MARGARET MONTFORT

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=LOVE AND ROCKS. = A charming story of one of the pleasant islands thatdot the rugged Maine coast, told in the author's most graceful manner. With etching frontispiece by Mercier. Tall 16mo, unique cover design onlinen, gilt top, $1. 00. 

_Dana Estes & Company, Publishers, Boston. _

[Illustration: MARGARET MONTFORT. ]

MARGARET MONTFORT

BY

LAURA E. RICHARDS

 AUTHOR Of "CAPTAIN JANUARY, " "MELODY, " "QUEEN HILDEGARDE, " ETC. 

Illustrated by

ETHELDRED B. BARRY

[Illustration]

 BOSTON DANA ESTES & COMPANY PUBLISHERS

 _Copyright, 1898_ BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY

 Colonial Press

 Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, U. S. A. 

CONTENTS. 

 CHAPTER PAGE

 I. PRESENT AND ABSENT 11

 II. DOMESTIC 25

 III. THE UNEXPECTED 44

 IV. THE TRIALS OF MARGARET 61

 V. A NEW TYPE 77

 VI. A LESSON IN GEOGRAPHY 96

 VII. THE DAUNTLESS THREE 114

 VIII. THE FIRST CONQUEST 129

 IX. A NEWCOMER 145

 X. "I MUST HELP MYSELF" 164

 XI. THE SECOND CONQUEST 179

 XII. THE VOICE OF FERNLEY 195

 XIII. WHO DID IT? 212

 XIV. BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE 231

 XV. A DEPARTURE 249

 XVI. PEACE 264

ILLUSTRATIONS. 

 PAGE

 MARGARET MONTFORT _Frontispiece_

 "AFTERWARDS SHE SALLIED OUT INTO THE GARDEN" 63

 "'DID YOU BRING A BOOK TO READ TO ME, LITTLE GIRL?'" 84

 "THE LITTLE GIRL HAD NEVER STIRRED, BUT STOOD GAZING UP AT THE BIG MAN WHO HELD HER HANDS" 120

 "MERTON WAS TEASING CHIQUITO" 153

 "'WON'T YOU COME IN?'" 175

 A LIVELY GHOST 247

 "THE 'FLAIL OF THE DESERT'" 268

MARGARET MONTFORT. 

CHAPTER I. 

PRESENT AND ABSENT. 

"It shall be exactly as you please, my dear!" said Mr. Montfort. "I haveno wish in the matter, save to fulfil yours. I had thought it would bepleasanter, perhaps, to have the rooms occupied; but your feeling ismost natural, and there is no reason why you should not keep yourpresent room. "

"Thank you, uncle!" said the girl whom he addressed as Margaret, andwhom some of my readers may have met before. "It is not that I don'tlove the dear rooms, nor that it would not be a joy to be in them, forsome reasons; but, --I think, just to go and sit there every day, aloneor with you, and think about her, --it seems as if that would be easierjust now, dear uncle. You always understand, Uncle John!"

Mr. Montfort nodded, and puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. The two, uncle and niece, were sitting on the wide verandah of Fernley House; itwas a soft, fair June evening, and the fireflies were flitting throughthe trees, and one or two late birds were chirping drowsily. There wereonly the two of them at Fernley now, for one day, some two months ago, the beloved Aunt Faith had fallen quietly asleep, and passed in sleepaway from age and weakness and weariness. Margaret missed her sadlyindeed; but there was no bitterness in her grieving, and she felt allthe more need of keeping the house cheerful and bright for her uncle, who had lost the faithful and affectionate friend who had been for yearslike a second mother to him. They talked of her a great deal, of thebeauty and helpfulness of the long life that had brought so much joy toothers; just now Mr. Montfort had proposed that Margaret should occupythe White Rooms, which had been Mrs. Cheriton's special apartments inthe great rambling house; but he did not urge the matter, and they satin silence for a time, feeling the soft beauty of the evening wrap themround like a garment of rest. 

"And what have you been doing all day, while I was in town?" asked Mr. Montfort presently. "You were not too lonely, May Margaret?"

"Oh, no, not a bit too lonely; just enough to make it very good to haveone's Uncle John come back. Let me see! After you went, I fed Chiquito, and stayed with him quite a while, talking and singing. He is sopitiful, poor old fellow! Then I took a walk, and dropped in to see howMrs. Peyton was; she asked me to come in the morning, you know, when Icould. "

"And how was she? Superb as ever?"

"Just, Uncle John! Her dressing-jacket was blue this time, and there wasa new kind of lace on her pillows. "

"Oh! she has lace on her pillows, has she, my dear?"

"Didn't I tell you, uncle? Pillows and sheets are trimmed with reallace, most magnificent. To-day it was Valenciennes, really lovelyValenciennes, to match her cap and the frills on her jacket. Andturquoise buttons and cap-pins; oh, she was a vision of beauty, I assureyou. The pale pink roses on the table by her bed gave just the righttouch to accentuate--if that is what I mean--all the blue. She is anartist in effects. She must have been very beautiful, Uncle John? She isbeautiful now, of course, only so worn and fragile. "

"Yes, she was extremely beautiful, in her way, " said Mr. Montfort; "andshe was always, as you say, an artist in effects. And in a good manyother things, " he murmured, half under his breath. "She was glad to seeyou, no doubt, my child?"

"Oh, yes; she is always most cordial and kind. She made me tell her justhow you were looking, --she always does that; and what you were doing. "

"Emily Peyton is a singular woman, " said Mr. Montfort, thoughtfully. "She suffers, no doubt, and I am glad if you can be a comfort to her, Margaret; but be a little careful, my dear; be a little careful withMrs. Peyton! H'm! ha! yes, my love! and what else did you say you haddone to amuse yourself?"

"Why, Uncle John, do you think I have to be amusing myself all day? Whata frivolous creature you must think me! I practised after I came home;and then I had lunch, and then I arranged the flowers, and then I madesome buttonholes, and all the rest of the afternoon I sat under the bigtulip-tree, reading 'Henry Esmond. ' So you see, I have really had themost delightful day, Uncle John. "

"Especially the last part of it, " said her uncle, smiling. "Esmond wasrather more delightful than the buttonholes, eh, Meg?"

"Well, possibly!" Margaret admitted. "He is rather more delightful thanalmost anything else, isn't he? But not half so good as one's UncleJohn, when he comes home in the gloaming, with his pockets full ofbonbons and letters for his unworthy niece. "

"Flatterer!" said Mr. Montfort. "Does this come of visiting Mrs. Peyton?She used to be an adept in the art. But what do our two other Margaretssay? Has Peggy set the prairies on fire yet? She will some day, youknow. "

"Do you think the mosquitoes would quite devour us if I brought thesmall lamp out here? I really must read you the letters, and it is toolovely to go in. Shall I try?"

Margaret brought the lamp, and, drawing a letter from her pocket, beganto read:

 "DARLING MARGARET:

 "I was so glad to get your letter. It was splendid, and I'm going to copy out a lot of the things you said, and pin them up by my looking-glass. My hair _will not_ part straight, because I have the most frightful cowlick--

"I don't believe you care for this part, do you, Uncle John? Poor littlePeggy's difficulties are very funny sometimes. "

"Why, I like it all, Meg, if you think Peggy would not mind my hearingit. It is all sweet and wholesome, I know; but leave out anything youthink I should not hear. "

"Oh, there isn't anything, really. I'll go on, if you like. Where was I?Oh!--

 "The most frightful cowlick. The reason I tried was because you said my forehead was nice. I hope you will not think me very vain, Margaret. And you know, no one is wearing bangs any more, not even curly ones. So I have put it straight back now, and Pa likes it, and says I look like his mother. Margaret, will you try to get me the receipt for barley soup, the way Frances makes it? Mother isn't well, and I thought I would try if I could make some. I think, Margaret, that I am going to find something I can really do! I think it is cooking! What do you think of that? Our cook went away to her brother's wedding last week, and Mother was sick, and so I tried; and Pa (I tried saying Father, but he wouldn't let me!) said the things tasted good, and I had a knack for flavouring. That made me feel so happy, Margaret! Because I had just gone ahead till I thought a thing tasted right. I did not want to be bothering 'round with cook-books, and besides, ours was lost, for Betsy can't read, so there was no use for one. I made an apple-pudding yesterday, and Pa had two helps, and all the boys wanted three, but there wasn't enough, though I made it in the big meat-pie pan. Darling Margaret, do please write again very soon, and tell me about everything at dear, darling Fernley. How is Chiquito, and does Uncle John ever speak of me? I miss him dreadfully, but I miss you most of all, darling Margaret, --I never get over missing you. I have a new dog, a setter, a perfect beauty. I asked Hugh to name him for me, and he named him Hamlet, because he was black and white, and Hugh thought he was going to be melancholy, but he grins and wiggles all over every time you look at him. I am teaching him to jump over a stick and he does it beautifully, --only the other day I stood too near the looking-glass, and he jumped into that, and smashed it, and frightened himself almost to death, poor puppy. Margaret, I read a little history every day, --not very much, but I think of you when I read it, and that makes it better. Pa says I am going to school next year; won't that be fun? Hugh is reading 'John Brent' to me in the evenings. Oh, how perfectly splendid it is! If I had a horse like Fulano, I would live with him all the time, and never leave him for five minutes. I want dreadfully to go out west and find Luggernel Alley. Hugh says perhaps we shall go some day, just him and me. That doesn't look right, Margaret, but I tried writing 'he and I' on a piece of paper, and it didn't look any better, so I guess I'll leave it as it is. Do you think I write better? I am trying to take a lot of pains. I try to think of all the things you tell me, dear Margaret. Mother thinks I am doing better, I know. Mother and I have real good talks together, like we never used to before, and she tells me what she used to do when she was a girl. I guess she had some pretty hard times. I guess I'm a pretty lucky girl, Margaret. Now I must go and get mother's supper. Give lots and lots of love to Uncle John, and some to Elizabeth and Frances, and say--I can't spell it, but the Spanish thing I learned--to poor Chiquito. But most love of all to your own, dear, darling self, Margaret, from

 "PEGGY. "

Mr. Montfort curled his moustaches in silence for some minutes, when thereading was over. 

