Husband and wife came down to breakfast together the following morning, and Mrs Thornton was gratified to see that neither lover looked discontented, and both were attentive to the other, with Mr Thornton carefully seeing his wife seated, and collecting for her, a plate from the sideboard.

'Oh!' frowned Isabel, as the laden plate was set before her. 'That is quite a quantity of food.'

'You did not eat last evening, love.'

'Well, nor did you!' complained Isabel, indignantly, for Mr Thornton had taken for himself only toast and eggs, and had before him, no mountain of food. Mrs Thornton was immediately suspicious, for she had seen her son take up a plate of sandwiches, but noting that husband and wife showed no animosity for one another, she reasoned - and she wished that she had not! - that the couple must have been too preoccupied to eat. She frowned about her tea cup, and fixed Isabel with an assessing glance. Her son's behaviour to his wife was - she reluctantly admitted - verging on officious, and she feared her new daughter may have taken ill, and her son now sought to coddle a sickly wife.

'You did not catch a chill, I hope? Sitting about in those wet clothes?' asked Mrs Thornton, shortly.

'No, Mother. I shan't claim to have your constitution, but I'm no weakling.' Mrs Thornton's lips pursed in contemplation, and in doing so, she was able to stifle a small, prideful smile of satisfaction. No, Mrs Thornton - like her son - was iron made! And it was only right that his wife should be hardy, too. All the better for bearing babes, said Mrs Thornton to herself, and then in thinking such, she glanced at her son's sheepish flush, and she knew what he was about. Her words of the evening before, had struck him, and he was now the attentive husband, thinking of his wife's health, in case she should fall into a delicate condition. She saw instantly the hopefulness about his look, and a maternal softening swelled within her breast. Ay! thought she, he'll make a fine father, and as good a son as he's been, he'll no doubt bless me with grandchildren to be proud of.

'Are you quite well, John?' asked Isabel, cautiously, as Mr Thornton stared at her absent-mindedly; a softness about his lips, and a warm glow to his eyes. Indeed, he had been thinking of children - the thoughts sewn by his mother's words of warning, and it was to him, such a blissful picture of happiness - his Isabel large with child, or a babe within her arms - that he was loath to shake it off, and in that happy reverie, he made himself a fool. 'John!' called Isabel, once again, but he merely shook his head to chase away that indulgent notion.

Isabel sighed, and turned her gaze towards Mrs Thornton. There! that same softening of the mouth - and the lips usually so grim!

'Mother?' asked she, and the matriarch immediately pulled back from her daydream and looked to Isabel in question.

'Yes, Isabel?'

'When would be convenient for me to sit with you and learn of the household management?'

'Let us sit to it after breakfast. It shan't interrupt with your infirmary, or your calls at Crampton, if we set about it early each morning,' replied Mrs Thornton. Isabel was touched by the stern woman's consideration, and smiled gratefully in return.

'And shall you call on Margaret to-day, Isabel?' asked Mr Thornton; now finally drawn from his thoughts.

'Yes,' smiled she. 'And I thought to collect my dress for the wedding, on the way back from Crampton.'

'Oh! but they shall deliver it to the house!' grumbled Mrs Thornton, displeased with the notion of Mrs John Thornton carrying packages about the town, and on foot!

'I think you ought to call past the drapers, love,' put in Mr Thornton. 'We ought to hold a dinner - now that we are married - and you shall need a new dress for that. You have only the one, and even with the new one you ordered for Margaret's wedding, you shan't have enough for dinners and concerts.'

'Give a dinner!' fretted Isabel, looking immediately to Mrs Thornton.

'I shall help you organise it,' said Mrs Thornton, sensing Isabel's dismay. A reluctant nod, and her gaze turned back to her husband.

'I ought not go shopping for fabrics, John.' This last said with widened eyes, as though hoping to impart a deeper meaning, and of course, Mr Thornton understood.

'Mother,' said he, 'I had thought to hire horses for a few days, so that you might make your calls. Perhaps you could take Isabel with you, and then she shall finally see Fan's house at Hayleigh.' Now Mrs Thornton was not impressed by such a notion - she had no wish to pay her calls - but she saw the request for what it was; her son wanted his wife to come to know his closest acquaintances (he would not term them friends, for mother and son were solitary creatures, by habit).

