"Perhaps that is the very best of ways, in a case like yours." "I don't know that. My case is bad enough, heaven knows. It wouldn't be an easy thing to make it worse." "Perhaps it might be made better." "How so?" You've laid the "I should like to tell you, so far as I know myself. Will you let me tell you, just in my own way? I am only a simple girl, you know, and you are a strong, brave manhave been, at least. Suppose an end should be coming to all your strength and your bravery-suppose you should soon have a dark sea to cross, over which no boat made by men's hands could carry you, and dangers to meet against which no bravery of your own would be of the least use?" "Why, that's just it. case before me just as it is." Whether it was Margaret's youth and singleness of character, or perhaps something in her voice with its clearness and earnestness, which had the effect of soothing the temper of the man, the way seemed to be opening for her to say what was nearest to her heart. But the way was no less open for her to say what she felt was infinitely more important to him who lay before her on the verge of an eternity such as well might make the strong man shudder to contemplate. Inexperienced as Margaret was in dealing with such cases, unacquainted even with the near symptoms of death, she would have been reasonably appalled by the awfulness of the circumstances in which she had become so suddenly and unexpectedly involved, except for that intense earnestness which formed so prominent a part of her character, and which, even in this trying moment, made her forget herself and everything around. her, except that sinful man who seemed to her like one who is sweeping on with a swift sure current to the verge of a cataract, down which the plunge must be one of inevitable and eternal death. How little we, any of us, know before-hand what we can say or do in such moments of sudden emergency-God helping us! Margaret spoke to the man almost as a child would speak; but it was like a child who had been taken in the Saviour's arms, and, having heard His gracious words, and felt and known His love, could not choose but speak of it to others, and especially to him whose peril was now so great. And while telling the old story of Christ's mission to the sinful and the lost, her own heart was so melted, her own prejudices and repulsions so entirely swept away, that unconsciously she grasped the hard, rough worn hand of the sailor, upon which her tears at length began to fall, and her voice became broken by the emotion which she could not restrain. This was only at short intervals, for Margaret returned again to the all-important theme. There was no time to lose. By the dim light of the candle, from which his face was shaded, she could yet see that an awful change was stamped upon those stronglymarked features. But she saw also, and she felt by the grasping of his hand, that her presence was not unwelcome, nor her words altogether unacceptable. During one of the silent intervals which marked this strange interview, and which gave it more solemnity, the nurse returned with the medicine which had been ordered. It was time, too, that some restorative should be administered, and as the patient appeared almost too feeble for any farther effort, Margaret would have withdrawn and returned home, but that he beckoned to her not to leave the room. She then recollected what had escaped her thoughts, that it had been in consequence of his especial wish she had come. When the nurse had discharged her duty, James Halliday told her he wanted to be alone with his visitor; and when the woman suggested that it was already late for a young lady to be returning to the town, he answered, impatiently,"Better than too late!" so that, both of them finding it best to submit to his wishes, Margaret remained; and the nurse took the opportunity of resting herself in the adjoining cottage: not, however, without assuring Margaret that she had given a full account of her absence to her friends at home, as well as to Mrs. Godwin, on whom she called for a fresh supply of those comfortable provisions. for the sick which that generous-hearted | now, and that particular lie that I've been woman appeared to have always ready for the use of her neighbours, whether rich or poor. Margaret had by this time begun to care very little whether she remained all night in the fisherman's cottage or not, so much had her sympathy been excited by the spectacle of his helpless and suffering condition, as well as by the few words he had spokenthe first she had ever heard from him expressive of weakness or distress. With her hand still grasped in his, she sat down by the bed; and as soon as she assured him that the woman was gone, and that they were quite alone, he roused himself with a strong effort to say something which evidently cost him a struggle too severe for his exhausted frame, for, sinking back again on the pillow, he uttered an agonizing groan, as if compelled by necessity to give the matter up. "Now just