Mr. Wakefield had been sadly perplexed about Margaret. He felt sure, from what he saw and heard, that all was not well with her. She seemed to avoid him, and whenever he had an opportunity to speak with her she said as little as possible, and got away as soon as she could. What evil influence could be at work upon her? Not her step-mother’s. He felt sure that if Mrs. Moore but knew how, she would be glad to help the girl. One evening as he walked homeward he was thinking about Margaret, and wondering what he could do to help her. As he came near Mr. Andrews’ house somebody came out of their gate and ran down the street just in front of him. As she passed the lamp-post, and the light fell full upon her, he saw that it was Margaret. As she turned in at her own gate a book slipped from under her arm and fell to the ground, but she did not know it. She hurried up the steps and closed the door after her. Mr. Wakefield picked up the book, slipped it inside his coat, and went up to his own room; then he lighted the gas and sat down to see what sort of a book it was which would surely help or hinder this young Christian. He read enough to satisfy him that he had found the clue to Margaret’s difficulties. What soul could thrive on such mental food? “Satan is at the bottom of it!” he said, half-aloud, flinging the book from him. He sat a long time with his face between his hands, thinking.
The next evening, after tea, Mr. Wakefield lingered in the sitting-room and asked Margaret to try some of the pieces in the new Sabbath-school hymn-book. Margaret’s cabinet organ had been her mother’s, and was now a source of much pleasure to herself. She had learned to play sacred music nicely, so she and the minister often sang together. Johnnie sang a few minutes and then ran off. When they were left alone, Mr. Wakefield stepped into the hall and came back with the book he had picked up the night before.
“Margaret,” he said, “can you imagine to whom this belongs? I picked it up on the street last night.”
Now Margaret had been greatly troubled about the book all day; she knew Hester would be angry with her if it were lost, so it was with a sense of relief that she read the title, “Disinherited.”
“Oh! I’m so glad you found it,” she exclaimed, then stopped and blushed. She had a feeling that perhaps Mr. Wakefield would not quite approve of this sort of reading, and she had not meant to let him know that she ever read such books.
She felt very uncomfortable, and stood with her eyes on the carpet, waiting for him to lecture her severely, but he did nothing of the kind. When she looked up, his face and his tones were kind as he asked,—
“Do you love to read, Margaret?”
“Better than anything,” promptly answered Margaret.
“Do you like books of this sort—novels?” he continued.
She studied the pattern of the carpet a moment, and twisted one of her curls, then said, almost defiantly,—