Laura went to the nursery, took off the children's black sashes, charged them to say nothing about grandmamma, and led them in. The moment Margaret's eye fell upon their truthful little faces, she looked at them searchingly, and with a startled air that alarmed Laura.
"Harry, who is dead?" she asked.
"Mamma told me not to tell," said the boy, bursting into tears.
"His face has told me, Laura," said Margaret, faintly. "I see it all now. I made Harry save me, and let her drown!"
"It is not true; you did not let her drown! You tried to die in order to save her. We all admire and love you for it; we will all do anything and everything for you. Only don't look so; for mercy's sake, don't look as if you were dying. Run, children, and call nurse, and do you stay in the nursery. You've done mischief enough for one day. Margaret, won't you speak to me?"
"She's only fainted, ma'am," said the nurse, a middle-aged, experienced woman. "No fear of her dying. Just help me lay her down flat on her back, and sprinkle her face with water. Or, if you please, a little hartshorn."
Laura had had little to do with sickness, and was now so frightened that she could not remember whether the hartshorn should be diluted or not. She hastily mixed it, half and half, and the nurse poured it down Margaret's throat. It had the effect of bringing her to life again instantly; and there came a time when she and Laura could both laugh at the blunder.
Such is our existence here upon earth. Our hearts break and they are healed. We weep and we smile. We fail, and are disappointed, and we try once more. Nothing had befallen Margaret that has not befallen thousands. Her fate might have been infinitely worse than it was. She might have been left friendless and homeless. But here she was surrounded by loving hearts; her home was secured to her; all her plans of life were to be carried out; had she any right to mourn? Indeed she had. She had lost one of the most magnanimous friends ever given to mortal woman; she had lost the tenderest heart that was beating upon earth for her; she had lost the inspiration of a holy example. Did she well to mourn? Yes, yes. But she bore her grief nobly, and on the very day on which the dreadful truth was revealed to her she wrote in her "book of mercies:"
"I understand, now, how one can be glad to suffer God's will when too weak to do it. What a mercy!"