"It is not only the loss of the baby, that's sore, but a sense of having sinned, that's helping to keep her down," said Jean; "she feels that she has done evil that good may come, and we are commanded not to do that. And her nerves are nearly gone. You do not realize, my dear, all that poor thing has suffered. I tremble, myself, when I think of her, month after month, in the power of the poor madman. It's awful, Miss Grace, you must just be patient and pray for her too." Mrs. Dorriman's letters were now addressed to Margaret, and showed to no one. But one day she said to Jean, "When the doctor next comes, Jean, we will ask him when I may go to Scotland," and the old woman was delighted, for to her to be so far from Mrs. Dorriman, and not a "kent face" near her, was a trial. Another subject that amazed Grace a good deal was the apparent desertion of Sir Albert Gerald and Mr. Paul Lyons. Sir Albert having effected poor Margaret's release was full of remorse because that release had been so late, though he was conscious of not having lost time when he had fully grasped the situation; he still mourned over the death of the poor child, whose life might have been saved under ordinary circumstances. He understood Margaret better than most of those round her, and he knew that if ever, in the future, he hoped to see her, he must keep away now. Grace was exceedingly amazed when she received a letter from him--from Spain; true he entreated her to write to him, but his having gone so far off was tiresome. Then Mr. Lyons, he neither came nor wrote, and altogether Grace thought now, as she once had done before, it is always Margaret. Still there were consolations in her present lot; she appreciated to the full having the command of money, and this was supplied unsparingly by Mrs. Dorriman at her brother's wish. He was not, in any way, a man who grudged money, and he was one of the men who had a vague idea that most things, even a broken heart, could be mended by a cheque. He was more relieved by Mr. Drayton's death than any one, and horrified his sister by saying so. "It is a terrible thing you say, Anne; now I call that humbug; what is the use of pretending to grieve?" "He might have recovered," she said, gently; "and brother, I do not think it is right to rejoice over any one's death." "Who says I rejoice?" "You look as if you did." "Well, it is a relief; and in this world so seldom the right person seems to die...." "Oh, hush!" she said, inexpressibly shocked and distressed. "Anne, I know you try to be honest, but you have a crooked way of looking at things." "I do not think I have, and," she added, plucking up a little spirit, "you have no right to say so; and the subject is so terribly painful to me, I thought it would be equally painful to you."