"Dear little girl!" he said at last. "Good little Peggy! So she willlearn to cook, will she? And she is getting hold of her mother! This isas it should be, Margaret, eh?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Margaret. "Oh, Uncle John, this letter makes me feel sohappy about the child. At first, you know, she missed us all more thanshe should have, --really. And--and I think that, except for Hugh, perhaps they did not receive her in quite the way they might have, laughing at her a good deal, and sneering when she tried to make littleimprovements. I don't mean Aunt Susan or Uncle James, but the youngerchildren, and George, who must be--whom I don't fancy, somehow. And shehas been so brave, and has tried so hard to be patient and gentle. Ithink our Peggy will make a very fine woman, don't you, uncle?"

"I do, my love. I have a great tenderness for Peggy. When she is atschool, she must come here for her vacations, or some of them, atleast. "

"And she owes this all to you!" cried Margaret, with shining eyes. "Ifshe had never come here, Uncle John, I feel as if she might have grownup--well, pretty wild and rough, I am afraid. Oh, she ought to love you, and she does. "

"Humph!" said Mr. Montfort, dryly. "Yes, my dear, she does, and I amvery glad of the dear little girl's love. But as for owing it all to me, why, Margaret, there may be two opinions about that. Well, and what saysour Bird of Paradise?"

"Rita? Oh, uncle, I don't know what you will think of this letter. "

"Don't read it, my dear, if you think it is meant for you alone. You cantell me if she is well and happy. "

"That is just it, Uncle John. She wants to go to Europe, and her fatherdoes not approve of her going just at present, and so--well, you shallhear part of it, at any rate. 

 "Margaret, my Soul!"

"That sounds natural!" said Mr. Montfort. "That is undoubtedly Rita, Margaret; go on! If you were her soul, my dear, my brother Richard wouldhave a quieter life. Go on. "

 "Hardly a week has passed since last I wrote, yet to-night I fly again in spirit to you, since my burning heart must pour itself out to some other heart that can beat with mine. It is midnight. All day I have suffered, and now I fain would lose myself in sleep. But no! My eyes are propped open, my heart throbs to suffocation, I enrage, I tear myself--how should sleep come to such as I? O Marguerite, there in your cool retreat, with that best of men, my uncle, --yours also, --a Paladin, but one whose blood flows, or rests, quietly, as yours, can you feel for me, for your Rita, who burns, who dissolves in anguish? Listen! I desire to go to Europe. I have never seen it, as you know. Spain, the home of my ancestors, the cradle of the San Reals, is but a name to me. Now I have the opportunity. An escort offers itself, perfection, beyond earthly desire. You recall my friend, my Conchita, who divides my heart with you? She is married, my dear! She is the Señora Bobadilla; her husband is noble, rich, devoted. Young, I do not say; brilliant, I do not pretend! Conchita is brought up in the Spanish way, my child; she weds a Spanish husband, as her parents provide him; it is the custom. Now! Marguerite, they offer to take me with them to Spain, to France, Italy, the world's end. It is the opportunity of a lifetime. I pine, I die for change. When you consider that I have been a year here, without once leaving home, --it is an eternity! I implore my father; I weep--torrents! I clasp his knees. I say, 'Kill me, but let me go!' No! he is adamant. He talks about the disturbed state of the country! Has it been ever undisturbed? I ask you, Marguerite! Briefly, I remain! The Bobadillas sail to-morrow, without me. I feel that this blow has crushed me, Marguerite. I feel my strength, never, as you know, robust, ebbing from me. Be prepared, Marguerite! I feel that in a few weeks I may be gone, indeed, but not to Europe; to another and a kinder world. The San Reals are a short-lived race; they suffer, they die! My father will realise one day that he might better have let his poor Rita have her way for once, when Rita lies shrouded in white, with lilies at her head and feet. Adios, Marguerite! farewell, heart of my heart! I have made my will, --my jewels are divided between you and Peggy. Poor Peggy! she also will mourn me. You will dry her tears, dearest! The lamp burns low--no more! For the last time, beloved Marguerite, "Your unhappy "MARGARITA MARIA DOLORES DE SAN REAL MONTFORT. "

"Isn't that really pretty alarming?" said Margaret, looking up. "Why--why, Uncle John! you are laughing! Don't laugh, please! Of courseRita is extravagant, but I am afraid she must really be very unhappy. Stay! Here is a postscript that I did not see before. Oh! Oh, uncle!Listen!

 "Alma mia, one word! It is morning, in the world and in my heart. I go, Marguerite! My maid is packing my trunk at this instant. My father relents; he is an angel, the kindest, the most considerate of parents. We sail to-morrow for Gibraltar, --I shall be in Madrid in less than a month. Marguerite, I embrace you tenderly. Rejoice, Beloved, with your happy, your devoted

 "RITA. "

"Thank you, my dear!" said Mr. Montfort, twirling his moustaches. "PoorRichard! Poor old Dick! Do you know, my dear, I think Dick may have hadsome experience of life. "

CHAPTER II. 

DOMESTIC. 

Life was pleasant enough for Margaret Montfort, in those days. The hourswere still sad which she had been used to spend with Mrs. Cheriton, thebeloved Aunt Faith; but there was such peace and blessedness in thethought of her, that Margaret would not have been without the gentlesorrow. She loved to sit in the White Rooms, sometimes with her uncle, but more often alone. In the morning, she generally walked for an hourin the garden with Mr. Montfort, tending the rose-bushes that were hisspecial care and pride, listening to his wise and kindly talk, andlearning, she always thought, something new each day. It is wonderfulhow much philosophy, poetry, even history, can be brought into the careof roses, if the right person has charge of them. At ten o'clock hegenerally went to town, and the rest of the morning was spent inpractising, sewing, and studying; the hours flew by so fast, Margaretoften suspected the clock of being something of a dishonest character. She was studying German, with the delightful result of reading "DerTrompeter von Säkkingen" with her uncle in the evening, when it was nottoo beautiful out-of-doors. Then, in the afternoon, she could with aclear conscience take up some beloved romance, and be "just happy, " asshe called it, till Mr. Montfort returned in time for the walk or ridewhich was the crowning pleasure of the day. And so the days went by, ina golden peace which seemed too pleasant to last; and yet there seemedno reason why it should ever change. 

The morning after the reading of the letters, Margaret had been in theWhite Rooms, arranging flowers in the vases, and putting little lovingtouches to books and cushions, as a tidy girl loves to do, whether thereis need or not. The windows were open, and the orioles were singing inthe great elm-tree, and the laburnum was a bower of gold. It seemedreally too perfect a morning to spend in the house; Margaret thought shewould take her work out into the garden, not this sunny green parlour, but the great shady garden outside, where the box swept above her head, and the whole air smelt of it, and of moss and ferns and a hundred othercool things. She passed out of the rooms, and went along a passage, andas she went she heard voices that came through an open door at one side;clear, loud voices that she could not have escaped if she would. 

"These table-napkins is scandalous!" said Elizabeth. "I do wish MissMargaret would get us some new ones. "

"Why don't you ask her?" said Frances, the cook, bringing her flat-irondown with a thump. "The table-cloths is most worn out, too, this set. Ask her to see to some new ones. She's young, you see, and she don'tthink. "

"I've been giving her one with holes in it, right along this two weeks, "said Elizabeth, "hoping she'd notice, but she don't seem to. I thoughtit'd be best if she found out herself when things was needed. "

"Ah!" said Frances, "she's a sweet young lady, but she'll never make nohousekeeper. She hasn't so much as looked inside one of my closets sinceMis' Cheriton went. "

"You wouldn't be over and above pleased if she looked much into yourclosets, Frances; I know that!"

"Maybe I wouldn't, and maybe I would; but I'd like to have her know asthere was no need of her looking. Don't tell me, Elizabeth! So long asshe could walk on her feet, never a week but Mis' Cheriton would lookin, and take a peep at every shelf. 'Just for the pleasure of seeingperfection, Frances, ' she'd say, or something like that, her pretty way. But if there had been anything _but_ perfection, I'd have heard from herpretty quick. "

"I think you're hard to please, I do!" Elizabeth answered. "I think MissMargaret is as sweet a young lady as walks the earth; so thoughtful, andafraid of giving trouble, and neat and tidy as a pin. I tell you, Mr. Montfort's well off, and so's you and me, Frances. Why, we might havehad one of them other young ladies, and then where'd we have been?"

"I don't know!" said Frances, significantly. "Not here, that's one surething. "

"Or Mr. Montfort might have married. Fine man as he is, it's a wonder henever has. "

"H'm! he's no such fool! Not but what there's them would be gladenough--"

But here Margaret, with burning cheeks, fled back to the White Rooms. Itcould not be helped; she had to hear what they were saying aboutherself; she must not hear what they said about her uncle. 

