"It has almost killed me to say all this, aunty. And I don't want to say another word, or have you ask me any questions. Only I want to thank you for not plaguing me with exhortations. It wouldn't have done me any good. And I think a great deal more of how people act than of how they talk. One's words can cheat; one's life can't. I watched mother like a lynx, to find flaws in her religion, and sometimes thought I found them. Then I watched you in the same way; and, oh! what sermons you have both preached to me, when you were, very likely, reproaching yourselves for not doing more for me!" By this time Margaret's face, long paled through sleepless nights and distressing days, had become crimson. To give even this beloved "mother-friend" a glimpse into her soul, cost her all the strength of her strong will. But what a new love had now sprung up between them! CHAPTER XI. As soon as Mrs. Grey recovered her health and strength, she took up her abode in Margaret's sickroom, her mother's former "hospital," and devised endless ways of relieving the tedium of her long confinement. Margaret spent her days on one of the little white beds, and her nights on the other; the change was easily effected by members of the household, and was very refreshing. Mrs. Grey read to her, told her stories, played games with her, brought her fresh flowers and fruit every day, and was as companionable as a girl. Yet it cost her brave heart something thus to live over again Maud's illness, without alluding to it; only a mother who has ministered to a dying child can know at what a price. Once, when Margaret was suffering unusual pain, she broke down, and cried heartily; but for herself she shed no tears. "My precious child," she said, "how you need your own dear mother now!" "I wouldn't have her see me suffer so for the world!" cried Margaret. "As long as I live, whatever happens to hurt or distress me, I shall have one comfort--my darling mother never had to see this!"