his pupil. He hoped likewise so to end an interview, in which he
might otherwise be compelled to confess that he could render
Margaret no assistance in her search after the something in the
wood; and he was unwilling to say he could not understand her; for a
power of universal sympathy was one of those mental gifts which Hugh
was most anxious to believe he possessed.

"I will bring you another book to-night," said he "which I think you
will like, and which may perhaps help you to find out what is in the
wood."

He said this smiling, half in playful jest, and without any idea of
the degree of likelihood that there was notwithstanding in what he
said. For, certainly, Wordsworth, the high-priest of nature, though
perhaps hardly the apostle of nature, was more likely than any other
writer to contain something of the secret after which Margaret was
searching. Whether she can find it there, may seem questionable.

"Thank you, sir," said Margaret, gratefully; but her whole
countenance looked troubled, as she turned towards her home.
Doubtless, however, the trouble vanished before she reached it, for
hers was not a nature to cherish disquietude. Hugh too went home,
rather thoughtful.

In the evening, he took a volume of Wordsworth, and repaired,
according to his wont, to David's cottage. It was Saturday, and he
would stay to supper. After they had given the usual time to their
studies, Hugh, setting Margaret some exercises in English to write
on her slate, while he helped David with some of the elements of
Trigonometry, and again going over those elements with her, while