years of age, she had grown into a beautiful woman, with hazel-brown
hair, and hazel eyes to match.

And yet James Wentworth was fond of his only child, after a fashion of
his own. Sometimes he was at home for weeks together, a prey to a fit of
melancholy; under the influence of which he would sit brooding in
silence over his daughter's humble hearth for hours and days together.

At other times he would disappear, sometimes for a few days, sometimes
for weeks and months at a time; and during his absence Margaret suffered
wearisome agonies of suspense.

Sometimes he brought her money; sometimes he lived upon her own slender
earnings.

But use her as he might, he was always proud of her, and fond of her;
and she, after the way of womankind, loved him devotedly, and believed
him to be the noblest and most brilliant of men.

It was no grief to her to toil, taking long weary walks and giving
tedious lessons for the small stipends which her employers had the
conscience to offer her; they felt no compunction about bargaining and
haggling as to a few pitiful shillings with a music mistress who looked
so very poor, and seemed so glad to work for their paltry pay. The
girl's chief sorrow was, that her father, who to her mind was calculated
to shine in the highest station the world could give, should be a
reprobate and a pauper.

She told him so sometimes, regretfully, tenderly, as she sat by his
side, with her arms twined caressingly about his neck. And there were