Margaret still, at times, lived through the old terrors, still fancied her child's voice called her. She was silent about these things. Every pang she suffered would be a remembrance to Grace. Grace, who was so softened and yet so bright, and who seemed to her to be so completely now the sister she had at one time imagined her to be. Mrs. Macfarlane was always a friend they were glad to see, but it was Grace who spoke with satisfaction of their having no society, and perhaps nothing more thoroughly convinced Mrs. Dorriman how completely she was altered. They were not to stay long, those two; Paul had not very long leave of absence and wanted to get his wife south. Before they left, one day, Mrs. Dorriman, who had always that feeling about Margaret and the injustice of her suffering for Grace's fault, did want to say one word. She thought it was right, and she was resolved to do it. "I am very glad you are happy, Grace," she began, the day before their departure. "Thank you, auntie; you are very good to say so; I am very happy." "It seems strange; of course we all know that whatever is, is right, but does it not seem strange that poor Margaret?..." "What is strange about poor Margaret?" "That you should be happy and that she ... should so suffer." "Yes, every thing is strange in this world," Grace answered; "at least we think so." "I am sure, sometimes, you must feel it all very much, though you look as though care and trouble had never touched you." "Do you count that to me as a crime?" Grace asked in a peculiar tone. "I sometimes wonder if you ever blame yourself." Mrs. Dorriman's tone was, for her, severe. "I suppose we all do at times." "Well, it seems hard." "That we should blame ourselves?" "You know I do not mean that." "No," answered Grace very slowly, and looking at her with a sort of surprise in her face; "I know what all this means; you beat about the bush very badly, Mrs. Dorriman." "Now I have offended you since you call me Mrs. Dorriman." "You have offended me," said Grace, vehemently, "because you give me credit for being utterly heartless and cruel, and wanting in affection; you think that, because I am happy now, I have forgotten. I have forgotten nothing! I do blame myself! I know as well as you can tell me that my selfishness and impatience and everything else made Margaret wretched! Up till lately I was very very unhappy, and all her sufferings weighed upon me terribly, but now that I see happiness for her looming in the distance I do allow myself to be happy. It was not till I saw that quite clearly that I consented to marry Paul and to be happy myself!" "Happiness for Margaret! I see nothing before her but the perpetual grief for her child."