"Where is Gerald?"
"Miss Conway has taken him down to the beach; she promised him this morning he should go, if he was good and attentive during lesson time. He likes talking to the fishermen."
"Dear child! I hope they will not teach him to use bad language, though I expect they are a rough set."
"I don't think so, mother. Mr. Amyatt says they are mostly sober, God-fearing men; of course, there are exceptions—Salome Petherick's father, for instance, often gets intoxicated, and it is a terrible trouble to her."
"Does she complain of him to you?" Mrs. Fowler queried.
"Oh, no, mother! It was Mr. Amyatt who told me. We were talking of Salome, and he said her father was very violent at times, quite cruel to her, in fact. Do you know, I think father's right, and that it's best to have nothing whatever to do with drink."
Lately, since the Fowlers had left London, Mr. Fowler had laid down a rule that no intoxicating liquors of any description were to be brought into the house. He had become a teetotaler himself, for very good reasons, and had insisted on the members of his household following suit. No one had objected to this except Mrs. Fowler, and now she answered her little daughter in a tone of irritability.
"Don't talk nonsense, child! I believe a glass of wine would do me good at this minute, and steady my nerves, only your father won't allow it! I haven't patience to speak of this new fad of his without getting cross. There, don't look at me so reproachfully. Of course what your father does is right in your eyes! Here, feel my pulse, child, and you'll know what a wreck I am!"
Margaret complied, and laid her cool fingers on her mother's wrist. The pulse was weak and fluttering, and the little girl's heart filled with sympathy.
"Poor mother," she said tenderly, kissing Mrs. Fowler's flushed cheek, and noticing her eyes were full of tears. "Shall I ring and order tea? It's rather early, but no doubt a nice cup of tea would do you good."