"I understand it perfectly," said Montague. "I have seen my cousin's neck, encircled by a pearl-necklace; but Miss Claremont preferred relieving the sufferings of a poor Irish family, to adorning her own person." "But Mr. Montague!" said Margarette. "But Miss Claremont!" said Montague, laughing. "Very well," said Margarette, in great perplexity what to say,--"you must think as you will." "I _will_ think as I _must_," said Montague,--"and bid you good morning." * * * * * A few weeks after the above conversation took place, Mr. Claremont, on returning from a morning's ride, was thrown from his horse, a few rods from his own door, and was brought in, apparently lifeless. At the appalling spectacle, both his nieces obeyed the impulse of nature, and turned to fly. But Margarette had scarcely begun her retreat, ere she returned. "I must face it," thought she, "however dreadful! kind heaven sustain me!" Without much apparent agitation, she gave directions, and assisted in conveying her uncle to his room; and before medical aid could arrive, employed herself in examining his limbs, to ascertain whether they were broken, and then in chafing his hands and head, to produce, if possible, some signs of life. All beside herself, seemed nearly delirious from fright. The news of the accident flew like wild-fire, and in twenty minutes Montague was at the house. He found Alice in the parlor, walking the floor, and wringing her hands, in an agony of distress, constantly exclaiming--"my dear uncle!"--"my poor, dear uncle." In answer to Montague's hasty inquiries, she exclaimed-- "O, he is dead!--my dear, _dear_ uncle!--and what will become of his own poor Alice?--doubly--doubly an orphan?" Montague hastened to Mr. Claremont's room, hopeless of learning any thing of his situation from his cousin. The physician and surgeon were both there, and there was Margarette--pale as a statue, and apparently as firm, supporting her uncle's head on her bosom. There was a deathlike silence in the room, while the medical gentlemen were endeavoring to {87} restore animation; while all feared that their endeavors would prove useless. A groan at length announced that the vital spark was not extinguished, and Mr. Claremont opened his eyes on his niece. "Dear uncle," said Margarette, "do you know me?" "Margarette!" murmured Mr. Claremont. "Away with her, Mr. Montague," said the physician--"she is gone!" Montague clasped her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, while a servant hastened after with restoratives. "She must be mine!" thought Montague, as he supported her lifeless frame, while the servant resorted to the usual means of restoration,--"she must be mine! Such benevolence without ostentation,--such firmness and deep feeling,--such exalted worth and true humility, are a rare combination! She must be my own!"