She sat down on the little stool that had always been her favouriteseat, and leaned her cheek against the great white chair, that wouldalways be empty now. 

"I wish you were here, Aunt Faith!" she said, aloud. "I am very young, and very ignorant. I wish you were here to tell me what I should do. "

At first the women's talk seemed cruel to her. They had been here solong, they knew the ways of the house so entirely, she had never dreamedof advising them, any more than of advising her uncle himself. Franceshad been at Fernley twenty years, Elizabeth, twenty-five. What could shetell them? How could she possibly know about the things that had beentheir care and pride, year in and year out, since before she was born?It seemed very strange, very unkind, that they should expect her to stepin, with her youth and ignorance, between them and their experience. Soshe thought, and thought, feeling hot, and sore, and angry. She hadnever had any care of housekeeping in her life. Old Katy, her nurse, whohad taken her from her dying mother's arms, had always done all that;Margaret's part was to see that her own and her father's clothes were inperfect order, to keep the rooms dusted, and arrange the books when shewas allowed to touch them, which was not often. As to table-cloths, shehad never thought of them in her life; Katy saw to all that; and if shehad attempted to suggest ordering dinner, Katy would have been apt tosend her to bed, Margaret thought. Poor, dear old Katy! She was deadnow, and Aunt Faith was dead, and there was no one to stand betweenMargaret and the cares that she knew nothing about. Of course, UncleJohn must never know anything of it; he expected perfection, and hadalways had it; he did not care how it was brought about. Surely thesewomen were unkind and unreasonable! What good could she possibly do byinterfering? They would not endure it if she really did interfere. 

The white linen cover of the chair was smooth and cool; Margaret pressedher cheek against it, and a sense of comfort stole over her insensibly. She began to turn the matter over, and try to look at the other side ofit. There always was another side; her father had taught her that whenshe was a little child. Well, after all, had they really said anythingunkind? Frances's words came back to her, "I'd like to have her know asthere was no need of her looking. "

After all, was not that perfectly natural? Did not every one like tohave good work seen and recognised? Even Uncle John always called her tosee when he had made a particularly neat graft, and expected her praiseand wonderment, and was pleased with it. And why did she show him herbuttonholes this morning, except that she knew they were goodbuttonholes, and wanted the kindly word that she was sure of getting?Was the trouble with her, after all? Had she failed to remember thatElizabeth and Frances were human beings, not machines, and that heruncle being what he was, she herself was the only person to give them aword of deserved praise or counsel?

"My dear, " she said to herself, "I don't want to be hasty in myjudgments, but it rather looks as if you had been a careless, selfishgoose, doesn't it now?"

She went up to her own room, --the garden seemed too much of anindulgence just now, --and sat down quietly with her work. Sewing wasalways soothing to Margaret. She was not fond of it; she would haveread twelve hours out of the twenty-four, if she had been allowed tochoose her own way of life, and have walked or ridden four, and sleptsix, and would never have thought of any time being necessary foreating, till she felt hungry. But she had been taught to sew well andquickly, and she had always made her own underclothes, and felled allthe seams, and a good many girls will know how much that means. She satsewing and thinking, planning all kinds of reforms and experiments, whenshe heard Elizabeth stirring in the room next hers. It was the linenroom, and Elizabeth was putting away clean clothes, Margaret knew by theclank of the drawer-handles. Now! this was the moment to begin. She laiddown her work, and went into the linen room. 

"May I see you put them away, Elizabeth?" she asked. "I always like tosee your piles of towels, --they are so even and smooth. "

Elizabeth looked up, and her face brightened. "And welcome, MissMargaret!" she said. "I'll be pleased enough. 'Tis dreadful lonesome, and Mis' Cheriton gone. Not that she could come up here, I don't mean;but I always knew she was there, and she was like a mother to me, and Icould always go to her. Yes, miss, the towels do look nice, and I loveto keep 'em so. "

"They are beautiful!" said Margaret, with genuine enthusiasm, for theshelves and drawers were like those she had read about in "Soll undHaben. " She had loved them in the book, but never thought of looking atthem in reality. "Oh, what lovely damask this is, Elizabeth! It shineslike silver! I never saw such damask as this. "

"'Tis something rare, miss, I do be told, " Elizabeth replied. 

"Mr. Montfort brought them towels back from Germany, three years ago, because he thought they would please his aunt, and they did, dear lady. Hand spun and wove they are, she said; and there's only one place wherethey make this weave and this pattern. See, Miss Margaret! 'Tis roses, coming out of a little loaf of bread like; and there was a story aboutit, some saint, but I don't rightly remember what. There! I have triedto remember that story, ever since Mis' Cheriton went, but it seems Ican't. "

"Oh, oh, it must be Saint Elizabeth of Hungary!" cried Margaret, bendingin delight over the smooth silvery stuff. "Why, how perfectlyenchanting!"

"Yes, miss, that's it!" cried Elizabeth, beaming with pleasure. "SaintElizabeth it was; and maybe you'll know the story, Miss Margaret. Inever like to ask Mr. Montfort, of course, but I should love dearly tohear it. "

Margaret asked nothing better. She told the lovely story as well as sheknew how, and before she had finished, Elizabeth's eyes as well as herown were full of tears. One of Elizabeth's tears even fell on the towel, and she cried out in horror, and wiped it away as if it had been apoison-spot, and laid the sacred damask back in its place. Margaret feltthe moment given to her. 

"Elizabeth, " she said, "I want to ask you something. I want to ask ifyou will help me a little. Will you try?"

Elizabeth, surprised and pleased, vowed she would do all she could forMiss Margaret, in any way in her power. 

"You can do a great deal!" said Margaret. "I--I am very young, Elizabeth, and--and you and Frances have been here a long time, and ofcourse you know all about the work of the house, and I know nothing atall. And yet--and yet, I ought to be helping, it seems to me, and oughtto be taking my place, and my share in the work. Do you see what I mean, Elizabeth? You and Frances could help me, oh, so much, if you would; andperhaps some day I might be able to help you too, --I don't know justhow, yet, but it might come. "

"Oh, miss, we will be so thankful!" cried Elizabeth. "Oh, miss, Francesand me, we'd been wishing and longing to have you speak up and take yourplace, if I may say so. We didn't like to put ourselves forward, andwe've no orders from Mr. Montfort, except to do whatever you said; andso, when you'll say anything, Miss Margaret, we feel ever and ever somuch better, Frances and me. And I'll be pleased to go all over the workwith you, Miss Margaret, this very day, and show you just how I'vealways done it, and I think Mr. Montfort has been satisfied, and Mis'Cheriton was, Lord rest her! and you so young, and with so much else todo, as I said time and again to Frances, reading with Mr. Montfort andriding with him, and taking such an interest in the roses, as his owndaughter couldn't make him happier if he had one. And of course it'snature that you haven't had no time yet to take much notice, but itmakes it twice as easy for servants, Miss Margaret, where an interest istook; and I'm thankful to you, I'm sure, and so will Frances be, andyou'll find her closets a pleasure to look at. "

Elizabeth stopped to draw breath, and Margaret looked at her in wonderand self-reproach. The grave, staid woman was all alight with pleasureand the prospect of sympathy. It came over Margaret that, comfortableand homelike as their life at Fernley was, it was not perhaps exactlythrilling. 

"We will be friends, Elizabeth!" she said, simply; and the two shookhands, with an earnestness that meant something. "And you are to cometo me, please, whenever there is anything that needs attention, Elizabeth, and I will do my best, and ask your advice about anything Idon't understand. Don't--don't we--need some new napkins, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth was eloquent as to their need of napkins. In a couple ofwashes more, there would be nothing but holes left to wipe their handson. 

"Then I'll order some this very day, " said Margaret. "Or better still, I'll go to town with Uncle John to-morrow, and get them myself. And now, Elizabeth, I am going down to see Frances, and--and perhaps--do youthink she would like it if I ordered dinner, Elizabeth?"

"Miss Margaret, she'd be pleased to death!" cried Elizabeth. 

Returning from the kitchen an hour later, a sadder and a wiser girl (forFrances's perfection seemed unattainable by ordinary mortals, even withthe aid of Sapolio), Margaret heard the sound of wheels on the graveloutside. Glancing through the window of the long passage through whichshe was going, she saw, to her amazement, a carriage standing at thedoor, a carriage that had evidently come some way, for it was coveredwith dust. The driver was taking down a couple of trunks, and beside thecarriage stood a lady, with her purse in her hand. 

"I shall give you two dollars!" the lady was saying, in a thin, sharpvoice. "I consider that ample for the distance you have come. "

"I told the gentleman it would be three dollars, mum!" said the man, civilly, touching his hat. "Three dollars is the regular price, with onetrunk, and these trunks is mortal heavy. The gentleman said as it wouldbe all right, mum. "

"The gentleman knew nothing whatever about it, " said the sharp-voicedlady. "I shall give you two dollars, and not a penny more. I have alwayspaid two dollars to drive to Fernley, and I have no idea of beingcheated now, I assure you. "

The man was still grumbling, when Elizabeth opened the door. She lookedgrave, but greeted the newcomer with a respectful curtsey. 

"Oh, how do you do, Elizabeth!" said the strange lady. "How is Mr. Montfort?"

"Mr. Montfort is very well, thank you, mum!" said Elizabeth. "He is intown, mum. He'll hardly be back before evening. Would you like to seeMiss Montfort?"

