The two wax candles upon the mantelpiece were burning dimly, and their pale light fell ominously upon the figure of Mrs. Helmstedt, sitting on the short sofa, with her hands clasped rigidly together on her lap, her eyes fixed and strained outward, and her face blanched and frozen as if the hand of death had just passed over it. One instant Margaret stood panic-stricken, and the next she was at her mother’s side, speaking to her, kissing her, stroking her forehead, and trying to unclasp and rub her rigidly-locked hands. For some minutes these efforts were all in vain; and then a deep shuddering sigh, that shook her whole form like the passage of an inward storm, dissolved the spell that had bound her, and she grew conscious of the presence of her child. “Mamma, what shall I bring you? I had better call Hildreth,” said Margaret, softly stealing away. But the hand that she had been rubbing now closed on hers with a tight, restraining clasp, and a deep, hollow, cavernous voice, that she scarcely recognized as her mother’s answered: “No--no--call no one, my child--stay with me.” Margaret dropped upon the sofa, beside her mother, with a look of mute wonder and devoted love, and seemed to await her further commands. “My child,” spoke the same hollow, cavernous, awful voice, “speak to no living soul of what you have seen to-night.” “I will not, dear mamma; but tell me what I can do for you.” “Nothing, nothing, Margaret.” “Can I not help you somehow?” “I am beyond help, Margaret.” “Mother, mother, trust in your loving child, the child of your heart, who would give you back her life if she could give you happiness with it, mother,” murmured Margaret, most tenderly, as she caressed and fondled the rigid form of that dark, sorrowful woman--“trust in your loving child, mother, your child that heard your heart calling her to-night over the moonlit waters, and through all the music and laughter came hurrying to your side.” “Ah! so you did, my love, so you did; and I, so absorbed in my own thoughts, did not even ask you whence you came, or how, or why.” “Franky brought me at my earnest request. Now trust in me, dear mother, trust in your faithful child.” “If ever I be driven to lay the burden of my grief upon any human heart, Margaret, it must be on yours--only on yours! for little Margaret, in my life, I have loved many and worshiped one, but I fully trust only you.” “Trust me ever, mother! trust me fully, trust me even unto death; for I would be faithful unto death,” said the maiden, earnestly, fervently, solemnly. “I know it, and I do trust you perfectly. Yet not now, not just now, need I shift this weight from my heart to yours--’tis enough that one living heart should bear that burthen at a time. I may leave it to you as a legacy, my Margaret.” “A legacy--a legacy--oh! mother, what mean you?” inquired the maiden, as the sudden paleness of a deadly terror overspread her sweet face.