Mr Bell had returned to Oxford; he complained of the noise and smoke of Milton, and longed for those halcyon skies, adorned with the noble spires born of ancient, fine minds. If he realised that the skyline of Milton - although smokier and certainly greyer - was not so very different to Oxford, with its skies peppered by jutting smokestacks, creeping proudly to the echelons of the horizon, he chose not to think on it. He instead asserted boldly, that Milton was an infernal place and he regretted his return to blessed Oxford, only for the company he should be forced to give up upon his departure. In saying this, he looked kindly to Isabel, and exchanged with her a secret look, which spoke of his warm regard and sorrow, at leaving his lately-found daughter.

He had gone, but behind had stayed Dr Lyndhurst. He had cited some pretext of wanting to look over the Darkshire rate-supported asylum for the pauper-lunatics, but Isabel - and now Mr Hale, thanks to Mr Bell's insight (although, with a modest uncertainty) - suspected that Dr Lyndhurst's prevarication on the matter of leaving Milton, was solely due to his burgeoning regard for Margaret.

Over the previous week, Dr Lyndhurst had been a regular guest at the Crampton house, and had even seen fit to accompany Margaret on her errands to Princeton, where she would teach the little Boucher children their letters. Dr Lyndhurst had told an unsuspecting Margaret, that he was keen to see the conditions of the working poor, so that he might better understand the struggles of those who carved for themselves, a living in these rough, industrial towns. And although he was interested in Milton as a whole, his true purpose was to spend time with lovely Margaret, and to walk beside that tall, graceful figure.

Margaret, for her part, was very pleased that Dr Lyndhurst had not rushed off with Mr Bell, for she found his company more than agreeable, and although she was startled by the realisation of her feelings, she did enjoy walking with him to Princeton, where they might enjoy a brief conversation in private. Never had she felt such a pleasure in a gentleman's company before; never had she favoured the solitude of being in the company of only one other - and that other being male! Milton had afforded her little in the way of male company; her only regular interlocutors of the opposite sex being Nicholas Higgins and Mr Thornton.

Higgins was a fatherly figure, and although Margaret held a true affection for the weaver, she would never hold any sentiment for the man, which could make her blush. And Mr Thornton! although she had come to admire him for his sharpness of mind, and although she would now acknowledge that he had about him some true human compassion, she had never warmed to him, or seen him as anything beyond the admirer of her friend. Thus, she had held back from openly conversing with him, and had instead been a ready listener.

Now, she had the company of a gentleman, who was only too eager to speak with her; to share his uncensored opinions, believing her - even though she was a woman! - to be capable of understanding all that he would say to any man. And indeed, that generosity of understanding, was returned in his rapt attention to all of her own thoughts and opinions, which he readily encouraged her to divulge. Never had she been closer with any of male not of her family; not even Henry Lennox!

The very thought of her cousin's brother-in-law, caused her mouth to downturn as a frown stole across her brow, at the memory of the unpleasant day upon which he had surprised her with a visit to Helstone. She had known Henry Lennox - brother of Cousin Edith's husband, Captain Lennox - for several years, and had always found him to be a pleasing, elegant man of firm mind. He was a promising young lawyer, and unlike his fashionable brother, he was not one to sit about nothing, but spent his days employed in work and furthering his own standing. Margaret had admired his determination of purpose, but there, her admiration had stopped. Unknowingly it was, then, that she had stirred in Mr Lennox, his own admiration of her. And so he had come - upon his brother's marriage to her dear Cousin Edith - to Helstone - unannounced - where he then proposed a marriage of their own.

What a shock to her had it been! Margaret had never given marriage a thought, being only nineteen, and having never loved a man. She had thought a man who meant to marry might try to woo his object, as she had quietly observed Captain Lennox do with Cousin Edith - but Henry Lennox had done no such thing, but present himself before her - in her idyllic Helstone - and state his wish for them to marry. It had been done in such a passionless way as to allow her - once her initial shock had abated - to refuse him, with only a sense of embarrassed mortification for their feelings, but no guilt. She was sure he had not loved her; that she could not have made him happy, and she wondered if perhaps he did not know what love was, for never had she anticipated a suitor seeking her hand in such a cool and passionless way. And thinking on such, she could not help but turn a furtive glance upon Dr Lyndhurst, as he walked placidly beside her. She felt an unfamiliar tingling course down her spine, and her cheeks heated as she looked upon his profile. Her breathing deepened as those feelings swelled within her breast, until her eyes widened on a gasp.

