Martha was gone - sent off for a visit with her mother. Mrs Hale was in the final throes now, and her suffering was great. Mr Hale, with that wilful blindness, would try to find hope in the brief moments of respite from her paroxysms of attack, yet these reprieves grew shorter and less frequent, and thus his hope diminished, until even he - gentle as he was - could not but despair at the bleakness before him. Margaret was weary; her mother's suffering stole from her, the limited resources of strength she held, herself, and she poured all she could into lifting her mother's spirits to the last; but Mrs Hale longed for her son, longed for unbroken rest, and could find little comfort in anything. And Mr Hale - now brought low with the realisation that his wife should not last the week - leaned heavily upon his daughter, so that Margaret had sapped from her, the dying embers of her own reserves. Isabel felt for her friend with the kindly compassion of any good doctor, and spent many an hour conversing with Mr Hale whilst Mrs Hale slept, but she was not his daughter - nor his favourite pupil - and thus, when the crisis came, it was not she whom he could take comfort in, but his daughter, Margaret.

Isabel tended to Mrs Hale in those final days with all the care of an attentive doctor, and all the affection of a close relative, despite having not known the lady long, nor ever having acquired a great closeness with her. She was not surprised to find that once the draughts were given and tonics slipped past crepe lips, her ministrations were cast aside in favour of Margaret and the loyal Dixon, for it was how it ought to have been, but she felt so very useless, and so utterly alone, for here was a family on the precipice of grief, and she was not part of that family. Nor was she the doctor, for she was bound by the limitations of the time; the expertise of the characters upon the page, and she knew that had she been in her time, she could have done something more for Mrs Hale. Thus, she could not cling to the warmth of family, nor could she stomach the exclusion from the sorrowers. She had not that true and trusty position of doctor, but a shy impostor of it, which she felt little more than a shadow of whom she had been.

She walked from Mrs Hale's room - leaving Margaret and Dixon about their bedside vigil - and passed the drawing room, where Mr Hale laid his head upon his hands in submission, and crept into the kitchen; a wont of solitude and warming tea. There came a rap against the door, and Isabel, fearing she knew who the knocker would be, cautiously unbolted the door. A tall, but slender figure - lithe and slight, as was Mr Hale - stood before her; a shadow against the luminous street.

'Is this the Hale residence?' asked the stranger, with a flicker of doubt.

'Frederick?' came her whispered reply. He nodded and pushed past her, into the safety of the kitchen, where she hastily bolted the door and moved towards the stairs. 'I shall call Margaret or Mr Hale.' But she did not need to, for Margaret had left her mother's bedside and now came upon the room. Seeing her brother stood beside Isabel, she tottered, and then - recollecting herself - she held out her hands in supplication and ran to him.

'Frederick!' cried she; her sobs the tears of grief and loss, relief and happiness at this over-due reunion, laced finally, with a trembling of fear, for her brother was in England, and so his life was unsafe.

'Oh, Margaret!' sighed he, pulling her into an affectionate embrace. 'I came as soon as I could. Mother! She is still alive?' asked Frederick, his voice cracking with trepidation.

'Yes, dear brother! She is alive - so very ill and close to death now, but alive. You shall see her.'

'Thank God!'

'Let me take you to father,' urged Margaret. 'He despairs in the drawing room, but seeing you shall lift his spirits!' And she took her brother's hand, leading him quickly from the room. Isabel faltered; ought she follow or hold back? She knew not. She lingered, listening to the gentle tread of Margaret's graceful step upon the stairs, closely followed by that heavier, unfamiliar tramp of Frederick. Their step quietened, and Frederick's stopped altogether, whilst Margaret's carried on towards the drawing room. The moments passed until she heard Mr Hale exclaim in a weakened, trembling voice, and then his light steps hurried towards his study, to be reunited with his son.

Reappearing in the kitchen, Margaret looked upon Isabel's anxious face.

'Papa is in his study with Frederick. I am fetching tea. Come and join us.' And so after allowing father and son the privacy of a quarter hour, Margaret and Isabel entered the study with the loaded tea tray, and Margaret proudly set about serving her brother, leaving Isabel without a purpose, so she took up a low stool in the corner of the room and looked upon Frederick.

