“Sarah,” said Margaret, “we shall have to begin our packing immediately. We are going away.” How difficult it was not to say a little more--not to relieve the burden of her indignation with a word or two! for, indeed, there was nobody whom she could speak to except this round-faced girl, who looked up half frightened, half sympathetic, into her face. “Oh, ma’am, to leave Greyshott! Where are you a-going to?” Sarah said; and her open mouth and eyes repeated with dismay the same question, fixed upon Margaret’s face. “Shall you be so sorry to leave Greyshott?” said Mrs. Osborne. Sarah hung her head. She took her handkerchief from her pocket, and twisted it into a knot; finally the quick-coming tears rolled over her round cheeks. “Oh, ma’am!” she cried, and could say no more. A nurserymaid’s tears do not seem a very tragic addition to any trouble, and yet they came upon Margaret with all the force of a new misfortune. “What is it, Sarah? Is it leaving Jim? is that why you cry?” “Oh, we was to be married at Christmas,” the girl cried, in a passion of tears. “Then you meant to leave me, Sarah? Why didn’t you tell me so? Well, of course, I should not hinder your marriage, my good girl; but Christmas is six months off, and you will stay with Master Osy, won’t you, till that time comes?” Sarah became inarticulate with crying, but shook her head, though she could not speak. “No!--do you mean no? I thought you were fond of us,” said poor Margaret, quite broken down by this unexpected desertion. It was of no importance, no importance! she said to herself; but, nevertheless, it gave her a sting. “Oh, don’t ask me, ma’am, don’t ask me! So I am, fond: there never was a nicer lady. But how do I know as Jim---- they changes so, they changes so, does men!” Sarah cried, among her tears. “Well, well; you will pack for me, at least,” said Margaret, with a faint laugh, “if that is how we are to part, Sarah,--but you must begin at once; no more looking out of the window, for a little while, at least. But Jim is a good fellow. He will be faithful--till Christmas.” She laughed again; was it as the usual alternative to crying? or was it because there are junctures of utter forlornness and solitude to which a laugh responds better than any crying? not less sadly, one may be sure. Sarah dried her streaming eyes, but continued to shake her head. “It’s out o’ sight out of mind with most of ’em,” she said. “I’ll have to go and get the boxes, ma’am, and I don’t know who there is to fetch ’em up, unless I might call Jim--and the others, they don’t like to see a groom a-coming into the house.” “Then let the others do it, Sarah.”