hing unattainable in this direction, the
world would not have guessed it. Whenever we heard of her she was the
centre and star of whatever for the moment excited the world of fashion.
It was indeed, at last, in the zenith of her gay existence that
I, became aware of a certain feminine anxiety about her in our
neighborhood. She had been, years before, very ill in Paris, and the
apprehensions for her safety now were based upon the recollection of
her peril then. The days came when the tender-hearted Miss Forsythe went
about the house restless, impatient, tearful, waiting for a summons that
was sure to come when she was needed. She thought only of her child, as
she called her, and all the tenderness of her nature was stirred-these
years of cloud and separation and pain were as they had not been. Little
Margaret had promised to send for her. She would not obtrude before
she was wanted, but Margaret was certain to send. And she was ready for
departure the instant the despatch came from Henderson--"Margaret wants
you to come at once." I went with her.

In calamity, trouble, sorrow, it is wonderful how the ties of blood
assert themselves. In this hour I am sure that Margaret longed for no
one more than her dear aunt, in whose arms, as a child, she had so often
forgotten her griefs. She had been able to live without her--nay, for a
long time her presence had been something of a restraint and a rebuke,
and her feelings had hardened towards her. Why is it that the heart
hardens in prosperity?

When we arrived Margaret was very ill. The house itself had a serious
air: it was no longer the palace of festivity and gayety, precautions
had been taken to secure quiet, the pavement was littered, and within
the hushed movements and the sombre looks spoke of apprehension and the
absence of the spirit that had been the life and light of the house. Our
arrival seemed to be a relief to Henderson. Little was said. I had never
before seen him nervous, never before so restless and anxious, probably
never before in all his career had he been unnerved with a sense of his
own helplessness.

"She has been asking for you this moment," he said, as he accompanied
Miss Forsythe to Margaret's apartment.

"Dear, dear aunt, I knew you would come--I love you so;" she had tried
to raise herself a little in her bed, and was sobbing like a child in
her aunt's arms.

"You must have courage, Margaret; it will all be well."

"Yes, but I'm so discouraged;