"Miss Montfort? Oh, the little girl who is staying here. You needn'ttrouble to call her just now, Elizabeth. Send for Willis, will you, andhave him take my trunks in; I have come to stay. He may put them in theWhite Rooms. "

"I--I beg pardon, mum!" faltered Elizabeth. "In the Blue Room, did yousay? The Blue Room has been new done over, and that is where we have putvisitors lately. "

"Nothing of the sort!" said the lady, sharply. "I said the White Rooms;Mrs. Cheriton's rooms. "

Margaret stayed to hear no more. A stranger in the White Rooms! AuntFaith's rooms, which she could not bear to occupy herself, though heruncle had urged her to do so? And such a stranger as this, with such avoice, --and such a nose! Never! never, while there was breath to pantwith, while there were feet to run with!

Never but once in her life had Margaret Montfort run as she did now;that once was when she flew up the secret staircase to save her cousinfrom burning. In a flash she was in her own room--what had been herroom!--gathering things frantically in her arms, snatching books fromthe table, dresses from the closets. Down the back stairs she ran like awhirlwind; down, and up, and down again. Had the girl gone suddenly mad?

Ten minutes later, when Elizabeth, her eyes smarting with angry tears, opened the door of the White Parlour, --Willis the choreman behind her, grunting and growling, with a trunk on his shoulder, --a young lady wassitting in the great white armchair, quietly reading. The young lady'scheeks were crimson, her eyes were sparkling, and her breath came inshort, quick gasps, which showed that what she was reading must be veryexciting; what made it the more curious was that the book was upsidedown. But she was entirely composed, and evidently surprised at thesudden intrusion. 

"What is it, Elizabeth?" asked Margaret, quietly. 

"I--I--I beg your pardon, Miss Montfort!" said Elizabeth, whose eyeswere beginning to brighten, too, and her lips to twitch dangerously. "I--I didn't know, miss, as you had--moved in yet. Here is MissSophronia Montfort, miss, as perhaps you would like to see her. "

The strange lady was already glaring over Willis's shoulder. 

"What is this?" she said. "What does this mean? These rooms are notoccupied; I was positively told they were not occupied. There must besome mistake. Willis--"

"Yes, there is a mistake!" said Margaret, coming forward, and holdingout her hand with a smile. "Is this Cousin Sophronia? I am Margaret, Cousin Sophronia. Uncle John asked me to take these rooms, and I--I feelquite at home in them already. Would you like the Pink, or the BlueRoom? They are both ready, aren't they, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, Miss Montfort, " said Elizabeth, "quite ready. "

The strange lady's eyes glared wider and wider; her chest heaved; sheseemed about to break out in a torrent of angry speech; but making avisible effort, she controlled herself. "How do you do, my--my dear?"she said, taking Margaret's offered hand, and giving it a little pinchwith the tips of her fingers. "I--a little misunderstanding, no doubt. Willis, --the Blue Room, --for the present!" But Willis was suffering froma sudden and violent fit of coughing, which shook his whole frame, andmade it necessary for him to rest his trunk against the wall and leanagainst it, with his head down; so that it was fully five minutes beforeMiss Sophronia Montfort's trunk got up to the Blue Room. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE UNEXPECTED. 

When Mr. Montfort came home that afternoon, Margaret was waiting forhim, as usual, on the verandah; as usual, for she was determined to keepthe worry out of her face and out of her voice. But as her uncle came upthe steps, with his cheery "Well! and how's my lassie?" he wasconfronted by Miss Sophronia Montfort, who, passing Margaret swiftly, advanced with both hands held out, and a beaming smile. 

"My dearest John! my poor, dear fellow! Confess that I have surprisedyou. Confess it, John!--you did not expect to see me. "

"Sophronia!" exclaimed Mr. Montfort. He stood still and contemplated thevisitor for a moment; then he shook hands with her, rather formally. 

"You certainly have surprised me, Sophronia!" he said, kindly enough. "What wind has blown you in this direction?"

"The wind of affection, my dear boy!" cried the strange lady. "I havebeen planning it, ever since I heard of Aunt Faith's death. Dearest AuntFaith! What a loss, John! what an irreparable loss! I shall neverrecover from the shock. The moment I heard of it, I said--William wouldtell you, if he were here--I said, 'I must go to John! He will need menow, ' I said, 'and go I must. ' I explained to William that I felt it asa solemn duty. He took it beautifully, poor, dear fellow. I don't knowhow they will get on without me, for his wife is sadly heedless, John, and the children need a steady hand, they do indeed. But he did not tryto keep me back; indeed, he urged me to come, which showed such abeautiful spirit, didn't it? And so here I am, my dearest boy, come totake Aunt Faith's place, and make a home for you, my poor lonely cousin. You know I have always loved you as a sister, John, and you mustconsider me a real sister now; sister Sophronia, dear John!"

The lady paused for breath, and gazed tenderly on Mr. Montfort; thatgentleman returned her gaze with one of steady gravity. 

"I shall be glad to have a visit from you, Sophronia, " he said. "I haveno doubt we can make you comfortable for a few weeks; I can hardlysuppose that William can spare you longer than that. We have no childrenhere to need your--your ministrations. "

The lady shook her head playfully; she had thin curls of a grayishyellow, which almost rattled when she shook her head. 

"Always self-denying, John!" she cried. "The same unselfish, good, sterling fellow! But I understand, my friend; I know how it really is, and I shall do my duty, and stand by you; depend upon that! And thisdear child, too!" she added, turning to Margaret and taking her handaffectionately. "So young, so unexperienced! and to be attempting thecare of a house like Fernley! How could you think of it, John? But wewill make that all right. I shall be--we can hardly say a mother, canwe, my dear? but an elder sister, to you, too. Oh, we shall be veryhappy, I am sure. The drawing-room carpets are looking very shabby, John. I am ready to go over the dear old house from top to bottom, andmake it over new; of course you did not feel like making any changeswhile dear Aunt Faith was with you. Such a mistake, I always say, toshake the aged out of their ruts. Yes! so wise of you! and who is in theneighbourhood, John?"

"I hardly know, " said Mr. Montfort. "You know I live rather a hermitlife, Sophronia. Mrs. Peyton is here; I believe you are fond of her. "

"Sweet Emily Peyton!" exclaimed Miss Sophronia, with enthusiasm. "Isthat exquisite creature here? That will indeed be a pleasure. Ah, John, she should never have been Emily Peyton; you know my opinion on thatpoint. " She nodded her head several times, with an air of mysteriousunderstanding. "And widowed, after all, and once more alone in theworld. How does she bear her sorrow, John?"

"I have not seen her, " said Mr. Montfort, rather shortly. "From what Ihear, she seems to bear it with considerable fortitude. Perhaps youforget that it is fully ten years since Mr. Peyton died, Sophronia. ButMargaret here can tell you more than I can about Mrs. Peyton; she goesto see her now and then. Mrs. Peyton is something of an invalid, andlikes to have her come. "

"Indeed!" cried Miss Sophronia. "I should hardly have fancied--EmilyPeyton was always so mature in her thought, so critical in herobservations; but no doubt she is lonely, and glad of any society; andsweet Margaret is most sympathetic, I am sure. Sympathy, my dear John!how could we live without it, my poor dear fellow?"

"I am going to walk, " said Mr. Montfort, abruptly. "Margaret, will youcome? Sophronia, you will be glad of a chance to rest; you must be tiredafter your long drive. "

"This once, yes, dearest John!" said the lady. "This once you must gowithout me. I am tired, --so thoughtful of you to notice it! There is nosofa in the Blue Room, but I shall do very well there for a few days. Don't have me on your mind in the least, my dear cousin; I shall soonbe absolutely at home. Enjoy your walk, both of you! After to-day, Ishall always be with you, I hope. I ordered tea an hour earlier, as Idined early, and I knew you would not mind. Good-bye!" and the ladynodded, and smiled herself into the house. 

Margaret went for her hat in silence, and in silence she and her unclewalked along. Mr. Montfort was smoking, not in his usual calm anddignified manner, but in short, fierce puffs; smoking fast andviolently. Margaret did not dare to speak, and they walked a mile ormore without exchanging a word. 

"Margaret, " said her uncle, at last. 

"Yes, Uncle John. "

"Not in the least, my dear!"

"No, Uncle John. "

They walked another mile, and presently stopped at the top of a breezyhill, to draw breath, and look about them. The sun was going down in acheerful blaze; the whole country smiled, and was glad of its ownbeauty. Mr. Montfort gazed about him, and heaved a long sigh ofcontent. 

"Pretty! Pretty country!" he said. "Spreading fields, quiet woods, skyover all, undisturbed. Yes! You are very silent, my dear. Have I beensilent, too, or have I been talking?"

"What a curious question!" thought Margaret. 

"You--you have not said much, Uncle John, " she replied. 

"Well, my love, that may be because there isn't much to say. Somesituations, Margaret, are best met in silence. "

Margaret nodded. She knew her uncle's ways pretty well by this time. 

"And yet, " continued Mr. Montfort, "it may be well to have just a wordof understanding with you, my dear child. Sophronia Montfort is my owncousin, my first cousin. "

"Yes, Uncle John, " said Margaret, as he seemed to pause for a reply. 

"Ri tumpty, --that is to say, there is no gainsaying that fact, --my owncousin. And by natural consequence, Margaret, the own cousin of yourfather, and by further consequence, your first cousin once removed. Itis--a--it is many years since she has been at Fernley; we must try tomake her comfortable during the time--the short time--she is with us. You have put her in the Blue Room; that is comfortable, is it, andproperly fitted up, --all the modern inconveniences and abominations, eh?"

