What, oh, what would she think when she should come to know the truth? Margaret told herself as she lay there, holding her head between her hands, that she was even now occupying that room and enjoying the questionable comfort of that bed under false pretences. When it was known that she was absolutely a pauper, would she then be made welcome to her uncle's house? She was now remaining there without divulging her circumstances, under the advice and by the authority of her cousin; and she had resolved to be guided by him in all things as long as he would be at the trouble to guide her. On whom else could she depend? But, nevertheless, her position was very grievous to her, and the more so now that her aunt had twitted her with ingratitude. When the servant came to her, she felt that she had no right to the girl's services; and when a message was brought to her from Lady Ball, asking whether she would be taken out in the carriage, she acknowledged to herself that such courtesy to her was altogether out of place. On that evening her cousin said nothing to her, and on the next day he went again up to town. "What, four days running, John!" said Lady Ball, at breakfast. "I have particular business to-day, mother," said he. On that evening, when he came back, he found a moment to take Margaret by the hand and tell her that his own lawyer also was to meet them at Mr Slow's chambers on the day named. He took her thus, and held her hand closely in his while he was speaking, but he said nothing to her more tender than the nature of such a communication required. "You and John are terribly mysterious," said Lady Ball to her, a minute or two afterwards. "If there is anything I do hate it's mystery in families. We never had any with us till you came." On the next day a letter reached her which had been redirected from Gower Street. It was from Mr Maguire; and she took it up into her own room to read it and answer it. The letter and reply were as follows: Littlebath, Oct., 186--. DEAREST MARGARET, I hope the circumstances of the case will, in your opinion, justify me in writing to you again, though I am sorry to intrude upon you at a time when your heart must yet be sore with grief for the loss of your lamented brother. Were we now all in all to each other, as I hope we may still be before long, it would be my sweet privilege to wipe your eyes, and comfort you in your sorrow, and bid you remember that it is the Lord who giveth and the Lord who taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. I do not doubt that you have spoken to yourself daily in those words, nay, almost hourly, since your brother was taken from you. I had not the privilege of knowing him, but if he was in any way like his sister, he would have been a friend whom I should have delighted to press to my breast and carry in my heart of hearts.