It was a frightful and crushing trial out of which she had come into the light. Her wings had been scorched and broken in the conflict, but they had not been injured for all time. The stain was not permanent, and she had passed through it all without understanding it, except so far as this, that she believed to every woman an instinct is given as a help. She had wilfully erred against hers, and she had suffered cruelly. But of her child ... yes, of her child she was longing to speak! the want of sympathy in Grace had sent back all the touching records, so dear to a mother's heart, and she knew that Mrs. Dorriman would give sympathy. "It is a grief to me," she said, gently, "that you never saw my child. I should like to tell of it, if my speaking of it does not trouble you." "Oh! my dear," said Mrs. Dorriman, and her voice trembled a little. "Is it wise for you?" "It is wise," answered Margaret. "I often wish I had a friend near me to whom I could sometimes speak of it--it hurts me to feel that it is not to be mentioned before me, while I feel it still so near me." Mrs. Dorriman, her anxiety checked about giving Margaret pain, could only answer by a tighter grasp of the arm she clung to. "Yes, at first it was very dreadful to me. Now at times tears still come, but I am beginning to think of it as waiting for me, not as lying here and leaving me childless and alone. It was very fair, auntie, and had winning ways...." She stopped for a moment and went on in the subdued voice which was her characteristic. "At first I was so selfish and I prayed for death, I, who have still much to do." "You have seen much illness lately?" "I have seen many terrible things," she answered, earnestly. "I have seen troubles and trials that dwarf mine; I try to help; it is a great blessing to be able to help. When I stroke the little faded cheek of another child I still think of mine, for I am still selfish in my grief; but the joy of seeing a child recover kills the selfishness, and I begin more to do things for God's sake and theirs, than for the sweet little face always present to me. I am happier since I have learned how to make others happy!" She paused, folding her hands, and looking to Mrs. Dorriman like some fair saint, with her unclouded eyes and the sweet folded lips that were both grave and tender. "Here there is poverty, sickness, and often sorrow," said Mrs. Dorriman; "but somehow, with these surroundings, poverty does not seem so grim." "Here there are springs of water, fresh air and _this_," said Margaret, pointing to the river; "but in London, water is taxed even to the very poor, the very kindling of their fires is a difficulty. Here the people have at any rate kindling," and she added, pointing to a woman in the distance, who was carrying a bundle of furze, "And peat for the cutting; and yet the ambition of many is to leave the country and flock to the towns."