Margaret seized it eagerly. She saw at a glance it was a novel. She had read enough of them to spoil her taste for more solid reading, and to know that she liked them far better than anything else. She felt guilty in taking it, because she had promised Elmer when he went away to read only what would be of benefit. How did she know, though, she told herself, but there was something good in this book? She remembered, too, with a twinge of remorse, that she had not yet touched the books Mrs. Duncan left for her to read, except to look through them and pronounce them “dry.” She meant to read them before the lady returned, but just now she must have a real story to cheer her. Anybody who has read “Madam How and Lady Why,” “A Family Flight,” and “Harry’s Vacation,” knows of what delightful reading Margaret had deprived herself all this time. The next morning when the room was in order and Mrs. Moore was taking a nap, Margaret brought her basket of work and drew up to the fire, planning for a good time, not with her mending, though. “The Deserted Wife”—Hester’s book—was in the bottom of the basket, well covered with stockings. The fact that it was so hidden, and that she drew a tall rocker between the bed and herself, proved that her conscience was not altogether clear. However, she was soon lost in her book. She did not raise her eyes or move a muscle, except to turn over the leaves for a long time; she even forgot to breathe except by irregular gasps; she read with feverish haste, because her step-mother might waken at any moment and require her help, and she must know what happened next. If Hester had but placed a live coal in her hands instead of this book! She would have dropped that instantly and have burned only her fingers. This tale of sin and shame and crime might leave scars on her soul forever. Mrs. Moore had an unusually long sleep, for two hours had passed away when Margaret was startled by her voice, saying,— “Seems to me it is cold here. Has the fire gone out? Where are you, Margaret?” Sure enough, the wood fire had burned to ashes, and the room was quite chilly. Margaret hid away her book and went for kindlings. They were wet, and the fire smoked and sulked, but did not burn for a long time. Her father came in to dinner before the chill was off the room. He noticed it, for it was a raw, windy day, and told Margaret, rather sharply, that her mother’s room ought not to become cold like that, and there was no need of it if she had attended to the fire as she should. Margaret could never bear to have her father speak sternly to her. She went off to her room in a tempest of tears, telling herself, amid sobs—as foolish girls do at such times—that there was nobody to love her.