'Oh!' And her dainty hand rose to cover her mouth.

'Miss Hale?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, turning to her in question. 'Are you well?'

'Quite!' came Margaret's flushed reply, but she quickened her pace and made haste to the Higgins' home.

There, she busied herself with the smallest Boucher children, and sat near the fire as Dr Lyndhurst took the older children through their letters. Seeing him occupied with the children, Margaret looked upon him once more, and felt the heat return to her cheeks - despite the chill of the room - for she had realised that as she walked beside him (and now felt it with only a greater certainty, as she sat across from him in the Higgins' cramped home), that if Dr Lyndhurst was to ask for her hand, she may very well not refuse.

Dr Lyndhurst, in turn, looked at Margaret a great deal, when her attention was stolen by the smallest children. He knew not what thoughts were in her mind, but he felt the warm swell of affection within his breast, as he watched her entertain those little children, and thought that such a happy little scene, might one day be theirs; in their own home, with their own children.

'Would you care for children, Miss Hale? You are quite the natural with them,' said Dr Lyndhurst, as they made their way back to Crampton.

'Oh!' And here, Margaret blushed, made uncertain by the nature of such a personal question.

'Well,' said he, continuing as though nothing was amiss, 'I have seen Miss Darrow with the little Bouchers, and although her bedside manner is very pleasing, she has not a natural way with children; not motherly.'

'Yes, but Isabel was raised an orphan, so perhaps she has not the example,' replied Margaret, in defence of her friend.

'Very true, and Mr Thornton - well! He could hardly feel his mother's presence or influence more keenly. He takes an interest in Tommy's schooling, does he not?'

'I believe so; Nicholas has told me such, but I must ask; why do you speak one moment of Isabel, and the very next of Mr Thornton? Surely you do not know of an - an,' and she blushed, before hurrying to continue, 'a secret understanding, between the two?'

'Ah! No, I fear not. Indeed, I think it very likely there is nothing but a misunderstanding between those two people, but fate has a way of righting itself, and I am sure the plot will unravel soon, and all shall be as the author intended.'

'God? You mean to speak of God?'

'Perhaps so.'

'Well,' mused Margaret, 'I should be very pleased for my friend if it is to be.'

'You would not miss your companion?'

'She would still be in Milton; we should surely see each other, and often.'

'And you do not mean to leave Milton; you mean to make this place your home in life?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, eagerly.

'My father,' said Margaret, her voice low and regretful, 'he was very low after Mamma died. I thought him truly quiet ill and began to fear I should lose him before long, but Mr Thornton's regular visits seemed to lift him, and he has grown quiet animated in his interests for Marlborough Mills' infirmary and the Boucher's schooling. Mr Thornton has recommended him new pupils, and so Papa has regained that vigour which was so cruelly crushed, upon my mother's death. Seeing Mr Bell again has done him the world of good, and I believe your male companionship has lifted his spirits greatly - especially as Mr Thornton had been so busy these past few weeks; he has seldom called at Crampton. Company is important to my father - Isabel says he must have company for his continued good health - so I should never leave him, and my mother is buried in Milton. He would not wish to leave her all alone.' Dr Lyndhurst was thoughtful for a moment; Milton was of interest to him, but held no great appeal beyond Margaret.

'So Milton is to be your home!' declared Dr Lyndhurst, at length. 'And tell me, Miss Hale - for I am of no fixed abode - would Milton serve me well, do you think?' He looked at her surreptitiously, and waited with bated breath as her eyes widened and her lips parted. Pink stole across her cheeks, and he felt certain she sensed his unspoken meaning.

'Milton would be very lucky to have you; with your specialist skills, Dr Lyndhurst. But could it hold your interest?' Now he felt that he was the one being furtively probed.