'If you wish it, John.'

'Thank you, Mother,' smiled Mr Thornton. 'And whilst you have the carriage, perhaps you might go with Isabel to the drapers, and help her pick out some fabrics?' Now he turned to Isabel with an encouraging smile, and said, 'I know you've never made a dress, love, but Mother will help you, and once you've accomplished a dress, any smaller piece you might one day wish to make, will no doubt be less daunting.'

Isabel blushed, for she knew he alluded to the comely making of garments for a child, and Mrs Thornton sighed, for although she agreed with her son's request and reasoning, she thought him perhaps a little too eager, in his wish to be a father. Certainly, it was only natural, and he was no longer a very young man, but he spoke of such a matter - and looked in such a way when thinking upon it - as to make it clear that he thought nothing of heirs and carrying on the Thornton name, but of having children about his knee. Never had she suspected such a softness in her son, but now his mother saw it plainly, and once again, she thought on how little she had truly known him.

That afternoon, Isabel called at Crampton, and was welcomed into the drawing room, whilst Mr Hale was with a pupil in his study.

'Isabel!' smiled Margaret, taking her hands in greeting, and giving them a small squeeze. 'I had thought to see you in Princeton this morning; I was seeing to the Boucher's letters.'

'No; I did not go. Robert Harris gets on well, so I shan't go by unless I'm needed. Of course, I'll call on Higgins, weekly, and no doubt speak with Mrs Harris, then. She's a little coarse, but quite good company.' Margaret frowned at this news; she had called on the Higgins that morning, and had learnt of Tommy Boucher's fall into the river. So too, had she been told of Isabel's rescue of the boy; young Ben stating that "th' Master were right angry wiv' th' Mistress, an' even Higgins were worried fo' 'is temper!"

'Does Mr Thornton not wish for you to call on Robert Harris, Isabel?' asked Margaret, astutely.

'Oh, no!' rushed Isabel. 'That is, John thinks it unnecessary - which, in truth, it is. I've much to learn about running a home and I can hardly continue living alongside such a prolific seamstress as Mrs Thornton, and not learn the basics of the art.'

'So you are going to embroider, instead?' frowned Margaret; her expression disappointed.

'Embroider? No! Never! But I am to attempt a dress - with Mrs Thornton's help - and if I am not dreadful, and ever have a child, I shall want to fashion little outfits for it. But have no fear; I'll never be a slave to the needle, unless the cloth I work with is that of human skin!' Ignoring the unpleasant notion of open wounds, Margaret fixed her attention to Isabel's allusion to a family, and smiled.

'Yes; I think it quite right that you learn to sew. I've no especial fondness for it, but Mamma made all our clothes and kept them from when we were babes. She would take Frederick's little frocks, and stroke them with a loving gaze. Mine, I think were stored away in some great attic chest,' laughed Margaret; now no longer jealous of her mother's love for Frederick, for she was first in Dr Lyndhurst's affections, instead.

'Has Dr Lyndhurst taken you to find a house for once you are married?' asked Isabel, thinking it best to curtail any conversation with regards to the late Mrs Hale, for it was approaching the top of the hour, and Mr Hale might return from his study at any moment.

'Oh! but I have far better news. We did go to look at houses, but we saw none; only he took me to tea at the Clarendon,' rushed Margaret, with excitement.

'Oh?' frowned Isabel, in confusion.

'Indeed! For we have a house already, so there was no need for us to look.'

'But Dr Lyndhurst's current lodgings are small; surely not suitable for a young couple - for what might soon be a young family!'

'Oh no! They are not, but here; we are to stay here, at Crampton.'

'With Mr Hale?'

'Yes. Christopher asked if I should like it, and I thought it quite a wonderful idea, so he put it to Papa, and I think he was very relieved.'

'I can imagine,' agreed Isabel, for now Mr Hale would gain the daily company of a son, without giving up the constant presence of his daughter. 'No, that is wonderful, and very good of Dr Lyndhurst.'

'Yes, I thought so, too. I thanked him quite profusely, and he tried to claim it merely an economy of living - now that he shall have a poorer class of patient - but he has the income and I the inheritance, to be quite comfortable in a finer house, so I know he has done it only to please Papa and myself.'

