She thought only of her child, as she called her, and all the tenderness of her nature was stirred-these years of cloud and separation and pain were as they had not been.  Little Margaret had promised to send for her.  She would not obtrude before she was wanted, but Margaret was certain to send.  And she was ready for departure the instant the despatch came from Henderson—­“Margaret wants you to come at once.”  I went with her.

In calamity, trouble, sorrow, it is wonderful how the ties of blood assert themselves.  In this hour I am sure that Margaret longed for no one more than her dear aunt, in whose arms, as a child, she had so often forgotten her griefs.  She had been able to live without her—­nay, for a long time her presence had been something of a restraint and a rebuke, and her feelings had hardened towards her.  Why is it that the heart hardens in prosperity?

When we arrived Margaret was very ill.  The house itself had a serious air:  it was no longer the palace of festivity and gayety, precautions had been taken to secure quiet, the pavement was littered, and within the hushed movements and the sombre looks spoke of apprehension and the absence of the spirit that had been the life and light of the house.  Our arrival seemed to be a relief to Henderson.  Little was said.  I had never before seen him nervous, never before so restless and anxious, probably never before in all his career had he been unnerved with a sense of his own helplessness.

“She has been asking for you this moment,” he said, as he accompanied Miss Forsythe to Margaret’s apartment.

“Dear, dear aunt, I knew you would come—­I love you so;” she had tried to raise herself a little in her bed, and was sobbing like a child in her aunt’s arms.

“You must have courage, Margaret; it will all be well.”

“Yes, but I’m so discouraged; I’m so tired.”

The vigil began.  The nurses were in waiting.  The family physician would not leave the house.  He was a man of great repute in his profession.  Dr. Seftel’s name was well known to me, but I had never met him before; a man past middle life, smooth shaven, thin iron-gray hair, grave, usually taciturn, deliberate in all his movements, as if every gesture were important and significant, but with a kindly face.  Knowing that every moment of his waking life was golden, I could not but be impressed with the power that could command his exclusive service for an indefinite time.  When he came down, we talked together in Henderson’s room.

“It is a question of endurance, of constitution,” he said; “many weak women have this quality of persistence; many strong women go to pieces at once; we know little about it.  Mrs. Henderson”—­glancing about him—­“has everything to live for; that’s in her favor.  I suppose there are not two other men in the country whose fortune equals Henderson’s.”