'There is the asylum on the edge of town - I go there to-morrow. I had thought to look about and see the conditions of its inhabitants. They are mean places, Miss Hale, and I think there is just as much I can do here, as I can do for anyone, elsewhere. True, Milton is not a wealthy place; certainly not for people in my profession, and I should never acquire the riches that might be my lot in London or the society cities, but the work here is just as worthy. What say you to a doctor - not a poor one - but one who treats the poor, and thus can never aspire to much? Would it be shameful to pursue such a path in life?'

'Shameful! I have not a care for wealth. I should hardly call it shameful, but really, pretty fine,' said Margaret, with warm feeling. Dr Lyndhurst was gratified, and turned back towards the street ahead of them, allowing silence to dwell between them. At length, he said, -

'Then perhaps I shall be a modest doctor and keep company with your father. Mr Bell could be encouraged to visit; it would suit us all very well, I think.'

'Yes, quite well,' agreed Margaret, with a becoming blush.

Now Dr Lyndhurst visited his asylum, was suitably appalled, and so determined, that even if he was not destined to win Margaret as his wife, the working poor of Milton needed the assistance he could offer, so as to avoid admittance to any such blighted place. He had found it more crowded - owing to the rapid growth of the industrial district - and the meanness of the place outdid any he had ever seen in the southern towns, where bodies were not so crammed in to such small spaces; where wretched faces did not meld together, in a menagerie of desolation.

Indeed, on leaving that fateful place and walking briskly to Crampton, he determined that for all his ambition - for all he had dreamt of carving a name for himself in his field, and leaving behind a legacy of innovation - he would set those lofty aspirations aside; he would be no great inventor, and nor would he discover deep secrets of the mind, but his ambition would be sated in the human, Christian knowledge, that he would keep the mal-minded from such an accursed future; slowly wielding his own great presence of mind, to ease the lives of those whom had already been damned into such an institution.

It was, then, with a grim face - greatly disturbed by what he had seen - but with renewed determination - that Dr Lyndhurst presented himself at the Crampton house, to take tea with the Hales.

'And how did you find the place, Christopher?' asked Mr Hale, with trepidation.

'It was grim, sir. Worse than I had feared, but I am determined to do something. Where I can affect any change in the asylum itself is doubtful, but I can strive to help those who are afflicted, to keep out of it.'

'Then you mean to settle in Milton?' asked Margaret, with unguarded excitement.

'Yes; I think I do. I shall have to return to Oxford and put my affairs in order. I currently take wealthy clients to supplement my income. I have some small properties I draw upon, but it is the wealthy, paying clients who afford me my living. I shall have to see what may be done if I am to come to Milton; I think my patients here hard-pressed to pay.' Margaret's face fell downcast at this piece of news, for she had greatly anticipated his becoming a permanent fixture in Milton. Isabel saw her friend's crestfallen expression, and placed a soothing hand upon her taper fingers.

'I hope all is easily settled and that you join us here in Milton, soon, Dr Lyndhurst. We shall all miss your company here at Crampton, shall we not?' announced Isabel, kindly.

'Indeed!' cried Mr Hale, jovially. 'And Mr Thornton has come so little in these past few weeks - he has certainly lost interest in ancient Greek - I shall be in wont of male company.' At this proclamation, Dr Lyndhurst looked quickly at Margaret's worried face, and then at Isabel in question, who offered the merest of nods.

'Fear not, Mr Hale,' smiled Dr Lyndhurst. 'I shall be quick about my business, and will return to your cosy home with haste, where I shall expect to find a warming fire and a pot of tea awaiting me.' He caught Margaret's grateful smile, and sighed contentedly. 'Indeed,' added he, with rising spirits, feeling keenly, how his absence would be regretted by both father and daughter, 'I shall insist that Mr Bell returns with me.'

Dr Lyndhurst went off to Oxford, and Margaret busied herself in his absence, with visits to the Bouchers and long talks with her father, in a bid to stave off his loneliness. She wondered that Mr Thornton had not been to the house in weeks, but for one lesson which he took with Mr Hale in his study, where upon he declined an invitation to stay to tea afterwards. She thought back upon her last walk with Dr Lyndhurst - where he had said he thought there to be some misunderstanding between Mr Thornton and Isabel - and she feared that it was true, and that it was some unknown conflict with Isabel, which kept her father's friend away.