He moved directly towards his sister, and took the tea things from her, arranging them in companionable silence alongside each other. Isabel saw in their every movement, how dear brother was to sister, and what a treasure sister was to brother. She smiled with satisfaction, but felt a wistful pang of longing, for she had no sibling, and knew not the taste of such a love.

It was decided that Mrs Hale ought not to see her son until the morrow, for they feared his arrival would provoke in her too violent an excitement for her current state of health, and so it was not until the following morning that Mrs Hale was reunited with her son. Upon seeing him, she rallied with that all-encompassing rush of fervent affection, and she claimed both her children as her companions; Margaret and Frederick sat side-by-side, speaking softly with their mother. Where Margaret was soft and gentle, Frederick could provide a spark of humour or levity, and where Frederick appeared to show a glimpse of recklessness or abandonment, Margaret tempered her brother with her own reliability of character. They spoke on - Mrs Hale never once releasing her son's hand - and as they did, Mrs Hale weakened, resting her head against her pillow and choosing simply to look upon her children with a small smile of satisfaction. Such serenity of decline could not continue for long, and so it was with reluctance that Isabel had to inform brother and sister - the brother who appeared of a naturally hopeful disposition - that Mrs Hale had not many days left, or perhaps even, not many hours.

'I don't believe you!' cried Frederick, as he stood up in alarm. 'She is certainly very ill, I'll grant you that, but I cannot believe she is on the cusp of death!' He frowned and turned hastily to Margaret; a look of displeasure upon his face. 'Ought not you to have found some doctor from London? This Donaldson - he is no doubt used to dealing with factory ailments, and Isabel - for all I am grateful to you - you are not a doctor!'

'Oh, Frederick!' rushed Margaret. 'That is not fair. Isabel has done much for Mamma and Dr Donaldson has attested to Isabel's knowledge.'

'But is he the best?'

'I should think him only second to the best - if second to any - and besides, we have not the money to send off for a surgeon from London!' Frederick paced and scratched at his jaw in vexation.

'I have credit in Cadiz, but none here, for I cannot own to being a Hale. Oh! why ever did father bring you to this cursed place! You ought to have stayed in Helstone.'

'If you please, Frederick, it is not the relocation to Milton which has made your mother ill. She will have been unwell before arriving here,' explained Isabel, keen to have no undue blame apportioned to Mr Hale.

'Perhaps, but the climate and bad air shall only have hastened her decline,' insisted he. At this, Margaret began to cry, for she did not like the accusation, and could not deny some suspicion of its truth. Her brother, upon seeing those tears, took her into his arms in entreaty. 'Hush, Margaret. Do not cry, my darling. I will be hopeful - I will hope - in spite of your first-rate Dr Donaldson and our quiet friend here, who has nothing to say that is not grave.' And here, he passed to Isabel a look of irritation, but she knew the cause was not truly her, but the painful knowledge she imparted. 'No, have heart Margaret, and hope.'

'I shall try,' said she, with a heavy sadness. 'But it is so very cruel; just when Mamma was coming to love me as her first confident, and now I shall lose her. Death is cruel!'

'Come, sister. Let us not talk of it. We are wasting precious moments and should spend them with Mamma. Let us go upstairs, for my thoughts have made me feel sad many a time, but my actions never have. I think we ought always to be doing something instead of merely thinking something.' And true to his word, did Frederick always seem to be about some purpose; whether it was in sitting with Mrs Hale and holding her hand whilst whispering soothing words, or fashioning a foot-lift for Dixon (who grew fatigued with the inertia of her vigil) or in lifting Mr Hale's spirits with expressive descriptions of his travels on the seas; his time in Mexico and South America.

'I wonder, Frederick,' said Mr Hale, as they sat at breakfast, whilst Dixon saw to Mrs Hale, 'I wonder if you and Isabel have any notes to exchange on our far-flung geography. We have not been to any of the places Isabel is from, and she tells us such strange things. I wonder if they would seem strange to you?'

'And where have you been living, Isabel? And what are these strange things you speak of?' Here, Isabel felt her pulse quicken, for she knew nothing of where Frederick had been, and so could offer up no names of places of which she was confident he had no knowledge. The landlocked kingdoms were - or course - her safest choice, and yet she was unsure of their archaic names.