let me make your pillows more comfortable," said Margaret, "and then you shall be quite still for awhile, after which you will be able to talk to me with less effort. I am not in haste to go. I will be very quiet until you breathe more easily. Or, if you like, I will sit beside you while you sleep." "Sleep?" said the man, "No, I will❘ never sleep again until I have eased my conscience of a wicked lie. You know Harry Dunlop ?" Yes, I did know him very well." "And liked him ?" "Yes; and liked him very much, and believed in him, as I do now." The man grasped her hand until she flinched under the strong pressure. "That's a brave girl," he said. "You are right; he deserves that you should believe in him." "Thank God!" was the scarcely audible response, more breathed than spoken; and then Margaret begged he would go on, and tell her all. "I am bound to tell you all," said the man, "and mind this-what I say to you now is on the truth of a dying man. Not that I thought much of a lie in my better days. But, bless you, it all looks different telling and holding by, looks ugliest of all.” "And Harry Dunlop stands clear of all that has been laid to his charge to injure him?" "Clear as the sun at noonday! Why, if I had only strength to say what I know about the lad, I could tell what ought to bring down blessings on his head. What a thing it is, that when we have health and strength, and lungs to breathe and voice to speak with, we spend all in speaking evil; and when these fail us, and when we have neither strength nor breath left, we want to say what is right and true, and we can't." "You can say something: I shall easily understand. Try what you can do. Perhaps even yet God will give you strength to undo the mischief you have done." "Well, you see it was in this way. I was proud of that girl: I always wanted her to marry a gentleman; I set my heart upon it, and I boasted openly that she would make a good match. Secretly, I own to you I thought it would be Harry. I wished it might, but somehow I had a jealousy of you, that you stood in the way. Well, I found out that Harry, the lad I was so fond of, had helped the girl to plan and scheme so as she should get over to America, and marry Tom Lawson. Harry wrote to her himself about ships and other matters, and when all was over he wrote to me telling me about it-how he had been in New York about the time, and looked out for her on board the ship, and took care of her that she might not feel strange. That was the letter I showed the parson; but I had torn off more than half, and took care only to let him read that bit. I meant that for a grand stroke of cleverness on my part; and it is what vexes me most I think, for he's a good soul, is Mr. Godwin, though he is a parson." 'Suppose we let that pass, and go at once to what you knew of Harry yourself; for one of the strong charges against him is that he was so much with you." The squall came on suddenly just as it did then. Breaking through the pitchy blackness we saw the moon sometimes, and then we saw yon point, that I didn't believe we should ever be able to clear. There seemed no use in anything we could do, and we neither of us spoke a word, until once, when a bigger wave than all had struck the boat, and she rose after it clear and right again, I looked in the lad's face and laughed, for just then the moon shone out, and I declare to you he was praying! I could hear his very words as if an angel had spoken-I can hear them yet. He was praying for me I think more than for himself. And yet I don't think his words took hold on me at that time so much as they have done in the last few days and nights. Well, we got out of that trouble, as it seemed then almost by miracle. might be because of the lad's prayers." "Yes; I knew that went against him, me. and I believe I gloried in it for that reason. But I'll tell you how it was. You see he always liked the sea-liked it as they say a horse likes to rush to battle. I used to call him my sea-horse. A braver fellow never faced the wind. And yet, it doesn't seem likely, but it was so, as truly as I lie here, that lad was always trying to persuade me to be a better man. He didn't preach as they preach in pulpits-not that I've heard 'em much myself; but he used to take me unawares like. I suppose we all-the hardest of us have times when we're a kind of womanish-soft and silly and not up to the mark. He used to catch me then, and say things, may be a word or two, that went through me, and cut me clean up. I suppose the boldest of us have times when we feel a little queer, and would be glad to know that we stood upon firm ground. Not that I was ever much given to this myself. But as to that, it's my opinion the lad was braver than the old fisherman, when it came to a point of danger. Why, I've seen him bareheaded in the storm, when the waves came on like mountains, and the splash and the roar was such that we could not hear one another speak-I've seen him as calm and fearless as if he had been a babe upon his mother's