyman, solemnly.