Mr. Montfort's own room had a bare floor, a bed, a table, a chest ofdrawers, and a pitcher and basin and bath that might have been made forCormoran or Blunderbore, whichever was the bigger. 

"Everything, I think, uncle, " faltered Margaret, turning crimson, andbeginning to tremble. "Oh! Oh, Uncle John! I have something to tell you. I--I don't know how to tell you. "

"Don't try, then, my dear, " said Uncle John, in his own kind way. "Perhaps it isn't necessary. "

"Oh, yes, it is necessary. I shall have no peace till I do, uncle, --youremember you asked me to take the White Rooms; you surely asked me, didn't you?"

"Surely, my child, " said Mr. Montfort, wondering much. "But I wishedyou to do as you pleased, you know. "

"Yes! Oh, uncle, that was it! When Cousin Sophronia came, she--she toldElizabeth to have her trunks carried into the White Rooms. "

"So!" said Mr. Montfort. 

"Yes, uncle! I was in the passage, and heard her give the order, andI--I could not bear it, Uncle John, I could not, indeed. I flewup-stairs, and brought down some of my things, --all I could carry in twotrips, --and, when they came in with the trunk, I--I was sitting there, and--and wondering why they came into my room. Uncle John, do you see?Was it very, very wicked?"

For all reply, Mr. Montfort went off into a fit of laughter so prolongedand violent, that Margaret, who at first tried to join in timidly, became alarmed for him. "Ho! ho! ho!" he laughed, throwing his headback, and expanding his broad chest. "Ha! ha! ha! so you--ho! ho!--yougot in first, little miss! Why wasn't I there to see? Oh, why wasn't Ithere? I would give a farm, a good farm, to have seen Sophronia's face. Tell me about it again, Margaret. Tell me slowly, so that I may see itall. You have a knack of description, I know; show me the scene. "

Slowly, half frightened, and wholly relieved, Margaret went through thematter from beginning to end, making as light as she could of her owntriumph, of which she really felt ashamed, pleased as she was to haveachieved it. When she had finished, her uncle sat down under a tree, andlaughed again; not so violently, but with a hearty enjoyment that tookin every detail. 

"And Willis had a fit of coughing!" he exclaimed, when Margaret had cometo the last word. "Poor Willis! Willis must see a doctor at once. Consumptive, no doubt; and concealed under such a deceptive appearanceof brawn! Ho! Margaret, my dear, I feel better, much better. You havecleared the air for me, my child. "

"You--are not angry, then, Uncle John? You don't think I ought to haveput Cousin Sophronia in the rooms?"

"My love, they should have been burned to the ground sooner. There wasonly one person in the world whom your Aunt Faith could not endure, andthat person was Sophronia Montfort. You did perfectly right, Margaret;more right than you knew. If she had got into the White Rooms, I shouldhave been under the necessity of taking her forcibly out of them(nothing short of force could have done it), and that would have createdan unpleasantness, you see. Yes! Thank you, my dear little girl! I feelquite myself again. We shall worry through, somehow; but remember, Margaret, that you are the mistress of Fernley, and, if you have anytrouble, come to me. And now, my love, we must go home to tea!"

When the gong rang for tea, Margaret and her uncle entered thedining-room together--to find Cousin Sophronia already seated at thehead of the table, rattling the teacups with intention. 

"Well, my dears!" she cried, in sprightly tones. "You walked furtherthan you intended, did you not? I should not have sat down without you, but I was simply famished. I always think punctuality such an importantfactor in the economy of life. It is high time you had some steady headto look after you, John!" and she shook her head in affectionateplayfulness. "Sit down, John!"

Mr. Montfort did not sit down. 

"I am sorry you were hungry, Sophronia, " he said, kindly. "I cannotthink of letting you wait to pour tea for me, my dear cousin. Margaretdoes that always; you are to sit here by me, and begin at once upon yourown supper. Allow me!"

Margaret hardly knew how it was done. There was a bow, a courtly wave ofthe hand, a movement of chairs; and her own place was vacant, and CousinSophronia was sitting at the side place, very red in the face, her eyessnapping out little green lights; and Uncle John was bending over herwith cordial kindness, pushing her chair in a little further, andlifting the train of her dress out of the way. With downcast eyes, Margaret took her place, and poured the tea in silence. She felt as if aweight were on her eyelids; she could not lift her eyes; she could notspeak, and yet she must. She shook herself, and made a great effort. 

"How do you like your tea, Cousin Sophronia?" she asked, in a voice thattried to sound cheerful and unconcerned. And, when she had spoken, shemanaged, with another effort, to look up. Cousin Sophronia was smilingand composed, and met her timid glance with an affectionate nod. 

"Weak, my dear, if you please, --weak, with cream and sugar. Yes, --thatwill be excellent, I have no doubt. I have to be a little exact about mytea, my nerves being what they are. The nights I have, if my tea is notprecisely the right shade! It seems absurd, but life is made up oflittle things, my dear John. And very right and wise, to have the dearchild learn to do these things, and practise on us, even if it is alittle trying at first. Is that the beef tea, Elizabeth? Thank you. Itold Frances to make me some beef tea, John; I knew hers could bedepended on, though I suppose she has grown rusty in a good many ways, with this hermit life of yours, --so bad for a cook, I always think. Yes, this is fair, but not quite what I should have expected fromFrances. I must see her in the morning, and give her a good rousing; weall need a good rousing once in awhile. Frances and I have always beenthe best of friends; we shall get on perfectly, I have no doubt. Ah! Theold silver looks well, John. Where did that sugar-bowl come from? Is itMontfort, or Paston? Paston, I fancy! The Montfort silver is heavier, eh?"

"Possibly!" said Mr. Montfort. "That sugar-bowl is neither one nor theother, however. It is Dutch. "

"Really! Vanderdecken? I didn't know you had any Vanderdecken silver, John. Grandmother Vanderdecken left all her silver, I thought, to ourbranch. Such a mistake, I always think, to scatter family silver. Leteach branch have _all_ that belongs to it, I always say. I feel verystrongly about it. "

"This is not Vanderdecken, " said Mr. Montfort, patiently. "I bought itin Amsterdam. "

"Oh! in Amsterdam! indeed! boughten silver never appeals to me. Andspeaking of silver, I have wished for years that I could find a trace ofthe old Vanderdecken porringer. You remember it, surely, John, atGrandmother Vanderdecken's? She had her plum porridge in it every night, and I used to play with the cow on the cover. I have tried and tried totrace it, but have never succeeded. Stolen, I fear, by some dishonestservant. "

"I beg your pardon, Cousin Sophronia, " said Margaret, blushing. "I havethe old Vanderdecken porringer, if it is the one with the cow on thecover. "

"_You!_" cried Miss Sophronia, opening her eyes to their fullest extent. 

"Yes, " Margaret replied. "There it is, on the sideboard. I have eatenbread and milk out of it ever since I can remember, and I still use itat breakfast. "

Speechless for the moment, Miss Sophronia made an imperious sign toElizabeth, who brought her the beautiful old dish, not without a glanceof conscious pride at the wonderful blue polish on it. There was nopiece of plate in the house that took so perfect a polish as this. 

Miss Sophronia turned it over and over. Her eyes were very green. "Margaret Bleecker. On the occasion of her christening, from hergodmother, " she read. "Yes, this is certainly the Vanderdeckenporringer. And may I ask how you came by it, my dear?"

"Certainly, Cousin Sophronia. Aunt Eliza Vanderdecken gave it to me atmy christening; she was my godmother, you see. "

"A most extraordinary thing for Eliza Vanderdecken to do!" cried thelady. "Eliza Vanderdecken knew, of course, that she was meant to havebut a life-interest in the personal property, as she never married. Icannot understand Eliza's doing such a thing. I have longed all my lifefor this porringer; I have associations with it, you see, lifelongassociations. I remember my Grandmother Vanderdecken distinctly; younever saw her, of course, as she died years before you were born. "

"Yes, " said Margaret, gently, but not without intention. "And I, CousinSophronia, associate it with Aunt Eliza, whom I remember distinctly, andwho was my godmother, and very kind to me. I value this porringer morethan almost any of my possessions. Thank you, Elizabeth; if you wouldput it back, please. Will you have some more tea, Cousin Sophronia?"

"Let me give you another bit of chicken, Sophronia!" said Mr. Montfort, heartily. "I think we have had enough about porringers, haven't we?There are six or seven, I believe, in the strong closet. One of 'em wasAdam's, I've always been told. A little gravy, Sophronia? You're eatingnothing. "

"I have no appetite!" said Miss Sophronia. "You know I only eat tosupport life, John. A side-bone, then, if you insist, and a tiny bit ofthe breast. William always says, 'You must live, ' and I suppose I must. Cranberry sauce! Thank you! I am really too exhausted to enjoy a morsel, but I will make an effort. We _can_ do what we _try_ to do, I alwayssay. Thank you, dearest John. I dare say I shall be better to-morrow. "

CHAPTER IV. 

THE TRIALS OF MARGARET. 

