"'Heaven bless her and him too,'--but there was not a speck of color in her face as she said the words, and I could see the tears in her beautiful eyes. Oh, but you are a saint, Miss Margaret--every one knows that; but, as I tell Martin, it is a sin and a shame to ring the joy bells for a feckless chit that folk never set eyes on; while our darling, Miss Margaret, is left alone in the old place." "What about Margaret, Catharine, for Heaven's sake, what about Margaret?" and the shadow that had come from behind the tamarisk hedge now fell across the porch straight before the startled woman. Catharine put down her apron from her eyes with something like a cry, and stood up trembling. "Good gracious! is that you, Miss Crystal? why, you come before one like a flash of lightning on a summer's day, to make one palpitate all over for fear of a storm." "And about as welcome, I suppose," returned the young stranger, bitterly, "my good Catharine, your simile is a wonderfully true one." "I don't know naught about 'similies,' Miss Crystal, but I know you are as welcome as the flowers in May. Come in--come in--my lamb, and don't stand scorching your poor face in the sun; come in and I'll give you Martin's wicker-chair by the open window, where you can smell the sea and the fields together, and I'll fetch you a sup of Daisy's new milk, for you look quite faint and moithered, like a lost and weary bird, my pretty. Yes, just like a lost and weary bird." "You are right," murmured the girl through her pale lips; then aloud, "have your own way, for you were ever an obstinate woman, Catharine, and fetch me a draught of Daisy's sweet milk and a crust of the old brown loaf, and I will thank you and go; but not before you have told me about Margaret--all that you know, and that you hope and fear, Catharine." "Heaven bless you, Miss Crystal, it is the same tender heart as ever, I see. Yes, you shall hear all I know; and that's little enough, I'll be bound." And so saying, she hustled up her dress over her linsey petticoat, and, taking a tin dipper from the dresser, was presently heard calling cheerfully to her milky favorite in the paddock, on her way to the dairy. Left to herself, the girl threw herself down--not in the wicker-chair, where the cat lay like a furry ball simmering in the sun, but on the old brown settle behind the door, where she could rest her head against the wall, and see and not be seen. She had taken off her broad-brimmed hat, and it lay on the table beside her; and the sunlight streamed through the lattice window full on her face. Such a young face, and--Heaven help her--such a sad face; so beautiful too, in spite of the lines that sorrow had evidently traced on it, and the hard bitter curves round the mouth.