Margaret, with her thoughts and affections still lingering with her mother left behind, had turned to give her a last look, and in doing so had started and grown pale to see her still standing there, her black dress strongly marked against the drear, white beach, alone, desolate, in an attitude and with an expression of utter despair. Margaret had never before surprised that look of heartbroken hopelessness upon her mother’s well-guarded countenance, and now having seen it, she never afterward in life forgot it. “You do not speak, Margaret; you do not like my boat?” “Oh, indeed I do, Franky! And you are very kind; but I am thinking of mamma; I am afraid she will be lonesome to-night, and, indeed, I wish to return to her.” “Nonsense, my dear Margaret. She would send you off again; besides, what would your father say?” “But do, then, look at her, Franky, where she stands alone.” The youth turned around; but Mrs. Helmstedt saw them watching her, smiled her bright, delusive smile, waved them adieu, and turned away. Margaret sighed. And Franky pulled rapidly for the Bluff, which they reached just after sunset. “Is not that a fine sight, Margaret?” asked her companion, as they left the boat and climbed the bluff, pointing to the illuminated front of the mansion that cast a long stream of red light across the darkening water. “Yes,” said Margaret, absently; for she saw in her “mind’s eye,” not the twenty festive lights before her, but her mother’s solitary figure left behind on the beach. They soon arrived at the house, where the young girl was met by Mrs. Houston, who conducted her to the dressing-room, where Grace Wellworth, Clare Hartley, and half a dozen other young ladies were arranging their toilets. Very enthusiastic was the greeting between Margaret and her young friends, whom she had not met since their return. “Why, what exquisite taste is displayed in your toilet, Madge, you little rustic; one would think a city milliner had arranged it--who dressed you?” inquired Clare Hartley. “A more delicate hand--my dearest mamma,” said Margaret, her thoughts again reverting to the mournful figure left standing alone on the beach. When they were all ready, they descended to the dancing-room--two large parlors thrown into one, brilliantly lighted, and half filled with a company of young, middle-aged and elderly persons, for there was not youth enough in that neighborhood to make a considerable assembly of themselves. A temporary platform at one end of the room accommodated four sable musicians, with a large and small violin, a tambourine and banjo, which they were tuning up with great zeal. Franky “opened the ball” by leading Margaret out; other couples instantly followed, and the dancing commenced, but through the liveliest strains of the music Margaret heard only her lonely mother’s fond “good-night,” and with flying feet and beaming smiles around her, saw only her mother’s solitary figure and mournful brow.