knee. And then, when there came a lull, he would talk to me about the great God above-how kind He had been to us, sparing our lives, and how kind He always is, and patient, even with wicked men like me. He would talk in this way at times, just simply as a child might talk, until I grew ashamed and confounded, and could not find a word to say, although I made believe that I didn't care; and indeed I would not let him make me care. "I never saw Harry Dunlop the least bit touched with fear but once, and then it was not fear exactly, for he was calm and steady as a rock; but he thought, and I thought too, we should neither of us ever set foot on dry land again. I declare to you I believed it was all over with us both, and my greatest trouble, as you may well believe, was that I had taken the poor lad out with me. It was a night a good deal like the night that finished It "Or it might be," said Margaret, "because of the goodness of God that He spared you to repent, and to know and love Him better than you did then." "I don't know that," said the man, now completely exhausted, and scarcely able to utter another word. But, although so weak and wearied out with his long effort, he did not appear inclined to sleep-but restless and excited, and, as Margaret feared, a little rambling and incoherent in what he said. After the earnestness and gravity with which he had been speaking, she was scarcely prepared, as a more experienced nurse would have been, for the light and merry tone in which, after a little silence, he began to talk, as eager now to tell of Harry Dunlop's boyish tricks and drollery, as he had been to testify to the truth and seriousness and sterling worth of his character. Unaccustomed to this phase of illness, Margaret very naturally grew alarmed, and during an interval of apparent unconsciousness, she stole into the next cottage to call the nurse. The woman understood the case better. The change which to Margaret appeared so unaccountable had been anticipated by the doctor, who left full directions as to what was to be done. After administering the soothing draught with which sho was provided, and waiting until it began to take effect, the woman agreed with Margaret that it would be well for her to return home. She could not herself be her companion, but she had provided an escort in her son, who, though small in stature, was, as she described him, a sturdy little fellow, and knew what he was about. Margaret could not leave the place without looking again towards the bed where the poor sufferer lay, now breathing heavily in a kind of restless sleep, which, however, served to dull his perception of present things, so that she was able to steal away unobserved. "I shall ask Mr. Godwin to come early in the morning," Margaret whispered to the nurse at the door. "There are some things very important for Mr. Godwin to hear from James Halliday himself, and I should be sorry if a single chance of hearing them was lost." "Whoever The woman shook her head. wants to hear anything from James Halliday," she said, "must make haste." "Do you think he will die so soon?" asked Margaret. "He may not die just yet," replied the woman. "You see, he has been a strong man, and the struggle may be strong; but if you were to ask me whether he would ever say another sensible word, I should answer it was my belief he never would." Margaret stood still, pondering in her own. mind what, under these circumstances, it was best to do-whether to go back into the cottage, or to hasten home and perhaps describe the case to Mr. Godwin that night. It was not so very late. She had only two miles to walk. A full moon was shining, and the night was clear and still. She decided to hasten home, and trust to what Mr. Godwin might think best. It was, as already said, a clear, calm, moonlight night, and Margaret, with the little boy beside her, walked on with a brisk step, her heart relieved and lightened, almost lifted up, by the noble testimony borne by the dying man, notwithstanding that her interview with him had been under circumstances of an appalling character. And Margaret felt this-she could not do otherwise Yet over than feel it deeply and solemnly. the surface of these deep and solemn feelings there flitted, as the silvery moonbeams were flitting over the deep and solemn sea, the light and gladness of a thought inexpressibly welcome to herself, that the character she had so long admired and defended would now stand clear before the eyes of all, without one spot or one shade on its integrity. Occupied with these thoughts Margaret hastened on, scarcely observing any object by the way; until, stopping a moment to consir whether she should take the nearest way home, she perceived the tall figure of a man beside a little gate which opened upon a footpath leading across the fields. The man very civilly held the gate open for her to pass, and she was about to thank him, when she saw to her astonishment that it was Harry Dunlop himself-himself, or a ghost wearing his look and