's tact and consideration in keeping the children away when the
lovers could best be alone, and letting them in when the discussion was
becoming useless and harassing, her cheerful smiles, her evening music
that covered all sounds, her removal of all extra annoyances, were
invaluable, and Margaret appreciated them, as, indeed, Flora took care
that she should.

Margaret begged to know her eldest brother's judgment, but had great
difficulty in dragging it out. Diffidently as it was proposed, it
was clear and decided. He thought that his father had better send Sir
Matthew Fleet a statement of Margaret's present condition, and abide
by his answer as to whether her progress warranted the hope of her
restoration.

Never was Richard more surprised than by the gratitude with which his
suggestion was hailed, simple as it was, so that it seemed obvious
that others should have already thought of it. After the tossings of
uncertainty, it was a positive relief to refer the question to some
external voice, and only Ethel and Norman expressed strong dislike to
Sir Matthew becoming the arbiter of Margaret's fate, and were scarcely
pacified by Dr. May's assurance that he had not revealed the occasion of
his inquiry. The letter was sent, and repose returned, but hearts beat
high on the morning when the answer was expected.

Dr. May watched the moment when his daughter was alone, carried the
letter to her, and kissing her, said, with an oppressed voice, "I give
you joy, my dear."

She read with suspended breath and palpitating heart. Sir Matthew
thought her improvement sure, though slow, and had barely a doubt that,
in a year, she would have regained her full strength and activity.

"You will show it to Alan," said Dr. May, as Margaret lifted her eyes to
his face inquiringly.

"Will not you?" she said.

"I cannot," he answered. "I wish I was more helpful to you, my child,"
he added wistfully, "but you will rest on him, and be happy together
while he stays, will you not?"

"Indeed I will, dear papa."

Mr. Ernescliffe was with her as the doctor quitted her. She held the
letter to him, "But," she said slowly, "I see that papa does not believe
it."

"You promised to abide by it!" he exclaimed, between entreaty and
authority.

"I do; if you choose so to risk your hopes."

"But," cried he, as he glanced hastily over the letter, "there can be
no doubt! These words are as certain as language can make them. Why will
you not trust