CHAPTER III.

COMFORT IN SORROW.

"Through cross to crown !-And though thy spirit's life
Trials untold assail with giant strength,

Good cheer! good cheer! Soon ends the bitter strife,
And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length."
KOSEGARTEN.

"Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road; But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on 'God."" MRS. BROWNING.

THAT afternoon she walked swiftly to the Higgins's house. Mary was looking out for her, with a halfdistrustful face. Margaret smiled into her eyes to re-assure her. They passed quickly through the house-place, upstairs, and into the quiet presence of the dead. Then Margaret was glad that she had come. The face, often so weary with pain, so restless with troublous thoughts, had now the faint soft smile of eternal rest upon it. The slow tears gathered into Margaret's eyes, but a deep calm entered into her soul. And that was death! It looked more peaceful than life. All beautiful scriptures came into her mind. 66 They rest from their labours." "The weary are at rest." "He giveth His beloved

sleep."

Slowly, slowly Margaret turned away from the bed. Mary was humbly sobbing in the back-ground. They went down stairs without a word.

Resting his hand upon the house-table, Nicholas Higgins stood in the midst of the floor; his great eyes startled open by the news he had heard, as he came along the court, from many busy tongues. His eyes were dry and fierce; studying the reality of her death; bringing himself to understand that her place should know her no more. For she had been sickly, dying so long, that he had persuaded himself she would not die; that she would "pull through."

Margaret felt as if she had no business to be there, familiarly acquainting herself with the surroundings of death which he, the father, had only just learnt. There had been a pause of an instant on the steep crooked stair, when she first saw him; but now she tried to steal past his abstracted gaze, and to leave him in the solemn circle of his household misery.

Mary sat down on the first chair she came to, and throwing her apron over her head, began to cry.

The noise appeared to rouse him. He took sudden hold of Margaret's arm, and held her till he could gather words to speak. His throat seemed dry; they came up thick, and choked, and hoarse :

"Were yo' with her? Did yo' see her die?" "No!" replied Margaret, standing still with the utmost patience, now she found herself perceived. It was some time before he spoke again, but he kept his hold on her arm.

"All men must die," said he at last, with a strange sort of gravity, which first suggested to Margaret

the idea that he had been drinking-not enough to intoxicate himself, but enough to make his thoughts bewildered. "But she were younger than me." Still he pondered over the event, not looking at Margaret, though he grasped her tight. Suddenly, he looked up at her with a wild searching inquiry in his glance. "Yo're sure and certain she's dead-not in a dwam, a faint?-she's been so before, often."

"She is dead,” replied Margaret. She felt no fear in speaking to him, though he hurt her arm with his gripe, and wild gleams came across the stupidity of his eyes.

"She is dead!" she said.

He looked at her still with that searching look, which seemed to fade out of his eyes as he gazed. Then he suddenly let go his hold of Margaret, and, throwing his body half across the table, he shook it and every piece of furniture in the room, with his violent sobs. Mary came trembling towards him.

"Get thee gone!-get thee gone!" he cried, striking wildly and blindly at her. "What do I care for thee?" Margaret took her hand, and held it softly in hers. He tore his hair, he beat his head against the hard wood, then he lay exhausted and stupid. Still his daughter and Margaret did not move. Mary trembled from head to foot.

At last it might have been a quarter of an hour, it might have been an hour-he lifted himself up. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he seemed to have forgotten that any one was by; he scowled at the watchers when he saw them. He shook himself heavily, gave them one more sullen look, spoke never a word, but made for the door.

"Oh, father, father!" said Mary, throwing herself upon his arm,-"not to night! Any night but tonight. Oh, help me! he's going out to drink again! Father, I'll not leave yo'. Yo' may strike, but I'll not leave yo'. She told me last of all to keep yo' fro' drink!"

But Margaret stood in the doorway, silent yet commanding. He looked up at her defyingly.

"It's my own house. Stand out o' the way, wench, or I'll make yo'!" He had shaken off Mary with violence; he looked ready to strike Margaret. But she never moved a feature- -never took her deep, serious eyes off him. He stared back on her with gloomy fierceness. If she had stirred hand or foot, he would have thrust her aside with even more violence than he had used to his own daughter, whose face was bleeding from her fall against a chair.

"What are yo' looking at me in that way for?" asked he at last, daunted and awed by her severe calm. "If yo' think for to keep me from going what gait I choose, because she loved yo'-and in my own house, too, where I never asked yo' to come, yo're mista'en. It's very hard upon a man that he can't go to the only comfort left."

Margaret felt that he acknowledged her power. What could she do next? He had seated himself on a chair, close to the door; half-conquered, halfresenting; intending to go out as soon as she left her position, but unwilling to use the violence he had threatened not five minutes before. Margaret laid her hand on his arm.

"Come with me," she said. "Come and see her!" The voice in which she spoke was very low and

solemn; but there was no fear or doubt expressed in it, either of him or of his compliance. He sullenly rose up. He stood uncertain, with dogged irresolution upon his face. She waited him there; quietly and patiently waited for his time to move. He had a strange pleasure in making her wait; but at last he moved towards the stairs.

She and he stood by the corpse.

"Her last words to Mary were, 'Keep my father fro' drink.'

"It canna hurt her now," muttered he. "Nought can hurt her now." Then, raising his voice to a wailing cry, he went on: "We may quarrel and fall out-we may make peace and be friends-we may clem to skin and bone-and nought o' all our griefs will ever touch her more. Hoo's had her portion on 'em. What wi' hard work first, and sickness at last, hoo's led the life of a dog. And to die without knowing one good piece o' rejoicing in all her days! Nay, wench, whatever hoo said, hoo can know nought about it now, and I mun ha' a sup o' drink just to steady me again sorrow."

"No," said Margaret, softening with his softened manner. "You shall not. If her life has been what you say, at any rate she did not fear death as some do. Oh, you should have heard her speak of the life to come-the life hidden with God, that she is now gone to."

He shook his head, glancing sideways up at Margaret as he did so. His pale, haggard face struck her painfully.

"You are sorely tired. Where have you been all day-not at work?"