Chapter 29 - Page 2

became more constrained, and better written; Mr. Hale was in the
corner, like a naughty child, for having given up his
living.)--'because, I dare say, he disapproves of war, and
soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many
Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he
would not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that
Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I'll hide up
Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of
grave, solemn things; or, if they do play pomps and vanities, it
shall be in double slow time. Dear Margaret, if he would like to
accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try and make it pleasant,
though I'm rather afraid of any one who has done something for
conscience sake. You never did, I hope. Tell Aunt Hale not to
bring many warm clothes, though I'm afraid it will be late in the
year before you can come. But you have no idea of the heat here!
I tried to wear my great beauty Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept
myself up with proverbs as long as I could; "Pride must
abide,"--and such wholesome pieces of pith; but it was of no use.
I was like mamma's little dog Tiny with an elephant's trappings
on; smothered, hidden, killed with my finery; so I made it into a
capital carpet for us all to sit down upon. Here's this boy of
mine, Margaret,--if you don't pack up your things as soon as you
get this letter, a come straight off to see him, I shall think
you're descended from King Herod!'

Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life--her freedom from
care, her cheerful home, her sunny skies. If a wish could have
transported her, she would have gone off; just for one day. She
yearned for the strength which such a change would give,--even
for a few hours to be in the midst of that bright life, and to
feel young again. Not yet twenty! and she had had to bear up
against such hard pressure that she felt quite old. That was her
first feeling after reading Edith's letter. Then she read it
again, and, forgetting herself, was amused at its likeness to
Edith's self, and was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale
came into the drawing-room, leaning on Dixon's arm. Margaret flew
to adjust the pillows. Her mother seemed more than usually
feeble.

'What were you laughing at, Margaret?' asked she, as soon as she
had recovered from the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.

'A letter I have had this morning from Edith. Shall I read it
you, mamma?'

She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed to interest her
mother, who kept wondering what name Edith had given to her boy,
and suggesting all probable names, and all possible reasons why
each and all of these names should be given. Into the very midst