Margaret woke early the next morning, and lay wondering where she was. Her eyes were used to opening on rose-flowered walls and mahoganybed-posts. Here all was soft and white, no spot of colour anywhere. Shecame to herself with a start, and yesterday with its happenings cameback to her. She sighed, and a little worried wrinkle came on her smoothforehead. What a change, in a few short hours! Was all their peaceful, dreamy life over, the life that suited both her and her uncle soabsolutely? They had been so happy! Was it over indeed? It seemed atfirst as if she could not get up and face the cares of the day, underthe new conditions. Indolent by nature, Margaret dreaded change, andabove change unpleasantness; it seemed as if she might have plenty ofboth. She rose and dressed in a despondent mood; but when her hair waspinned up and her collar straight, she took herself to task. "I give youthree minutes!" she said, looking at herself in the glass. "If you can'tlook cheerful by that time, you can go to bed again. "

[Illustration: "AFTERWARDS SHE SALLIED OUT INTO THE GARDEN. "]

The threat, or something else, carried the point, for it was an entirelycheerful young woman who came into the library, with a rose for UncleJohn's buttonhole. Miss Montfort was already there, and responded withsad sprightliness to Margaret's greeting. "Thank you, my dear! I wasjust telling your uncle, it is a mere matter of form to ask if I haveslept. I seldom sleep, especially if I am up-stairs. The servants overmy head, it may be, --or if not that, I have the feeling ofinsecurity, --stairs, you understand, in case of fire. Dear William hadmy rooms fitted up on the ground floor. 'Sophronia, ' he said, 'you mustsleep!' I suppose it is necessary, but I am so used to lying awake. Suchfrightful noises in the walls, my dear John! Rats, I suppose? Has thewainscoting been examined lately, in the room you have put me in? Notthat it matters in the least; I am the person in the world most easilysuited, I suppose. A cot, a corner, a crust, as William says, and I amsatisfied. "

It took several crusts to satisfy Miss Sophronia at breakfast. Afterwards she sallied out into the garden, where Mr. Montfort wasenjoying his morning cigar, with Margaret at his side. "You dear child, "said the sprightly lady, "run now and amuse yourself, or attend to anylittle duties you may have set yourself. So important, I always say, forthe young to be regular in everything they do. I am sure you agree withme, dearest John. I will be your uncle's companion, my love; that is myduty and my pleasure now. I must see your roses, John! No one in theworld loves roses as I do. What do you use for them? I have a recipe foran infallible wash; I must give it to you, I must indeed. "

Margaret went into the house; there was no place for her, for the ladywas leaning on Mr. Montfort's arm, chattering gaily in his ear. Margaretwas conscious of an unpleasant sensation which was entirely new to her. She had always been with people she liked. Rita had often distressedher, but still she was most lovable, with all her faults. CousinSophronia was--not--lovable, the girl said to herself. 

It was a relief to visit the kitchen, and find Frances beaming over herbread-pan. The good woman hailed Margaret with delight, and received hertimid suggestions as to dinner with enthusiasm. 

"Yes, Miss Margaret, I do think as a chicken-pie would be the verything. I've a couple of fowl in the house now, and what would you thinkof putting in a bit of ham, miss?"

"Oh!" said Margaret. "Is that what you usually do, Frances? Then I amsure it will be just right. And about a pudding; what do you think, Frances? You know so many kinds of puddings, and they are all so good!"

Well, Frances had been thinking that if Miss Margaret should fancyapple-fritters, Mr. Montfort was fond of them, and they had not had themthis month. And lemon-juice with them, or a little sugar and wine; whichdid Miss Margaret think would be best? This was a delightful way ofkeeping house; and after praising the bread, which was rising white andlight in the great pan, and poking the bubbles with her little finger, and begging that she might be allowed to mix it some day soon, Margaretwent back in a better humour to the White Rooms, and sat down resolutelyto her buttonholes. There would be no walk this morning, evidently;well, when she had done her hour's stint, she would go for a littlestroll by herself. After all, perhaps Uncle John would, when thestrangeness had worn off a little, enjoy having some one of his own ageto talk to; of course she was very young, too young to be much of acompanion. Still, --

Well, she would be cheerful and patient, and try to make things pleasantso far as she could. And now she could only go and wish Uncle Johngood-bye when he started for town, and perhaps walk to the station withhim, if he was going to walk. 

While she sat sewing, glancing at the clock from time to time, CousinSophronia came in, work-bag in hand. 

"He is gone!" she said, cheerfully. "I saw him off at the gate. DearestJohn! Excellent, sterling John Montfort! Such a pleasure to be with him!Such a joy to feel that I can make a home for him!"

"Gone!" echoed Margaret, looking up in dismay. "Why, surely it is nottrain time!"

"An early train, my love, " the lady explained. "Your dear uncle feltobliged to start an hour earlier than usual, he explained to me. Thesebusy men! And how are you occupying yourself, my dear? Ah! buttonholes?Most necessary! But, my love, you are working these the wrong way!"

"No, I think not, " said Margaret. "This is the way I have always madethem, Cousin Sophronia. "

"Wrong, my dear! Quite wrong, I assure you. Impossible to get a smoothedge if you work them that way. Let me--h'm! yes! that is fairly even, Iconfess; but the other way is the correct one, you must take my word forit; and I will show you how, with pleasure. So important, I always say, to do things just as they should be done!"

In vain Margaret protested that she understood the other way, butpreferred this. She finally, for quiet's sake, yielded, and pricked herfingers, and made herself hot and cross, working the wrong way. 

Miss Sophronia next began to cross-question her about Mrs. Cheriton'slast days. Such a saintly woman! Austere, some thought; perhaps notalways charitable--

"Oh!" cried Margaret, indignant. "Cousin Sophronia, you cannot haveknown Aunt Faith at all. She was the very soul of charity; and as forbeing austere--but it is evident you did not know her. " She tried tokeep down her rising temper, with thoughts of the sweet, serene eyesthat had never met hers without a look of love. 

"I knew her before you were born, my dear!" said Miss Sophronia, with aslightly acid smile. "Oh, yes, I was intimately acquainted with dearAunt Faith. I have never thought it right to be blind to people's littlefailings, no matter how much we love them. I always tell my brotherWilliam, 'William, do not ask me to be blind! Ask me, expect me, to beindulgent, to be devoted, to be self-sacrificing, --but not blind;blindness is contrary to my nature, and you must not expect it. ' Yes!And--what was done with the clothes, my dear?"

"The clothes?" echoed Margaret. "Aunt Faith's clothes, do you mean, Cousin Sophronia?"

"No. I meant the Montfort clothes; the heirlooms, my dear. But perhapsyou never saw them?"

"Oh, yes, I have seen them often, " said Margaret. "They are in the cedarchest, Cousin Sophronia, where they have always been. It is in the deepcloset there, " she nodded towards an alcove at the other end of theroom. 

Miss Sophronia rose with alacrity. "Ah! I think I will look them over. Very valuable, some of those clothes are; quite unsuitable, I havethought for some years, to have them under the charge of an aged person, who could not in the course of nature be expected to see to themproperly. I fear I shall find them in a sad condition. "

Her hand was already on the door, when Margaret was able to speak. "Excuse me, Cousin Sophronia; the chest is locked. "

"Very proper! Entirely proper!" cried the lady. "And you have the key?That will not do, will it, my love? Too heavy for these dear youngshoulders, such a weight of responsibility! I will take entire charge ofthis; not a word! It will be a pleasure! Where is the key, did you say, love?"

"Uncle John has the key!" said Margaret, quietly; and blamed herselfseverely for the pleasure she felt in saying it. 

"Oh!" Miss Montfort paused, her hand on the door; for a moment sheseemed at a loss; but she went on again. 

"Right, Margaret! Very right, my love! You felt yourself, or your unclefelt for you, the unfitness of your having charge of such valuables. Ahem! I--no doubt dear John will give me the key, as soon as I mentionit. I--I shall not speak of it at once; there is no hurry--except forthe danger of moth. An old house like Fernley is always riddled withmoth. I fear the clothes must be quite eaten away with them. Such a sadpity! The accumulation of generations!"

Margaret hastened to assure her that the clothes were looked overregularly once a month, and that no sign of moths had ever been found inthem. Miss Sophronia sighed and shook her head, and crocheted for someminutes in silence; she was making a brown and yellow shoulder-shawl. Margaret thought she had never seen a shawl so ugly. 

"Has Cousin William Montfort any daughters?" she asked, presently, thinking it her turn to bear some of the burden of entertainment. 

"Four, my dear!" was the prompt reply. "Sweet girls! young, heedless, perhaps not always considerate; but the sweetest girls in the world. Amelia is just your age; what a companion she would be for you! DearMargaret! I must write to William, I positively must, and suggest hisasking you for a good long visit. Such a pleasure for you and forAmelia! Not a word, my dear! I shall consider it a duty, a positiveduty! Amelia is thought to resemble me in many ways; she is the imageof what I was at her age. I am forming her; her mother is something ofan invalid, as I think I have told you. The older girls are away fromhome just now, --they make a good many visits; I am always there, andthey feel that they can go. If they were at home, I should beg dear JohnMontfort to invite Amelia here; such a pleasure for him, to have younglife in the house. But as it is, William must ask you. Consider itsettled, my love. A--what was done with Aunt Faith's jewels, my dear?She had some fine pearls, I remember. Vanderdecken pearls they wereoriginally; I should hardly suppose Aunt Faith would have felt that shehad more than a life interest in them. And the great amethyst necklace;did she ever show you her jewels, my love?"

Margaret blushed, and braced herself to meet the shock. "I have them, Cousin Sophronia!" she said, meekly. "Aunt Faith wanted me to have allher jewels, and she gave them to me before--before she died. " Her voicefailed, and the tears rushed to her eyes. She was thinking of the frail, white-clad figure bending over the ancient jewel-box, and taking outthe pearls. She heard the soft voice saying, "Your great-grandmother'spearls, my Margaret; they are yours now. Wear them for me, and let mehave the pleasure of seeing them on your neck. You are my pearl, Margaret; the only pearl I care for now. " Dear, dearest Aunt Faith. Whywas she not here?

