"How hath she sinned?
In bartering love,
God's love, for man's,"
when she was suddenly interrupted.
Margaret had started up, her eyes and cheeks on flame, "There are steps outside. Adèle! Adèle! go and see."
Adèle went to the window, while Margaret shaded the lamp. "A man standing outside," she said, "hunting for the latch of the gate. Be calm, dear; it's only the postman. He promised to come if there should be any letter to-night. He's very good not to have forgotten. And such a night, too! Poor old fellow! I must tell Martha to give him supper."
"But the letter! the letter!" said Margaret, sinking back upon her pillow. The flush of excitement had died out from her cheeks, leaving them deadly pale.
Adèle forgot the letter and the postman. She rushed to her friend's side.
"I thought he had come back," said Margaret faintly. "Don't look so frightened, dear; this is nothing," but she moaned as if in pain, "O God! if this is to last much longer I cannot, cannot bear it!"
Adèle stooped to raise her friend, and her warm clasping arms spoke boundless love and sympathy: "Be of good courage, Margaret; perhaps this is to say that they are near."
But the young girl's heart sank. What if, after all, their sacrifices and suffering should be in vain? for Margaret was visibly sinking.
It sometimes happens so. The brave heart that has borne unflinchingly a weary weight of woe fails suddenly when hope—but hope that must be waited for—succeeds. And Margaret had been tried almost past endurance by her life of solitude. A glass of water revived her for the moment. She did not faint, and in the interval Martha brought up three letters. Two were from Arthur, the other from Mr. Robinson, who was still acting, or professing to act, as Margaret's legal adviser.