"Has Hannah said nothing about me?"

"I asked her if she'd wrote after he had gone, but she told me to mind my work and leave her to mind other things."

"And then?"

"And then I just got George Canning to write those lines and post them in Haslemere when he went for the physic. I thought if he posted it before twelve you'd likely get it to-night."

"I did--I did!" and Margaret put her hand on Towsey's arm in token of grat.i.tude. Towsey turned her head back for a moment as if she were listening, but all was still above.

"Has mother asked for me?" Margaret whispered.

"Ay, every hour."

"I must come in, I will come in!" she said, desperately.

"You have a right to," Towsey answered; "but after she came from London she said she would turn me from the door if I ever opened it to you."

"I must see my mother!" Margaret said, and a sob came to her throat.

"She has no right to keep me from her."

"That's true enough, Miss Margaret. But she's that bitter I believe she'd shut the door on you if your mother was lying dead."

"I would insist," said Margaret, in despair; "but it would be so terrible to have a quarrel now, and it might kill her. She's my mother, Towsey," Margaret added, in a heart-broken whisper.

"And Hannah may say what she pleases, you shall enter," whispered Towsey with determination, and opened the door wide. Margaret went swiftly past her into the kitchen, and Towsey shut the door softly and followed her.

"You'll be tired with the journey," she said, tenderly; "let me get you something to eat and drink."

"I don't want anything to eat or drink, Towsey, dear; I want to creep up and be near mother even if I can't see her. Oh, I wonder if Hannah would prevent my seeing her?"

"Ay, that she would," said Towsey, with conviction. "You'd better sit a bit," and she led Margaret to a chair very carefully, so that the sound of their footsteps should not be heard above, and still they spoke in whispers.

"Is there no hope?" Margaret asked, chokingly.

Towsey shook her head. "Hannah won't believe she's going, but I can see it. I have seen plenty go, and know the signs. The pain's gone--it's never been very bad--but it's all gone now. She's just waiting for death, though, somehow, I don't think it will come till she's seen you."

"But doesn't Hannah know she's dying?"

Towsey shook her head. "She doesn't see it, and you can never make Hannah believe anything she doesn't think inside her."

"Is Hannah likely to come down?"

"Likely she'll be down presently for the arrow-root. Look you, Miss Margaret, I'll make an excuse and go up for something. You take off your shoes and walk softly by me, keeping well to the side of the staircase.

There's only the little lamp in the room, and there's no light outside; she'll not see, even if she looks out."

"But what shall I do when I get up?" Margaret asked, too dazed to think for herself. She took off her hat as she spoke and put it on the table.

Towsey lifted it gently and hid it in the settle where she kept her own things.

"As I go into the room you can slip into the cupboard outside the door--you'll find it open--and hide among the things hanging up. I'll try and get Hannah down and keep her to eat a bit of supper; then, perhaps, you could steal in and look at her for a moment without any one knowing you are there."

"But if it did her harm--if it excited her?"

"It won't," said Towsey, firmly; "it'll make her happy before she goes.

It would be terrible if she died without seeing you or her husband, when she's waiting and longing for you both that badly she can scarce breathe."

"Let us go at once," whispered Margaret.

They crept out of the kitchen together, Margaret's hand on Towsey's shoulder. The tears came into the old woman's eyes as they crossed the threshold. "I nursed you a lot of times when you were a baby," she whispered; "and now you are such a beauty--she said it," and she nodded upward, "only yesterday."

They went along the pa.s.sage and stopped near the foot of the stairs that were between the kitchen door and the door of the best parlor. They could hear Hannah's voice. She was sitting by her mother's bedside reading the Bible. Towsey went up a few steps and stopped and craned her neck, and came back.

"The door's nearly to," she whispered. "Hannah won't see."

Margaret softly followed Towsey up-stairs, keeping close to the wall till she reached the landing, then she slipped into the cupboard that was next her mother's room. She remembered how she had looked into it the day that Tom Carringford came to the farm four months ago; her mother's long cloak and best dress had been hanging there then, and they were there now. Margaret knew the feel of them so well--it gave her a thrill to touch them. It was quite dark within the cupboard; even if the door were open and Hannah pa.s.sed, she would not be likely to see her.

She was afraid to move the door lest it should be noticed, but she hid a little way behind it. Towsey, seeing she was safe, looked in at Hannah, who, perhaps, made some sign to her, for she went softly down to the kitchen again. Then, as Margaret stood hidden and listening, out of her mother's bedroom door there came still the sound of Hannah reading of love and mercy; but her voice told that neither had entered her own heart.

Presently Mrs. Vincent asked feebly, "Has any one come, Hannah?"

"Did she know?" Margaret wondered.

"The doctor said he wouldn't be here again to-day--he thought you better this morning," Hannah answered.

"I feel sure I am dying, Hannah. I shall never see him again."

"She is thinking of my father," Margaret thought, and could hardly keep herself from crying out.

"You don't know how to do with illness," Hannah said; "you've not had any for so long. We are all in G.o.d's hands, remember that."

"I want you to send for Margaret--she's so young," Mrs. Vincent pleaded; "I can't bear to think of her away from home."

But Hannah answered firmly: "She has disgraced us, mother."

"She has done nothing wrong," Mrs. Vincent answered; "nothing could make me believe that."

"She has disgraced us with her play actors and her forwardness. Would you have an unbeliever beside your sick-bed?"

"But I want her," Mrs. Vincent said. "I want her and her father," she moaned. "I can't die without seeing them again."

"You are making too much of the illness," Hannah answered, anxiously.

"People have more of it before they die."

"Tell Towsey to send for Margaret," Mrs. Vincent said, as if her mind were detaching itself from Hannah's argument.

"She shall not cross the doorstep," Hannah said; "and, if you were dying, it would be for your salvation's sake that I would still say it; for one must have fear of G.o.d as well as love of G.o.d. Let us go on with the reading, mother."

"I can't listen; I want Margaret and her father. There is the sea between him and me, but you can send for Margaret."

"You are tired and had better sleep a little," Hannah said for answer, and, for all her firmness, her voice was kind and even gentle, as though she were striving to save a soul at bitter cost to her own heart. No answer came to her last words, and five minutes went by; they seemed like hours to Margaret; then Hannah spoke again, and her voice was different--there was something like fear in it.

"Mother," she asked, "mother, why do you look round so; do you see anything?"