’As far as Fordham Beeches.  I went to see Widow Maltby; she is sadly grieved at not having wished you good-bye.  She says little Susan has kept watch down the lane for days past.—­Nay, Margaret, what is the matter, dear?’ The thought of the little child watching for her, and continually disappointed—­from no forgetfulness on her part, but from sheer inability to leave home—­was the last drop in poor Margaret’s cup, and she was sobbing away as if her heart would break.  Mr. Hale was distressingly perplexed.  He rose, and walked nervously up and down the room.  Margaret tried to check herself, but would not speak until she could do so with firmness.  She heard him talking, as if to himself.

’I cannot bear it.  I cannot bear to see the sufferings of others.  I think I could go through my own with patience.  Oh, is there no going back?’

‘No, father,’ said Margaret, looking straight at him, and speaking low and steadily.  ’It is bad to believe you in error.  It would he infinitely worse to have known you a hypocrite.’  She dropped her voice at the last few words, as if entertaining the idea of hypocrisy for a moment in connection with her father savoured of irreverence.

‘Besides,’ she went on, ’it is only that I am tired to-night; don’t think that I am suffering from what you have done, dear papa.  We can’t either of us talk about it to-night, I believe,’ said she, finding that tears and sobs would come in spite of herself.  ’I had better go and take mamma up this cup of tea.  She had hers very early, when I was too busy to go to her, and I am sure she will be glad of another now.’

Railroad time inexorably wrenched them away from lovely, beloved Helstone, the next morning.  They were gone; they had seen the last of the long low parsonage home, half-covered with China-roses and pyracanthus—­more homelike than ever in the morning sun that glittered on its windows, each belonging to some well-loved room.  Almost before they had settled themselves into the car, sent from Southampton to fetch them to the station, they were gone away to return no more.  A sting at Margaret’s heart made her strive to look out to catch the last glimpse of the old church tower at the turn where she knew it might be seen above a wave of the forest trees; but her father remembered this too, and she silently acknowledged his greater right to the one window from which it could be seen.  She leant back and shut her eyes, and the tears welled forth, and hung glittering for an instant on the shadowing eye-lashes before rolling slowly down her cheeks, and dropping, unheeded, on her dress.

They were to stop in London all night at some quiet hotel.  Poor Mrs. Hale had cried in her way nearly all day long; and Dixon showed her sorrow by extreme crossness, and a continual irritable attempt to keep her petticoats from even touching the unconscious Mr. Hale, whom she regarded as the origin of all this suffering.