mamma, you shall see him as far as anything earthly can be promised."
"You will write to-night? Oh, Margaret! the post goes out at five—you will write by it, won't you? I have so few hours left—I feel, dear, as if I should not recover, though sometimes your father over-persuades me into hoping; you will write directly, wont you? Don't lose a single post; for just by that very post I may miss him."
"But, mamma, papa is out."
Papa is out! and what then? Do you mean that he would deny me this last wish, Margaret? Why, I should not he ill—be dying—if he had not taken me away from Helstone, to this unhealthy, smoky, sunless place."
"Oh, mamma!" said Margaret.
"Yes; it is so, indeed. He knows it himself; he has said so many a time. He would do anything for me; you don't mean he would refuse me this last wish—prayer, if you will. And, indeed, Margaret, the longing to see Frederick stands between me and God. I cannot pray till I have this one thing; indeed, I cannot. Don't lose time, dear, dear Margaret. Write by this very next post. Then he may be here—here in twenty-two days! For he is sure to come. No cords or chains can keep him. In twenty-two days I shall see my boy." She fell back, and for a short time she took no notice of the fact that Margaret sat motionless, her hand shading her eyes.
"You are not writing!" said her mother at last. Bring me some pens and paper; I will try and write myself." She sat up, trembling all over with
