"You mustn't, Margaret!" Mrs. Vincent cried in terror. "Hannah would never let you enter the house again, for she says that play-actors come from Satan and go to him again when their day is done." Hannah came up-stairs and stood in the doorway. Margaret faced her with her arm round her mother's shoulder. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "Leave me alone," Margaret said, gently. "To-morrow I shall go to London." "And what will you do there? You that never did a day's work in a week, or said a prayer on Sundays, or asked a blessing on a meal, and that belong to those who are ashamed to let people know what they are. Is your head turned because Mr. Garratt has been carried away by your ways and artfulness." "I'll leave him to you, Hannah, and go away to-morrow." "I'll take care that you do nothing of the sort. You will stay here till your father comes back and learn to behave yourself." Margaret made no answer. She pushed her mother gently down into the big chair by the wardrobe and knelt by her and kissed her gray hairs and the thin face and the muslin round her throat and the fringe of the shawl that was about her shoulders. "Come, get to your bed," Hannah said; "we don't want to be kept here all night." "Good-bye," Margaret whispered to her mother, kissing her softly once again. Then she rose and slowly walked away. "Good-night," she said to Hannah over her shoulder as she went to her own room. "I'll lock her up if I have any nonsense with her," she heard Hannah say, as she shut the door. Margaret sat for a long time thinking. "It will be better to go and be done with it," she said at last. "Hannah might prevent me in the morning; there would be another scene, and it's enough to kill mother--I can't let her bear it any longer."