Monday after Monday we went, stationary, silent; what could we find
to say to any one but Mrs. Margaret herself? Winter passed, summer
was coming, still I was ailing, and weary of my life; but still Mr.
Dawson gave hopes of my ultimate recovery. My father and mother came
and went; but they could not stay long, they had so many claims upon
them. Mrs. Margaret Dawson had become my dear friend, although,
perhaps, I had never exchanged as many words with her as I had with
Miss Mackenzie, but then with Mrs. Dawson every word was a pearl or a
diamond.

People began to drop off from Edinburgh, only a few were left, and I
am not sure if our Monday evenings were not all the pleasanter.

There was Mr. Sperano, the Italian exile, banished even from France,
where he had long resided, and now teaching Italian with meek
diligence in the northern city; there was Mr. Preston, the
Westmoreland squire, or, as he preferred to be called, statesman,
whose wife had come to Edinburgh for the education of their numerous
family, and who, whenever her husband had come over on one of his
occasional visits, was only too glad to accompany him to Mrs.
Dawson's Monday evenings, he and the invalid lady having been friends
from long ago. These and ourselves kept steady visitors, and enjoyed
ourselves all the more from having the more of Mrs. Dawson's society.

One evening I had brought the little stool close to her sofa, and was
caressing her thin white hand, when the thought came into my head and
out I spoke it.

"Tell me, dear Mrs. Dawson," said I, "how long you have been in
Edinburgh; you do not speak Scotch, and Mr. Dawson says he is not