'Mesopotamia, most lately,' replied she with a slight frown, endeavouring to keep her voice even.

'Oh! no, I have never been there,' shrugged Frederick, carelessly. 'But these strange things; what are they?'

'Why! Isabel says they treat woman as equals; that men and women share the same education. That is how she comes to be a doctor.'

'Well! That is very strange. I have never been to such a place, nor know of any. Mesopotamia, you said?' now paying a closer interest.

'I did; but that is merely one of the places I have lived in. Now if you can perceive of a land torn apart by disease or war - there the men are lost and the women must take up the work of men to stand in their place, that is how one might come to find a woman working alongside a man, for if women are forced to take up the mantle, even if the men return, they have learnt the woman's worth,' she explained, hoping they would not question where such a place might be, or when it may have been. Frederick appeared to think of it a while, before nodding his head as his toast moved towards his lips.

'It is true, Papa. When a man is overseas with the navy, his wife becomes father and mother to the children. When he returns, he assumes his place as head of the family, of course, but the women do what they must in the absence of the men.'

'But that quite changes your argument entirely, Isabel!' exclaimed Mr Hale. 'If you took on the freedom or work of a man in the absence of men, that is quite a different matter. I shall have to speak with Mr Thornton when next he calls, for I think it quite the detail; I question how you might have forgot it!'

But he did not question it for long, because the warnings of Dr Donaldson and Isabel proved to be just, and by the afternoon, Mrs Hale suffered a fit of convulsions which left her quite unconscious. Mr Hale lay beside her, sobbing at his loss, whilst Frederick earnestly sought to lift his mother into a more comfortable position, and Margaret gently bathed her face. Isabel had not the heart to tell them that it was all for nought, for Mrs Hale knew nothing of their ministrations or grief, and before the sun rose, she was dead.

Frederick was bereft now, for there was nothing further that he could do for his mother, and his maxim that he ought to do instead of think, could not be called into action. Instead he sobbed until the ladies feared the neighbours would hear, and took himself off to bed to muffle his cries with a pillow. Mr Hale and Margaret, meanwhile, sat before Mrs Hale's lifeless body; the husband fairly numb with grief. He did not cry and barely spoke, but looked upon his wife and - uncovering her face from time to time - would gently stroke it before muttering some inaudible words. Margaret wished he would cry, but he did not, and the stoic silence and inertia was almost more than she could bear. She tried to soothe him and lift him from the dreary cloud of grief, with gentle words and affectionate kisses, but he suffered them with little response. It was not until he heard the tortured cries of his son - rising from below stairs - that he spoke aloud, and then it was only to say, -

'Poor boy!' before speaking no more.

The inhabitants of Crampton passed a sombre few days; both father and son brought so low with grief, that Margaret found herself quite overcome with the burden of shoring them both up. Her complexion was wan and she had a look about her of utter exhaustion, and yet she would see to her father's comfort; sitting with him for hours as he sat numb and restless. So too, did she now have the care of her brother, who could no longer offer that shining light of hope for all the family. Where Isabel tried to take up a portion of Margaret's heavy burden, she clung to it fiercely, using the exhaustion it wrought in her as a salve against her grief. She was of the mind that whilst she had a purpose, she had not the time to dwell upon unhappy thoughts. The doctor in Isabel wished to intercede, and propose a new division of care, but every offer was rejected, until Dixon thought to press herself upon her young mistress; speaking with such an unfamiliar gentleness (for Dixon had never warmed to Margaret, with all her severity of character), and urging her, with all thought for the "old gentleman" and "young master", to think of the practicalities to be seen to; the funeral - who should come and where it should be held. This commission, Margaret found she could take up with an indifference of heart, for it spared her idle hours sat before her grieving loved ones.

Margaret sat about with Dixon and made a list of all the little necessities which would need to be seen to, in order to offer her mother a fair and respectable farewell, and after talking them over with Isabel - who knew nothing of funerals in Milton - took herself before her father, and broached the delicate subject of his wife's interment. He listened in that apathetic way in which the lately-bereaved will often assent to anything put before them, and agreed to all that Margaret had proposed. Margaret was surprised, therefore, when upon turning to leave the room, her father suddenly spoke up, offering his own directions.

