Chapter 17 - Page 2

back, and maybe a trifle for presents, and I brought the rest here; and it's all gone but this," jingling a few coppers in his hand.

"Nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty mile," added he, as he saw she looked grave and sorry. "It's a fine clear night, and I shall set off betimes, and get in afore the Manx packet sails. Where's your father going? To Glasgow did you say? Perhaps he and I may have a bit of a trip together then, for, if the Manx boat has sailed when I get into Liverpool, I shall go by a Scotch packet. What's he going to do in Glasgow?--Seek for work? Trade is as bad there as here, folk say."

"No; he knows that," answered Mary sadly. "I sometimes think he'll never get work again, and that trade will never mend. It's very hard to keep up one's heart. I wish I were a boy, I'd go to sea with you. It would be getting away from bad news at any rate; and now, there's hardly a creature that crosses the door-step, but has something sad and unhappy to tell one. Father is going as a delegate from his Union, to ask help from the Glasgow folk. He's starting this evening."

Mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her that it was very flat to be left alone.

"You say no one crosses the threshold but has something sad to say; you don't mean that Margaret Jennings has any trouble?" asked the young sailor anxiously.

"No!" replied Mary, smiling a little; "she's the only one I know, I believe, who seems free from care. Her blindness almost appears a blessing sometimes; she was so down-hearted when she dreaded it, and now she seems so calm and happy when it's downright come. No! Margaret's happy, I do think."

"I could almost wish it had been otherwise," said Will thoughtfully. "I could have been so glad to comfort her, and cherish her, if she had been in trouble."

"And why can't you cherish her, even though she is happy?" asked Mary.

"Oh! I don't know. She seems so much better than I am! And her voice! When I hear it, and think of the wishes that are in my heart, it seems as much out of place to ask her to be my wife, as it would be to ask an angel from heaven."

Mary could not help laughing outright, in spite of her depression, at the idea of Margaret as an angel; it was so difficult (even to her dressmaking imagination) to fancy where, and how, the wings would be fastened to the brown stuff gown, or the blue and yellow print.

Will laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with Mary's pretty merry laugh. Then he said--

"Ay, you may laugh, Mary: it only shows you've never been in love."

In an instant Mary was carnation colour, and the tears sprang to her soft grey eyes. She that was suffering so much from the doubts arising from love! It was unkind of him. He did not notice her change of look and of complexion. He only noticed that she was silent, so he continued--

"I thought--I think, that when I