form. Altogether, the apparition was so sudden and unexpected, coming also after scenes so exciting, that Margaret might well have been excused had she shrunk back in terror, or at least uttered some exclamation of alarm. Instead of which, she fearlessly held out her hand, and the strong warm grasp by which it was met was sufficient evidence, had any been wanting, to assure her it was no ghostly presence in which she found herself, but that of the man whom she most wished to see. Harry's explanation was as abrupt as his mode of introduction. He had come over to England, he said, on business of his father's, as well as on some of his own. He saw no use in announcing himself, except to his brother George, who had met him in Liverpool, where they had agreed together to come direct to Eastwick to see poor Archy, and their other friends, before proceeding to London. "But, Margaret," Harry said, in his old familiar way, "there seems to me something different among the good people here. I don't think they are quite so kind as they used to be—at least to me, for they seem pleased enough to see George. As for your uncle and aunt, they almost ordered me out of their house. We had only just arrived and I ran over to ask for you, and they sent me the strangest message by the servant, never asking me so much as to walk in. It was from her I learned where you were gone, and I set out immediately to meet you. You know I am not over solicitous about the Andersons' good opinion, but that which really does trouble me is that I fancied the Godwins were a little strange. I should almost think there was some mystery on the way, only that no mystery ever could attach to me. It was only an instinctive movement, but Margaret could not help pressing more firmly upon the strong arm which she held by, as if in assurance that with her there was no mystery-nothing but faith and trust, now happily become assurance. As she did so she lifted up her face, on which the moon was shining, and with her peculiar smile said, "There has been something-the most foolish story in the world "Did you believe it?" asked Harry, suddenly interrupting her. "No, never." "Did the others ?" "Not all. I do not think the Godwins ever believed it entirely; but my relations. did." "And Agnes ?" and was proceeding in grave, sad tones, full of the painful associations with which the story was to her accompanied, when all at once her companion burst into one of his loud, hearty laughs, which it seemed impossible to restrain. "Hush!" said Margaret, although herself "We must almost catching the infection. not be heard laughing in this way to-night, for, do you know, your old friend James Halliday is lying almost at the point of death." "Poor James!" said Harry, growing instantly serious. "They told me he had had an accident, but I had no idea the end was so near." "He has done you ample justice," said Margaret, "to me, but I want Mr. Godwin also to hear the truth from his lips. It was with James Halliday that the story originated." "What, the old fisherman? I did not think he would do anything to injure me." "Ah, he is sorry enough now!" "Still it is very unaccountable," said Harry, reflecting for a moment-" most unaccountable, that even if he were wicked enough to tell so absurd a story, there should be others to believe it." "Oh, yes. All throughout the neighbour- me more. hood it was believed." Harry expressed the utmost curiosity as to what this belief alluded to; and in his impulsive way, he insisted upon Margaret telling all then and there. In vain she pleaded the urgency of the business on which she was hastening; Harry would not hear of anything being urgent except that he should know the nature of this incomprehensible mystery. He even sent home the little boy, astonished at the liberality of his reward for escorting a lady not further than half a mile; and then, placing himself against a stile which crossed the path, he declared that Margaret should not proceed one step further until she had told him all. "It is a long story," said Margaret, "but the sooner told the better." So she plunged at once into the very heart of the matter, "I have often thought on this subject," said Margaret. "Nothing has perplexed We are many of us too much influenced by praise and blame, as in the case of poor Archy, for example; but, on the other hand, may we not also be too indifferent-too careless-about the aspect which our actions wear before the world?" "Margaret," said Harry, with that air of towering indignation which was so natural to him, "I would sooner shackle my limbs with the actual chains of a slave, than I would live under this contemptible restraint. Why, to me it is of no more consequence what people in general think and say of me, than it is just now which way this gentle wind is blowing." "Oh, Harry! you are thinking only of yourself you don't know," said Margaret, and she stopped suddenly to hide the tears. which she could not altogether restrain; for it seemed to her at that moment as if a whole |