“I am glad to welcome you, for my client’s sake, Miss Miller,” said Mr. Smart. “I am afraid he will never be able to see for himself how the work on which he has set his heart progresses, for he is ill; but it is a comfort to him that you have consented to come. I think you will like your surroundings, and High Seathorpe is exceedingly bracing.” But Margaret was weary from her journey, and the place looked bleak and cold in the grey of the evening. Her thoughts went back regretfully to John, and also to her own cosy little home at Darentdale, so that for a time she felt sad and fearful of the future, and her powers to endure it. But when she reached the house a pleasant surprise awaited her. Mr. Smart ushered her into a large room, well warmed and lighted, and a lady came forward, with both hands extended in greeting. “Miss Wentworth!” cried Margaret, in surprise. “Is it possible that you are here! How can that have been brought about?” “Ah, my dear, you did not expect to see me. I have brought thirteen of my girls to start this establishment. You will need me, I know, and I shall need you too; for girls are much more difficult to manage than boys. Come to your room, and let me make you feel at home at once.” It was a great relief to Margaret to find that not only was Miss Wentworth at High Seathorpe, but that the work which she had come to commence was already successfully inaugurated. She looked in at the girls that night, and saw at a glance that the right ones were there. When she opened the door one of them was saying: “I don’t care! It isn’t nice to miss the courting, but my young man is a good fellow, and I mean to make the most of this chance and learn how to be a real good wife to him.” That little sentence was like a tonic to Margaret; for her sympathy and interest were at once aroused, and she went away to dream once more of pleasant hours spent in the service of others. The next morning she was ready for work, and before the day had passed the girls had decided that she was trustworthy, and that they would like her. One girl confided her love story to her also, and begged that she would teach her how to cut out and make some shirt collars with her own hands as a present for _him_. “There’s only one him in the world, you know, miss,” she said; “though I suppose it is a hymn that may be sung to the tune of the Old Hundred.” CHAPTER XXXII. A LETTER.