He apologised to Mrs. Dorriman for having ventured to detain her, but he was so anxious to express to Miss Rivers, Miss Grace Rivers, all he felt. "Oh! I had nothing to do with it. It was my sister, it was Margaret," Grace said hurriedly. "Yes," said Mrs. Dorriman, "poor Margaret came home quite ill from the fright and shock." "Ill--I am so grieved," began Sir Albert. "She is all right now," said Grace, quickly. "After all she was not able to help you." "You do not know how she helped me," said Sir Albert, quietly. "But for her courage in staying and bathing my face--even moving me--I might have died. I do hope I shall have an opportunity of seeing her and expressing my thanks in person." "Of course you shall," said Grace abruptly, impatient of the subject, one in which she played no part. Mrs. Dorriman felt interested in the helpless figure, and the pallor which spoke of much suffering--she would fain have lingered, but Grace hurried her on. "I am so disappointed," exclaimed the young lady, "Sir Albert is grave, and not at all good-looking, so pale and cadaverous." "It is not wonderful, having had such a terrible accident, my dear. I think he has such a fine face. I am sure his eyes are wonderful, there is patience written on his face." "And he is grateful to Margaret, which is the only reason you are interested in him," said Grace, pettishly. "It is always Margaret." Mrs. Dorriman said no more. When Grace took this tone she exercised a gift she possessed--a gift of greatest value--the golden gift of silence. It was not many days after this, Margaret, who had been disturbed and anxious because of a scene between Mr. Sandford and Grace, had gone for the relief of quiet and fresh air along the sea-side. All around her lay the hush of evening, when all have rest. The sun was low and lighted up the western sky with a soft glow of golden colour, showing himself only behind high-fleeting clouds which but partly only veiled his glory. Every ripple on the sea caught a quivering touch of light, all the great hills took softening shadows, all inequalities seemed brought into one harmonious whole, as a fine soul will sometimes blend inconsistencies till they cease to strike one as incongruous. The light fell softly upon Margaret's face, and the little ruffle upon her brow, the sign of disturbance, was smoothed out. In the midst of such a scene she felt that her irritation had been unworthy--how could she allow herself to feel things so much? She tried to set before herself Mr. Sandford's deeds of kindness, but she failed. She had a strong sense of justice, and it was unjust to heap obligations upon them upon the one hand, and make those obligations hateful on the other. What could she do to help Grace? How act so that she might in some way be saved from a life she hated, and out of which no good came to her.