She willed that, that evening, standing by
the dim fire. What women will, whose eyes are slow, attentive,
still, as this Margret's, usually comes to pass.
The red fire-glow suited her; another glow, warming her floating
fancy, mingled with it, giving her every-day purpose the trait of
heroism. The old spirit of the dead chivalry, of succour to the
weak, life-long self-denial,--did it need the sand waste of
Palestine or a tournament to call it into life? Down in that
trading town, in the thick of its mills and drays, it could live,
she thought. That very night, perhaps, in some of those fetid
cellars or sunken shanties, there were vigils kept of purpose as
unselfish, prayer as heaven-commanding, as that of the old
aspirants for knighthood. She, too,--her quiet face stirred with
a simple, childish smile, like her father's.
"Why, mother!" she said, stroking down the gray hair under the
cap, "shall you sleep here all night?" laughing.
A cheery, tender laugh, this woman's was,-- seldom heard,--not
far from tears.
Mrs. Howth roused herself. Just then, a broad, high-shouldered
man, in a gray flannel shirt, and shoes redolent of the stable,
appeared at the door. Margret looked at him as if he were an
accusing spirit,--coming down, as woman must, from heights of
self-renunciation or bold resolve, to an undarned stocking or an
uncooked meal.
"Kittle's b'ilin'," he announced, flinging in the information as
a general gratuity.
"That will do, Joel," said Mrs.
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