his school and his parishioners, he found that the interruptions which arose out of these duties were regarded as hardships by his wife, not to be accepted as the natural conditions of his profession, but to be regretted and struggled against by her as they severally arose.  So he withdrew, while the children were yet young, into his library, to spend his evenings (if he were at home), in reading the speculative and metaphysical books which were his delight.

When Margaret had been here before, she had brought down with her a great box of books, recommended by masters or governess, and had found the summer’s day all too short to get through the reading she had to do before her return to town.  Now there were only the well-bound little-read English Classics, which were weeded out of her father’s library to fill up the small book-shelves in the drawing-room.  Thomson’s Seasons, Hayley’s Cowper, Middleton’s Cicero, were by far the lightest, newest, and most amusing.  The book-shelves did not afford much resource.  Margaret told her mother every particular of her London life, to all of which Mrs. Hale listened with interest, sometimes amused and questioning, at others a little inclined to compare her sister’s circumstances of ease and comfort with the narrower means at Helstone vicarage.  On such evenings Margaret was apt to stop talking rather abruptly, and listen to the drip-drip of the rain upon the leads of the little bow-window.  Once or twice Margaret found herself mechanically counting the repetition of the monotonous sound, while she wondered if she might venture to put a question on a subject very near to her heart, and ask where Frederick was now; what he was doing; how long it was since they had heard from him.  But a consciousness that her mother’s delicate health, and positive dislike to Helstone, all dated from the time of the mutiny in which Frederick had been engaged,—­the full account of which Margaret had never heard, and which now seemed doomed to be buried in sad oblivion,—­made her pause and turn away from the subject each time she approached it.  When she was with her mother, her father seemed the best person to apply to for information; and when with him, she thought that she could speak more easily to her mother.  Probably there was nothing much to be heard that was new.  In one of the letters she had received before leaving Harley Street, her father had told her that they had heard from Frederick; he was still at Rio, and very well in health, and sent his best love to her; which was dry bones, but not the living intelligence she longed for.  Frederick was always spoken of, in the rare times when his name was mentioned, as ‘Poor Frederick.’  His room was kept exactly as he had left it; and was regularly dusted, and put into order by Dixon, Mrs. Hale’s maid, who touched no other part of the household work, but always remembered the day when she had been engaged by Lady Beresford as ladies’ maid to Sir John’s wards, the