And not many days later, Mr. Heath came for Mabel. He was as impatient as a child to have her see the new babies, whom he considered marvelous beings, and of whom he was very proud. As to the child, she was eager to enter into possession of her share of the spoils, and Margaret felt a spasm of pain shoot through her heart when, with smiling faces, they took leave. She had loved Mabel so! Was she to be parted with in this way all her life, she asked herself, always giving amply and receiving sparingly? But one must not reason thus about little children. They know little about time and space; they have not learned to sentimentalize; they live in the present moment. Many a mother has experienced a pang akin to Margaret's, when returning from a journey, longing to fold her dear ones to her heart, the prosaic cry salutes her, "What have you brought me, mamma?" as if in bringing herself she had not done all a loving child ought to ask. Mrs. Grey and Margaret now returned to their interrupted work, and the wintry days flew rapidly by. The weather continued mild until late in February, when the first snow of the season fell. But previously to this an event occurred which put a new aspect on life to Margaret. They had been to the city: Mrs. Grey to make visits to friends in hospitals there; Margaret to take her painting lesson, and on reaching the station found the carriage awaiting them, and the horses in a restive mood, which was provoking the temper of the old coachman not a little. "What is the matter, Samp?" asked Mrs. Grey. "Ain't used enough," returned Samp. "Needs to be took down." "Any danger of their running away with us?" "Never knowed 'em to run away." "Nor I, either," said Mrs. Grey, "and yet I've a good mind to walk. What do you say, Margaret?" "I say that it's too far for you to walk. Belle charged me to not let you overdo." "Very well. But it's not too far for you to walk. I have a queer presentiment that something is going to happen. Suppose I drive, and you come home at your leisure?" "No!" said Margaret decidedly; "if anything is going to happen, it must be to me, not you. But nothing is, except lunch." So saying, she sprang into the carriage, and Samp drove off. "I never saw you nervous, aunty, till now." "And I am not nervous now on my own account." Margaret understood, and was silent. After a few moments, however, she said: "We fly over the ground like lightning. Can it be that Samp has lost control of the horses? Oh, aunty! there he goes! He's off the box! They're running away with us! We must jump out!" "We must _not_ jump out," said Mrs. Grey, in a tone that made Margaret pause. "It would be death to us both." "What shall we do, then?" "We must trust ourselves to Him who, if He can hold the winds in His fist, can certainly control these animals. And if He does not think it best to do that--if they rush on and plunge down the riverbank--why, it would be an easier death than martyrdom."