"You are indeed mistaken. Much of the misery and the vice amongst the very poorest people are caused by the squalor and absence of any charm or higher influence in their lives. This is so well recognised that many people are spending time and money in trying to improve the look of things for the poor. Think, Mr. Stevens," said Margaret, earnestly, "only think what it must be for a hard-working man to go home to a wretched, comfortless room, without paper on the walls, or an atom of _home_-look about the place, a tired-out wife, and children cross because their natural energies have no outlet. If he could go home to a comfortable room with cheerful colour about it and find it clean. If the children, instead of having access only to the grimy streets, could play in the squares and gardens, so selfishly shut up from them now, their lives would be better, they would take heart, and not find the one relief, the public-house afterwards." "And a nice sight the squares and gardens would be, in a very short time," Mr. Stevens said, a little moved by Margaret's extreme earnestness, and trying to hide that it affected him. "Why should they be? Look at the Temple gardens, look at places already open to the public! I would give anything to see all these places thrown open to all." "And in Paris everything is open, and who shall say we are less well-behaved than the French?" said Sir Albert, backing her up. "Two against one is hardly fair," said Mr. Stevens, the last shred of prejudice dropping from him, and beginning to find that there was something very delightful in a man who could talk of something besides work. When after another hour Sir Albert got out of the train Mr. Stevens was quite cordial in expressing his hope that they would meet again at no distant time. Before they parted, Sir Albert, with a glance at Margaret, promised to send him a book of poetry that would convert him. "I am going to travel for a year or so," he continued, turning to Margaret, "then I also shall go to Scotland." She understood what he meant. He was very kind and very thoughtful; but _that_ now--that could never be! When he had left, and the train had started again, she was very much amused to hear Mr. Stevens say-- "There is a great deal to like in that young man. Have you known him long?" Margaret answered, and told him the story of his most terrible accident. "And all this happened before your marriage? Most extraordinary!" he said. Margaret was annoyed with herself, because she felt herself grow crimson. When he saw her colour he said, with greater emphasis-- "Most extraordinary!" Both she and Jean were tired enough when they reached Perth. Margaret, indeed, had a certain mental excitement which prevented her sleeping. With the tenderness of conscience, which amounted to something akin to morbidness, she accused herself of having forgotten because she had allowed herself to be happy.