“You are not well, Margaret,” said her mother, alarmed at her strange conduct. “You have caught cold in this storm, and you will be sick if you are not careful.”
“Sick! That matters little.”
“You might die,” urged the old lady, in a tone of mild reproach.
“Yes,” said Margaret, reflectively, “I might die, and that would prevent my revenge. I must live for that; yes, I must live for that.”
“What do you mean, Margaret?”
“Never mind, mother,” said Margaret, evasively, “never mind. I will tell you some time. Now I will place myself in your hands, mother, and try to get well.”
“Now you are yourself again,” said the old lady, relieved by her calmer tone. “You must take off those wet clothes directly, and put on some of mine. You had better go to bed at once.”
Margaret yielded implicitly to her mother’s directions. Nevertheless, she was very sick for many weeks. Often she was delirious, and her mother more than once shuddered at the wild words which escaped her.
CHAPTER XIX,
HERBERT COLEMAN.
In course of time Helen’s engagement subjected her to a new embarrassment. It was of course late in the evening before she was released from the theatre, leaving her a distance to traverse of more than a mile. At first Martha Grey called for her, but it soon became evident that this was too much for the strength of the poor seamstress. She did not complain, but Helen, with the quick eye of friendship, saw her lassitude and the air of weariness which she strove in vain to conceal, and would not allow her to continue her friendly service.