'Well!' sighed Isabel. 'I think this has all unfolded rather nicely, has it not?' And she spoke of more than just Margaret's living arrangements. For here she was in Milton, Mr Hale still alive, and very much enamoured with his work, his favourite pupil and his future son-in-law. Margaret would have her simple wedding, walking to the church on a fine (albeit smoky, cloudy) summer's day, and Isabel had the love of her favourite romantic hero.

So Margaret was married; Margaret Hale no more, and Dr Lyndhurst took up residence in Crampton. It was a happy circumstance for Isabel, for Mr Thornton still took his lessons with Mr Hale, and now Isabel had two friends to call upon, whilst her husband was shut up in Mr Hale's study.

'How do you get on with your gown, Isabel?' asked Margaret, as she poured her husband's tea; that bracelet still plaguing her, as it slipped about her taper wrist.

'Very slowly,' scowled Isabel. 'Mother has had to cut the pattern, and my technique is so ill that I should not have a hope of wearing it for our dinner, if Mother did not secretly take my gown up to her room at night and work upon it there. She quite reminds me of The Elves and the Shoemaker.'

'What is that?' asked Margaret.

'Ah! Die Wichtelmänner,' smiled Dr Lyndhurst. 'I have only read it in German. Grimm's Fairy Tales, my love,' explained he, to Margaret. 'I shall find for you an English copy; it is a whole collection of stories; said to be for children, but in places, I think them a little gruesome.'

'They are certainly wholly unlike anything that would be read to a young child, where I am from. So much violence and gore!' frowned Isabel. 'I was raised on talking cats and benign wizards.'

'And did the cats belong to the wizards?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, smiling.

'Usually the witches,' laughed Isabel, for she thought the doctor quite delightful; if a little quick to smile and make merry. And here, Margaret frowned, for it did not sound very Christian. 'White witches, Margaret, and all the stuff of nonsense.'

'How did you find Mrs Watson's improvements to the house at Hayleigh?' asked Dr Lyndhurst, stealing a furtive glance at his new wife, and determining that they ought to speak of something that could cause her no offence.

'Oh! a fine house, but I left with such a headache, and I cannot rightly say if it was the papers and carpets - such a clash of riotous colour, and so very over-bearing - or the incessant commentary upon each and every trinket - and there were many, I can assure you!' replied Isabel, laughing, for although Fanny Thornton was a foolish creature, Isabel still thought her quite delightful. Indeed, she valued her sister by marriage all the more, now that she lived in that quiet, austere house. Still, she was glad that she did not have to converse with her new sister, daily.

'Oh dear!' sighed Margaret, with an amused quirk of the lips. 'I do not know if I should be disappointed not to have seen it for myself. It sounds half torture, half pleasure.'

'An accurate description. Come with me when next I go. Fanny shall be grateful for a fresh pair of eyes to admire her so-called improvements.'

'And the Master's wives? How did you find them when you called with Mrs Thornton?' asked Margaret. And here, Isabel's smile fell, and she drew in a deep and weary breath.

'Oh, they mean no harm, I am sure, but I cannot warm to them. They have nothing about them, Margaret, and had I not you for company, I think I should go half mad!' A dark frown now crossed her countenance, and she tensed within her chair. Dr Lyndhurst looked to her compassionately, for he knew it was not the thought of the dreary Master's wives which troubled his friend, but the allusion to some said madness. And he chose here, when Mr Hale and Mr Thornton joined them in the drawing room - once they had completed their studies - to ask Mr Thornton for a private interview.

Dr Lyndhurst led Mr Thornton upstairs, to what had once been Margaret's bedroom, and was now his private study.

'How goes your wife, Thornton?' asked the doctor, quietly, as he seated himself in his chair. Mr Thornton took up the chair opposite, and folded one long leg across the other, as he fixed the doctor with a guarded look.

'Why do you ask?'

'She made some simple passing comment - a mere turn of phrase - which spoke of madness, and looked quite discomposed. Has she any fears for her mind?'

'You think she ought to have?' asked Mr Thornton, frowning.

'Not that I have seen or heard, but that is not the concern; the matter that interests me, is whether or not Isabel feels she has anything to fear; imagined or not.' Mr Thornton sighed and ran his finger along his bottom lip in contemplation.

