Be careful, my child." And Margret would remember the greasy Irishman who had tucked them under his arm, and flung them into a cart, her blood growing hotter in her veins.
It was the same through all the house; there was not a niche in the bare rooms that did not recall a something gone,--something that should return.

She willed that, that evening, standing by the dim fire.

What women will, whose eyes are slow, attentive, still, as this Margret's, usually comes to pass.
The red fire-glow suited her; another glow, warming her floating fancy, mingled with it, giving her every-day purpose the trait of heroism.
The old spirit of the dead chivalry, of succour to the weak, life-long self-denial,--did it need the sand waste of Palestine or a tournament to call it into life?
Down in that trading town, in the thick of its mills and drays, it could live, she thought.

That very night, perhaps, in some of those fetid cellars or sunken shanties, there were vigils kept of purpose as unselfish, prayer as heaven-commanding, as that of the old aspirants for knighthood.

She, too,--her quiet face stirred with a simple, childish smile, like her father's.
"Why, mother!" she said, stroking down the gray hair under the cap, "shall you sleep here all night ?" laughing.
A cheery, tender laugh, this woman's was,--seldom heard,--not far from tears.
Mrs.Howth roused herself.