Before Miss Sophronia could recover her power of speech, a knock came atthe door. 

"I beg your pardon, Miss Margaret!" said Elizabeth, putting her head in, in answer to Margaret's "Come in!" "The butcher is here, miss, andFrances thought perhaps, would you come out and see him, miss?"

"Certainly!" said Margaret, rising; but Miss Sophronia was too quick forher. 

"In a moment!" she cried, cheerfully. "Tell Frances I will be there in amoment, Elizabeth! Altogether too much for you, dear Margaret, to haveso much care. _I_ cannot have too much care! It is what I live for; givethe household matters no further thought, I beg of you. You might besetting your bureau drawers in order, if you like, while I am seeingthe butcher; I always look over Amelia's drawers once a week--"

She glided away, leaving Margaret white with anger. How was she toendure this? She was nearly eighteen; she had taken care of herself eversince she was seven, and had attained, or so she fancied, perfection, inthe matter of bureau-drawers, at the age of twelve. To have her preciousarrangements looked over, her boxes opened, her--oh, there could be, there _was_ no reason why she should submit to this! She locked thedrawers quietly, one after the other, and put the key in her pocket. Shewould be respectful; she would be civil always, and cordial when shecould, but she would not be imposed upon. 

By the time Miss Sophronia came back, Margaret was composed, and greetedher cousin with a pleasant smile; but this time it was the lady who wasagitated. She came hurrying in, her face red, her air perturbed. "Insufferable!" she cried, as soon as the door was closed. "Margaret, that woman is insufferable! She must leave at once. "

"Woman! what woman, Cousin Sophronia?" asked Margaret, looking up inamazement. 

"That Frances! She--why, she is impertinent, Margaret. She insulted me;insulted me grossly. I shall speak to John Montfort directly he returns. She must go; I cannot stay in the house with her. "

Go! Frances, who had been at Fernley twenty years; for whom the newkitchen, now only fifteen years old, had been planned and arranged!Margaret was struck dumb for a moment; but recovering herself, she triedto soothe the angry lady, assuring her that Frances could not have meantto be disrespectful; that she had a quick temper, but was so good andfaithful, and so attached to Uncle John; and so on. In another moment, to her great discomfiture, Miss Sophronia burst into tears, declaredthat she was alone in the world, that no one loved her or wanted her, and that she was the most unhappy of women. Filled with remorseful pity, Margaret bent over her, begging her not to cry. She brought asmelling-bottle, and Miss Sophronia clutched it, sobbing, and toldMargaret she was an angelic child. "This--this is--a Vanderdeckenvinaigrette!" she said, between her sobs. "Did Eliza Vanderdecken giveyou this, too? Very singular of Eliza! But she never had any sense offitness. Thank you my dear! I suffer--no living creature knows what Isuffer with my nerves. I--shall be better soon. Don't mind anything Isaid; I must suffer, but it shall always be in silence, I alwaysmaintain that. No one shall know; I never speak of it; I am the grave, for silence. Do not--do not tell your uncle, Margaret, how you have seenme suffer. Do not betray my momentary weakness!"

"Certainly not!" said Margaret, heartily. "I will not say a word, CousinSophronia, of course!"

"He would wish to know!" said Miss Sophronia, smothering a sob into asigh. "John Montfort would be furious if he thought I was ill-treated, and we were concealing it from him. He is a lion when once roused. Ah! Ishould be sorry for that woman. But forgiveness is a duty, my dear, andI forgive. See! I am myself again. Quite--" with a hystericalgiggle--"quite myself! I--I will take the vinaigrette to my room withme, I think, my dear. Thank you! Dear Margaret! cherub child! how youhave comforted me!" She went, and Margaret heard her sniffing along theentry; heard, and told herself she had no business to notice suchthings; and went back rather ruefully to her buttonholes. 

CHAPTER V. 

A NEW TYPE. 

"My child, I thought you were never coming again!" said Mrs. Peyton. "Doyou know that it is a week since I have seen you? I have beendestroyed, --positively destroyed, with solitude. "

"I am so sorry, " said Margaret. "I could not come before; truly I couldnot, Mrs. Peyton. And how have you been?"

Mrs. Peyton leaned back on her pillows, with a little laugh. "Who careshow I have been?" she said, lightly. "What does it matter how I havebeen? Tell me some news, Margaret. I must have news. You are alive, youmove, and have your being; tell me something that will make me feelalive, too. "

Margaret looked at the lady, and thought she looked very much alive. Shewas a vision of rose colour, from the silk jacket fluttering withribbons, to the pink satin that shimmered through the lace bed-spread. The rosy colour almost tinted her cheeks, which were generally the hueof warm ivory. Her hair, like crisped threads of gold, was brought downlow on her forehead, hiding any lines that might have been seen there;it was crowned by a bit of cobweb lace, that seemed too slight tosupport the pink ribbon that held it together. The lady's hands weresmall, and exquisitely formed, and she wore several rings of greatvalue; her eyes were blue and limpid, her features delicate and regular. Evidently, this had been a great beauty. To Margaret, gazing at her inhonest admiration, she was still one of the most beautiful creaturesthat could be seen. 

Mrs. Peyton laughed under the girl's simple look of pleasure. "You likemy new jacket?" she said. "The doctor never so much as noticed it thismorning. I think I shall send him away, and get another, who has eyes inhis head. You are the only person who really cares for my clothes, Margaret, and they are the only interest I have in the world. "

"I wish you wouldn't talk so!" said Margaret, colouring. "You don't meanit, and why will you say it?"

"I do mean it!" said the beautiful lady. "I mean every word of it. There's nothing else to care for, except you, you dear littleold-fashioned thing. I like you, because you are quaint and truthful. Have you seen my pink pearl? You are not half observant, that's thetrouble with you, Margaret Montfort. "

She held out her slender hand; Margaret took it, and bent over itaffectionately. "Oh, what a beautiful ring!" she cried. "I never saw apink pearl like this before, Mrs. Peyton, so brilliant, and such a deeprose colour. Isn't it very wonderful?"

"The jeweller thought so, " said Mrs. Peyton. "He asked enough for it; itmight have been the companion to Cleopatra's. The opal setting ispretty, too, don't you think? And I have some new stones. You will liketo see those. "

She took up a small bag of chamois leather, that lay on the bed besideher, opened it, and a handful of precious stones rolled out on the lacespread. Margaret caught after one and another in alarm. "Oh! Oh, Mrs. Peyton, they frighten me! Why, this diamond--I never saw such a diamond. It's as big as a pea. "

"Imperfect!" said the lady. "A flaw in it, you see; but the colour isgood, and it does just as well for a plaything, though I don't likeflawed things, as a rule. This sapphire is a good one, --deep, you see; Ilike a deep sapphire. "

"This light one is nearer your eyes, " said Margaret, taking up a lovelyclear blue stone. 

"Flatterer! People used to say that once; a long time ago. Heigh ho, Margaret, don't ever grow old! Take poison, or throw yourself out of thewindow, but don't grow old. It's a shocking thing to do. "

Margaret looked at her friend with troubled, affectionate eyes, and laidher hand on the jewelled fingers. 

"Oh, I mean it!" said the lady, with a pretty little grimace. "I meanit, Miss Puritan. See! Here's a pretty emerald. But you haven't told methe news. Mr. Montfort is well always?"

"Always!" said Margaret. "We--we have a visitor just now, Mrs. Peyton, --some one you know. "

"Some one I know?" cried Mrs. Peyton. "I thought every one I knew wasdead and buried. Who is it, child? Don't keep me in suspense. Can't yousee that I am palpitating?"

She laughed, and looked so pretty, and so malicious, that Margaretwanted to kiss and to shake her at the same moment. 

"It is a cousin of Uncle John's and of mine, " she said; "Miss SophroniaMontfort. "

"_What!_" cried Mrs. Peyton, sitting up in bed. "Sophronia Montfort? Youare joking, Margaret. "

Assured that Margaret was not joking, she fell back again on herpillows. "Sophronia Montfort!" she said, laughing softly. "I have notheard of her since the flood. How does John--how does Mr. Montfortendure it, Pussy? He was not always a patient man. "

Margaret thought her uncle one of the most patient men she had everseen. 

"And how many men have you seen, little girl? Never mind! I will allowhim all the qualities of the Patient Patriarch. He will need them all, if he is to have Sophronia long. I am sorry for you, Pussy! Come over asoften as you can to see me. I am dull, but there are worse things thandullness. "

This was not very encouraging. 

"She--Cousin Sophronia--sent you a great many messages, " Margaret said, timidly. "She--is very anxious to see you, Mrs. Peyton. She would liketo come over some morning, and spend an hour with you. "

"If she does, I'll poison her!" said Mrs. Peyton, promptly. "Don't lookshocked, Margaret Montfort; I shall certainly do as I say. Sophroniacomes here at peril of her life, and you may tell her so with mycompliments. "

Margaret sat silent and distressed, not knowing what to say. She hadknown very few people in her quiet life, and this beautiful lady, whomshe admired greatly, also puzzled her sadly. 

