The warm glow of evening was over the landscape by the time her simple preparations for flight were made, and drawing her veil on her pale and haggard face, she stole down the stairs.
In the narrow passage stood Mrs. Day.
"Are you going out, ma'am?" she said.
Margaret moistened her lips, and tried to answer carelessly:
"Yes, Mrs. Day."
"I don't think you ought to go far, ma'am," she said; "we are going to have a storm. Will you take an umbrella or your mackintosh?" and she looked toward the west, where a great bank of clouds seemed to rise from the horizon, as if about to swallow the sun in its inky mass.
"I will take my mackintosh," said Margaret.
Mrs. Day took it off the stand and folded it.
"I hope Mr. Stanley will be back before the storm breaks," she said. "You won't go far, ma'am?" she added, wistfully.
"No, not far," said poor Margaret.