Waiting Is Far More Difficult Than Doing.

Mr Thornton Would Rather Have Heard That She Was Suffering The Natural Sorrow. In The First Place, There Was Selfishness Enough In Him To Have Taken Pleasure In The Idea That His Great Love Might Come In To Comfort And Console Her; Much The Same Kind Of Strange Passionate Pleasure Which Comes Stinging Through A Mother's Heart, When Her Drooping Infant Nestles Close To Her, And Is Dependent Upon Her For Everything.

Mr. Thornton Felt That In This Influx No One Was Speaking To Margaret, And Was Restless Under This Apparent Neglect. But He Never Went Near Her Himself; He Did Not Look At Her. Only, He Knew What She Was Doing — Or Not Doing — Better Than Anyone Else In The Room. Margaret Was So Unconscious Of Herself, And So Much Amused By Watching Other People, That She Never Thought Whether She Was Left Unnoticed Or Not.

Even Before He Left The Room, — And Certainly, Not Five Minutes After, The Clear Conviction Dawned Upon Her, Shined Bright Upon Her, That He Did Love Her; That He Had Loved Her; That He Would Love Her. And She Shrank And Shuddered As Under The Fascination Of Some Great Power.

When Oranges Came In, A Curious Proceeding Was Gone Through. Miss Jenkyns Did Not Like To Cut The Fruit, For, As She Observed, The Juice All Ran Out Nobody Knew Where, Sucking [only I Think She Used Some More Recondite Word] Was In Fact The Only Way Of Enjoying Oranges; But Then There Was The Unpleasant Association With A Ceremony Frequently Gone Through By Little Babies; And So, After Dessert, In Orange Season, Miss Jenkyns And Miss Matty Used To Rise Up, Possess Themselves Each Of An Orange In Silence, And Withdraw To The Privacy Of Their Own Rooms To Indulge In Sucking Oranges.

When Prayers Were Ended, And His Mother Had Wished Him Good-night With That Long Steady Look Of Hers Which Conveyed No Expression Of The Tenderness That Was In Her Heart, But Yet Had All The Intensity Of A Blessing.