Her father and brother often came to see her, and occasionally they brought her a luxury which reminded her of the days of liberty--"a harvest cake." The reader will not be surprised to learn that Margaret still, sometimes, asked after Will Laud. Her brother could give her but an indifferent account of what he heard of him; one question, however, of most vital import to the still lingering hopes of poor Margaret, namely--"Is he single still?" he could answer in the affirmative. As a set-off against this, she learned that he was still deeply engaged in smuggling transactions. In the winter of 1797, Margaret lost her father, who was taken off by a bad fever, which at that time raged fiercely in the neighbourhood. The following letter to her brother Edward speaks her feelings on this event:-- "IPSWICH GAOL, December 21st, 1797. "DEAR EDWARD, "My sins appear to me doubly great, because they have prevented my fulfilling my duties to my dear father in his illness. They oppress me, because, but for them, I should have found such comfort in being able to wait upon him. Oh that I had wings to fly from this place to Nacton! if only for once to be present at the last duties we can any of us pay to those whom we love. But I cannot come, so I send you this letter. My tears fall upon it, whilst I write it. He was such a dear good old man to us all. Can I ever forget him? Never! You and he both stood near me upon my trial. "Ah! Edward, I do think my ill-conduct has killed him. He was always so fond of me, that I think he has never recovered the shock of that day. Yet he seemed well, and rejoiced to see me, with the hope of happier and brighter times. But he is gone, and all our grief, dear brother, will be useless. If we continue to walk in the right path, we shall meet him hereafter. We shall go to him; he cannot come to us. Yet, I wish I could join you in the churchyard; but I may not leave the prison for one moment. It is an indulgence no prisoner is allowed. Mr. Ripshaw has promised me that I shall have the afternoon of to-morrow to myself, which I shall employ in reading, and thinking about the burial service. "Dear old man! he promised to spend Christmas-day with me in my cell. He is in a happier place, where joy and peace will make every day his Christmas. I shall think of you to-morrow at two o'clock. Do you remember, Edward, the evening of our mother's funeral? Do you remember the stranger's visit, and that stranger our brother Charles? This melancholy time reminds me of him. You will have a dreary home now. Oh that I had power to make it happier!