'Mr Bell - write to Mr Bell and see that he is invited.'

'Mr Bell!' asked Margaret, for surely, he would not come up again from Oxford - not so soon after his last visit.

'He was groomsman at my wedding,' replied Mr Hale, simply. Margaret readily nodded, for now she understood that not only was Mr Bell her father's oldest friend, but one whom had been beside him on that happiest of days.

'I shall write to him to-day.' And so saying, her father turned his gaze back towards some unseen substance, and sat restlessly upon his chair; that shroud of grief clinging heavily to his limbs, weighing them down until he could serve no useful purpose.

Meanwhile, Mr Thornton had been about some business at the borough court, when he came upon Dr Donaldson as he finished his morning rounds. He had heard of Mrs Hale's passing, but was keen to hear from the doctor as to how the family got on.

'Good day, Dr Donaldson,' said Mr Thornton, tipping his hat.

'Thornton! Good day to you,' replied the doctor, before his brows knit and a shadow crossed his face. 'I think the last time we met, we spoke of my patient - Mrs Hale - and I know you took an interest. Sadly, the worst has come and she is dead.'

'Yes, I heard of it from their maid when I called by Crampton yesterday. They were in no fit state to see anyone, I believe. I shall call again to-day.'

'Oh! That is good. The gentleman is brought quite low, and I do believe the daughter has a hard time in lifting his spirits. It's very heavy on her, poor girl.'

'Miss Hale?' frowned Mr Thornton.

'Indeed. They have a distant relative visiting, I believe - I think a - yes! A Mr Dickinson, if I heard correctly - and do you know! I think he might be a relative or friend of Miss Darrow's. Yes, I think that's what I heard, though I scarce saw the fellow, but in passing through the hallway, and he was dark of skin. No! I merely heard him sobbing like a child, and so poor Miss Hale has both men to care for, when she herself, has lost her mother.' Mr Thornton would have felt some swelling of compassion for Miss Hale, but he was too vexed by the news that there a gentleman staying at the house, who was thought to be an acquaintance of Miss Darrow's. His interest was immediately piqued, and he had to use his great control and strength of character to keep those jealous lashings of envy at bay, as a tide of masculine possessiveness swept through him.

'And Miss Darrow? How does she fare?' Dr Donaldson shook his head sadly.

'I think the poor girl is a bit lost. She spent so much of her time tending to Mrs Hale, and now she is without occupation. Mr Hale is not fit to notice her and Miss Hale will not share the burden of caring for her father - she'll make herself ill, I say! - and so Miss Darrow tries to do what she can for Miss Hale's comfort, but I fear her interference is unwanted. It is a sad house, at present.'

'Indeed.'

'Well, I must be off. I shall let you know if I have any other patients who could benefit from jargenelle pears!' smiled the doctor, and tipping his hat, he set off at a steady pace.

Now Mr Thornton had sought to hate Isabel after she had trenched upon his domain as a Master, questioning the wages he paid, and the fairness of his business practices, but to hate her was as hopeless as to wish himself a third arm, for it was a physical impossibility. Thus, he could not hear of her change in circumstances without regretting it, and although he felt deeply for his friend, and felt compassion for the bereaved daughter, he was selfish enough in his love for Isabel as to wish her happiness the easiest to be restored, and selfish enough, also, to wish himself the very person to restore it. He had in mind a certain way in which he may be able to lift his loved one's spirits, and knew the action to have some merits in its own right, but he was of a cautious nature in all matters of business, and would take no action - however much he might wish to - if he did not believe he could make a sound business case for it, and so he took himself back to his office, and shut himself up for many hours, as he pored over ledgers and the list of workers who had returned to his mill after the strike.

The following evening, as Margaret and Isabel were sat about the living room - both in want of an occupation, but neither of them capable of taking up any great tome and truly seeing the words upon the page - Dixon came quietly into the room with a fearful look upon her face.

'Dixon, what is wrong?' asked Margaret, with dawning apprehension.