And yet still, Isabel went off each day to the infirmary at Marlborough Mills, and had even started working there an extra day each week; so popular did it prove to be with all the workers. Little did Margaret know that Isabel never saw the man; that Mr Thornton kept studiously from her presence, determined not to love her; determined not to betray those feelings of which he could not rid himself, no matter how sorely he tried.

And it was one day whilst trying to avoid all thought of Isabel - as she worked across the yard in the stable block - that Mr Thornton saw an errand boy run at haste back to the mill house. He frowned from his window, wondering that the young lad would have any business at the house, when a wave of concern swept over him, and rising quickly from his desk, he strode across the yard and up the stairs to the drawing room.

'Mother!' said he, standing tall in the doorway to the room, 'what did that young lad want?'

'Oh, John! It is your sister. She fell faint and hit her head on the way down. I sent off for Dr Donaldson, but the boy just came by and said he's now with a woman in her pains, and so he cannot come!' said Mrs Thornton, in exasperation. Mr Thornton immediately came forward to the prone form upon the sofa. There was no blood, and Fanny was only a little pale, but she moaned and groaned and spoke not a word of sense.

'Miss Darrow is in the yard,' said he, with calm determination, and before his mother could object, Mr Thornton had lifted his sister into his arms, and was carrying her down the stairs, leaving Mrs Thornton to follow with a grim mouth, her skirts kicking up about her as she followed her son's long and purposeful strides.

'Miss Darrow,' said Mr Thornton, carrying his sister into the infirmary, and presuming to lay her down upon the table. 'My sister has fainted - she often does - but hit her head upon the table as she fell.'

'Was she unconscious?' asked Isabel, reaching immediately for the patient. Fanny's eyelids fluttered in a trifling sort of way, causing Isabel to frown.

'What is wrong?' demanded Mrs Thornton, seeing the doubtful expression on Isabel's face. Isabel had not noticed that the matriarch had entered the room, and her spine instantly went rigid, recalling their two previous encounters in that very room.

'Did she fall unconscious?' asked Isabel, again.

'Mother!'

'Nay, John! I don't think she did, only she did not wail, and Fanny is prone to cry out.' Isabel peered into Fanny's eyes, and found the young girl to be quite lucid, despite her stupidity.

'Are you in pain, Miss Thornton?' asked Isabel, in her firm, commanding doctor's voice.

'Oh! I am dying! I am surely dying! Send for Watson; send for my betrothed. He must see me before I die!' lamented Fanny.

'You are not dying; it was only a little bump. You shall marry this old man, Watson, yet,' replied Isabel, with an air of impatience.

'Little! I should not call it little. Mother! I think that my head shall burst!' cried Fanny, much to Mrs Thornton's dismay.

'Nonsense!' scolded Isabel. 'Your brother took a far greater blow, no doubt, during the riot - and his head was split open. You have only a slight bruise. Rest and a cold compress shall set you right,' corrected she.

'Mother, where is Donaldson? I must have a real doctor,' baulked Fanny.

'Miss Darrow is a real doctor!' snapped Mr Thornton, impatiently. And for all that Mrs Thornton bristled at the way Isabel had spoken to her daughter, she could not deny that the knock to the head had appeared slight, and that Fanny was certainly as coherent as she had ever been.

'I am dying, John! Don't you care that I am dying?' Isabel sighed wearily, and pulled about the privacy screen.

'Mr Thornton, I must ask you to leave. Your sister is dying and I must cut her from her dress.'

'Cut it!' wailed Fanny, in despair.

'Assuredly; if you are dying.' And Isabel turned about and picked up a pair of scissors, lifting them threateningly towards the sweeping neckline of Fanny's bodice. Immediately, the foolish girl sat up - without so much as a totter- and swung her legs about so that she could stand from the table.

'This dress was new last month, Miss Darrow!' scolded Fanny, with an inferior Thornton frown, and she stomped from the infirmary in indignation.