"It will come back to you," Christie said, persistently; "you will see that it will be yours again some day, and it's not a far-off day, either," she added, more to herself than to Mrs. Dorriman.
Mrs. Dorriman turned away. At that moment, with the broad sea rippling and sparkling beneath, taking a thousand hues as it reflected the moving clouds, and the sea-breeze coming upon her with its exquisite freshness, she felt horribly ungrateful for giving a lingering thought to that other home.
But here, with all its beauty, there was a charm lacking—the charm of memory.
Inchbrae had no associations for her, and in that other home there was the dear, kind face of the father, who would doubtless have done more for her had he only had it in his power.
She stood silently trying to stifle any regrets, and to be thankful and grateful for this, the little home she had to offer Margaret.
Margaret had done a good deal, but not all she had hoped to do. She had seen sights that had made her heart sore, and she had helped in many ways, following lines already laid down, and enabling many charities to extend their action. Children learned to watch for her, and those standing round marvelled at the tenderness and skill of her way of handling them.
Knowing her to be childless they were surprised.
Margaret seldom spoke of her little one now. Deep down in her heart she cherished its memory—for a true mother never forgets—but she could not open the wound to strangers or explain why a sick child commanded her strongest compassion.
Her own name was never brought forward, and all the money arrangements were made for her by Mr. Stevens.
She found the other plan she wished to carry out with regard to Grace much more difficult.