'I know you have spoken to her of her past. You understand that Milton his - unalike - anywhere she has ever lived?' asked Mr Thornton, guardedly.

'I do,' smiled Dr Lyndhurst, in encouragement.

'She is adapting. The ways of Milton are very different to the Kentish ways she knew. When we married, she could not even write with a pen, and was afraid to even pick up a needle and piece of cloth, lest my mother see that she was so wholly unschooled in the ways of a lady, that her whole history was called into question. We did cross words some weeks ago - just before your marriage - but Isabel has being trying hard to adapt to this way of life, and I am pleased with her effort; with her accomplishments.'

'And what of you; are you adapting to her way of living?' asked the doctor, quietly.

'You see I allow her much freedom, much independence,' sighed Mr Thornton. 'She is often about Princeton with Margaret. She says she calls on Higgins and helps the Bouchers with their letters, but I know my wife, and she gossips with the women folk,' said Mr Thornton, with an indulgent smile. 'I've not given her an allowance, only she has access to my safe, and I've never asked of her expenditure; she does not have to justify it, for she's no foolish thing. I have asked -' and here, he paused and frowned to himself, before speaking in correction, 'that is, I did order, Isabel to make an effort to embrace this Milton life - the dressmaking, the Master's wives, seeing to the household duties, and giving up the pencils - but I've not trenched upon her spirit.'

'So you believe you both happy?'

'You would disagree?' accused Mr Thornton, his cheeks dark.

'Not at all. She loves you very much, and speaks with equanimity on all that you have asked of her, but the discomposure over such an innocent turn of phrase concerns me. I feel she has some secret fear for her wellbeing.' Mr Thornton sighed; the doctor was astute.

'She has dreams - cries out in her sleep - every night. They have lessened. I hold her to me and she soon quietens; I hardly think she knows they occur, or if she does, I don't believe she knows I have heard her in her sleep, for she's never spoken of it, and my Isabel would, if she thought I knew her torment.'

'But they have lessened, you say?'

'Ay!' replied Mr Thornton, with a nod of his head. 'She's not so fitful in her sleep. Her cries are more a whimper, but the torment is still there.'

'And is that her only symptom?' And another weary sigh was drawn from Mr Thornton's lips.

'When Robert Harris lost his leg - after all had gone off home - I found Isabel in the back room of the infirmary, crying over the blood on her hands. I washed away the blood, but she trembled, and said the blood was still there. There was no blood, Lyndhurst. I don't rightly know if she saw something that was not there, or if she was caught up in some troublesome memory, but she stared at her hands and cried over blood, which I had washed away.'

'She could not work - would not go to a hospital - after she came back from Mesopotamia,' said Dr Lyndhurst, indifferently. 'I should think all that she saw, made her uneasy at the sight of blood. Amputating a limb; I'm not surprised it stirred those feelings in her.'

'Neither am I. It was a passing thing, and she has been well ever since. I'm not concerned for her, unless you think I ought to be?'

'No; I'd not say so,' smiled the doctor.

'But she is reckless,' mused Mr Thornton; almost to himself. 'Is that just her way, or a symptom of her previous malady? You know she threw herself into The Hoppen after young Boucher.'

'Ah!' smiled Dr Lyndhurst. 'That's no symptom of malady. I think that - and her rushing out to protect you from the mobsters - a symptom of her upbringing.'

'Excuse me?'

'She never knew love, Thornton. She cannot have more than two or three years' worth of memories of her mother; then she found herself in a home for orphans and abandoned children. What family did she ever know? A family is no family if they only keep you to earn a profit. No! I think she taught herself to be independent, and I think - for all her compassionate heart - she cannot bear to let another suffer as she has suffered, and never having had to answer to another's anxious heart, she rushes in without thinking of herself, or of those who now love her.'

'So you mean to say you believe she'll continue to be reckless?'

'Until such a time as she understands that you need her and do not simply want her; yes, I fear she will, should the opportunity arise.'

'Well, let us hope it won't, and if it does, I'm not afraid to play the heavy hand,' replied Mr Thornton, stubbornly; for surely, after The Hoppen, she ought to know well, how displeased he would be if she were to place herself in danger?