“Margaret, unhappy child, that question is not for me to answer. I dare not judge you, but leave the matter to God above and to your father on earth.” “Farewell, Mr. Wellworth. I know the time will come when your kind nature will feel sorrow for having stricken a heart already so bruised and bleeding as this,” she said, laying her hand upon her surcharged bosom; “but you are not to blame, so God bless you and farewell,” she repeated, offering her hand. The clergyman took and pressed it, and the tears sprang to his eyes as he answered: “Margaret, the time has come, when I deeply regret the necessity of giving you pain. Alas! my child, ‘the way of the transgressor is hard.’ May God deliver your soul,” and rising, he attended her to her carriage, placed her in it, and saying: “God bless you!” closed the door and retired. “Oh, mother! mother! Oh, mother! mother! behold the second gift--my only friendship! They are yours, mother! they are yours! only love me from heaven! for I love you beyond all on earth,” cried Margaret, covering her sobbing face, and sinking back in the carriage. Margaret returned home to her deserted and lonely rooms. No one came thither now; no one invited her thence. Darker lowered the clouds of fate over her devoted young head. Another weary week passed, and still the returning soldiers had not arrived. The Sabbath came--the first Sabbath in October. Margaret had always found the sweetest consolation in the ordinances of religion. This, being the first Sabbath of the month, was sacrament Sunday. And never since her entrance into the church had Margaret missed the communion. And now, even in her deep distress, when she so bitterly needed the consolations of religion, it was with a subdued joy that she prepared to receive them. It was delightful autumn weather, and the whole family who were going would fill the family coach--so much had been intimated to Margaret through her attendants. Therefore she was obliged to order her own carriage. The lonely ride, under present circumstances, was far more endurable than the presence of the family would have been; and solitude and silence afforded her the opportunity for meditation that the occasion required. She reached the church and left her carriage before the hour of service. The fine day had drawn an unusually large congregation together, and had kept them sauntering and gossiping out in the open air; but Margaret, as she smiled or nodded to one or another, met only scornful glances or averted heads. More than shocked, appalled and dismayed by this sort of reception, she hurried into the church and on to her pew.