Swift as the mountain chamois, Margaret sped up the long, steep hill,
and in a few moments stood within her mother's sick-room. Supported in
the arms of Mrs. Carter lay the dying woman, while her eyes, already
overshadowed with the mists of coming death, wandered anxiously around
the room, as if in quest of some one. The moment Margaret appeared, a
satisfied smile broke over her wasted features, and beckoning her
daughter to her bedside, she whispered, "Dear Maggie, you did not
think I'd die so soon, when you went away."

A burst of tears was Maggie's only answer, as she passionately kissed
the cold, white lips, which had never breathed aught to her save words
of love and gentleness. Far different, however, would have been her
reply had she known the reason of her mother's question. Not long
after she had left the house for the office, Mrs. Hamilton had been
taken worse, and the physician, who chanced to be present, pronounced
her dying. Instantly the alarmed husband summoned together his
household, but Mag was missing. No one had seen her; no one knew where
she was, until Mrs. Carter, who had been some little time absent from
the room reentered it, saying "Margaret had started for the
post-office with a letter when I sent a servant to tell her of her
mother's danger, but for some reason she kept on, though I dare say
she will soon be back."

As we well know, the substance of this speech was true, though the
impression which Mrs. Carter's words conveyed was entirely false. For
the advancement of her own cause she felt that it was necessary to
weaken the high estimation in which Mr. Hamilton held his daughter,
and she fancied that the mother's death-bed was as fitting a place
where to commence operations as she could select.