"I cannot tell her that, can I, dear Mrs. Peyton?" she said, at last. "Ishall tell her that you are not well, --that is true, mostcertainly, --and that you do not feel able to see her. "

"Tell her what you please, " said Emily Peyton, laughing again. "If shecomes, I shall poison her, --that is my first and last word. Tell her?Tell her that Emily Peyton is a wreck; that she lies here like a log, week after week, month after month, caring for nothing, no one caringfor her, except a kind little girl, who is frightened at her wild talk. I might try the poison on myself first, Margaret; what do you think ofthat?" Then, seeing Margaret's white, shocked face, she laughed again, and fell to tossing the gems into the air, and catching them as theyfell. "It would be a pity, though, just when I have got all these newplaythings. Did you bring a book to read to me, little girl? I can'tabide reading, but I like to hear your voice. You have something, I seeit in your guilty face. Poetry, I'll be bound. Out with it, witch! Youhope to bring me to a sense of the error of my ways. Why, I used to readpoetry, Margaret, by the dozen yards. Byron, --does any one read Byronnowadays?"

"My father was fond of Byron, " said Margaret. "He used to read me bitsof 'Childe Harold' and the 'Corsair;' I liked them, and I always lovedthe 'Assyrian. ' But--I thought you might like something bright andcheerful to-day, Mrs. Peyton, so I brought Austin Dobson. Are you fondof Dobson?"

"Never heard of him!" said the lady, carelessly. "Read whatever youlike, child; your voice always soothes me. Will you come and be mycompanion, Margaret? Your uncle has Sophronia now; he cannot need you. Come to me! You shall have a thousand, two thousand dollars a year, andall the jewels you want. I'll have these set for you, if you like. "

[Illustration: "'DID YOU BRING A BOOK TO READ TO ME, LITTLE GIRL?'"]

She seemed only half in earnest, and Margaret laughed. "You sent yourlast companion away, you know, Mrs. Peyton, " she said. "I'm afraid Ishould not suit you, either. "

"My dear, that woman ate apples! No one could endure that, you know. Ate--champed apples in my ears, and threw the cores into my grate. Positively, she smelt of apples all day long. I had to have the roomfumigated when she left. A dreadful person! One of her front teeth wasmovable, too, and set me distracted every time she opened her mouth. Areyou ever going to begin?"

Margaret read two or three of her favourite poems, but with little heartin her reading, for she felt that her listener was not listening. Nowand then would come an impatient sigh, or a fretful movement of thejewelled hands; once a sapphire was tossed up in the air, and fell onthe floor by Margaret's feet. Only when she began the lovely "GoodNight, Babette!" did Mrs. Peyton's attention seem to fix. She listenedquietly, and, at the end, drew a deep breath. 

"You call that bright and cheerful, do you?" Mrs. Peyton murmured. "Everything looks cheerful in the morning. Good night, --"I grow soold, "--how dare you read me such a thing as that, Margaret Montfort? Itis an impertinence. "

"Indeed, " said Margaret, colouring, and now really wounded. "I do notunderstand you at all to-day, Mrs. Peyton. I don't seem to be able toplease you, and it is time for me to go. "

She rose, and the lady, her mood changing again in an instant, took hertwo hands, and drew her close to her side. 

"You are my only comfort, " she said. "Do you hear that? You are the onlyperson in this whole dreadful place that I would give the half of aburnt straw to see. Remember that, when I behave too abominably. Yes, gonow, for I am going to have a bad turn. Send Antonia; and come againsoon--soon, do you hear, Margaret? But remember--remember that thepoison-bowl waits for Sophronia!"

"What--shall I give her any message?" said poor Margaret, as she bentto kiss the white forehead between the glittering waves of hair. 

"Give her my malediction, " said Mrs. Peyton. "Tell her it is almost aconsolation for lying here, to think I need not see her. Tell heranything you like. Go now! Good-bye, child! Dear little quaint, funny, prim child, good-bye!"

 * * * * *

Margaret walked home sadly enough. She loved and admired her beautifulfriend, but she did not understand her, and there was much that shecould not approve. It seemed absurd, she often said to herself, for agirl of her age to criticise, to venture to disapprove, of a woman oldenough to be her mother, one who had travelled the world over, and knewplenty of human nature, if little of books. Yet, the thought would comeagain, there was no age to right and wrong; and there were things thatit could not be right to think, or kind to say, at eighteen or ateighty. And her uncle did not like Mrs. Peyton. Margaret felt that, without his having ever put it into words. Still, she was so beautiful, so fascinating, --and so kind to her! Perhaps, unconsciously, Margaretdid miss a good deal the two young cousins who had been with her duringher first year at Fernley; surely, and every hour, she missed her AuntFaith, whose tenderness had been that of the mother she had never known. 

She was in no haste to go home; there was still an hour before UncleJohn would come. There was little peace at home in these days, but aprying eye, and a tongue that was seldom still save in sleep. She hadleft Elizabeth in tears to-day, her precious linen having been pulledover, and all the creases changed because they ran the wrong way. Invain Margaret had reminded her of the heroine of the story she had likedso much, the angelic Elizabeth of Hungary. "It don't make muchdifference, Miss Margaret!" Elizabeth said. "I am no saint, miss, andall the roses in the world wouldn't make my table-cloths look fit to goon, now. "

Frances was "neither to hold or to bind;" even the two young girls whomthe elder women had in training were tossing their heads and mutteringover their brasses and their saucepans. The apple of discord seemed tobe rolling all about the once peaceful rooms of Fernley House. "I'll gohome through the woods, " said Margaret, "and see if they have begun workon the bog yet. "

It was lovely in the woods. Margaret thought there could be no suchwoods in the world as these of Fernley. The pines were straight andtall, and there was little or no undergrowth; just clear, fragrantstretches of brown needles, where one could lie at length and look upinto the whispering green, and watch the birds and squirrels. There wasmoss here and there; here and there, too, a bed of pale green ferns, delicate and plumy; but most of it was the soft red-brown carpet thatMargaret loved better even than ferns. She walked slowly along, drinkingin beauty and rest at every step. If she could only bring the sick ladyout here, she thought, to breathe this life-giving air! Surely she wouldbe better! She did not look ill enough to stay always in bed. They musttry to bring it about. 

She stopped at the little brook, and sat down on a mossy stone. Thewater was clear and brown, breaking into white over the pebbles here andthere. How delightful it would be to take off her shoes and stockings, and paddle about a little! Peggy, her cousin, would have been in thewater in an instant, very likely shoes and all; but Margaret was timid, and it required some resolution to pull off her shoes and stockings, anda good deal of glancing over her shoulder, to make sure that no one wasin sight. Indeed, who could be? The water was cool; oh, so cool andfresh! She waded a little way; almost lost her balance on a slipperystone, and fled back to the bank, laughing and out of breath. A frogcame up to look at her, and goggled in amazement; she flipped water athim with her hand, and he vanished indignant. It would be very pleasantto walk along the bed of the stream, as far as the entrance to the bogmeadow. Could she venture so far? No, for after all, it was possiblethat some of the workmen might have arrived and might be in theneighbourhood, though they were not to begin work till the next day. Very slowly Margaret drew her feet out of the clear stream where theytwinkled and looked so white, --Margaret had pretty feet, --but she couldnot make up her mind to put on the shoes and stockings just yet. Shemust dry her feet; and this moss was delightful to walk on. So on shewent, treading lightly and carefully, finding every step a purepleasure, till she saw sunlight breaking through the green, and knewthat she was coming to the edge of the peat bog. Ah, what memories thisplace brought to Margaret's mind! She could see her cousin Rita, springing out in merry defiance over the treacherous green meadow; couldhear her scream, and see her sinking deep, deep, into the dreadfulblackness below. Then, like a flash, came Peggy from the wood, this verywood she was walking in now, and ran, and crept, and reached out, and bysheer strength and cleverness saved Rita from a dreadful death, whileshe, Margaret, stood helpless by. Dear, brave Peggy! Ah, dear girlsboth! How she would like to see them this moment. Why! Why, what wasthat?

Some one was whistling out there in the open. Whistling a lively, rollicking air, with a note as clear and strong as a bird's. Horror! Theworkmen must have come! Margaret was down on the grass in an instant, pulling desperately at her shoes and stockings. From the panic she wasin, one might have thought that the woods were full of whistlingbrigands, all rushing in her direction, with murder in their hearts. Shecould hardly see; there was a knot in her shoe-string; why did she everhave shoes that tied? Her heart was beating, the blood throbbing in herears, --and all the time the whistling went on, not coming nearer, buttrilling away in perfect cheerfulness, though broken now and then, andcoming in fits and starts. At last! At last the shoes were tied, andMargaret stood up, still panting and crimson, but feeling that she couldface a robber, or even an innocent workman, without being disgraced forlife. Cautiously she stole to the edge of the wood, and peeped betweenthe pine-boles. The sun lay full on the peat bog, and it shone like agreat, sunny emerald, friendly and smiling, with no hint of the blacktreachery at its heart. No hint? But look! Out in the very middle of thebog a figure was standing, balanced on a tussock of firm earth. A light, active figure, in blue jean jumper and overalls. One of the workmen, whodid not know of the peril, and was plunging to his destruction? Margaretopened her lips to cry aloud, but kept silence, for the next moment shecomprehended that the young man (he was evidently young, though his backwas turned to her) knew well enough what he was about. He had a longpole in his hand, and with this he was poking and prodding about in theblack depths beneath him. Now he sounded carefully a little way ahead ofhim, and then, placing his pole carefully on another firm spot, leapedto it lightly. The black bog water gurgled up about his feet, but he didnot sink, only planted his feet more firmly, and went on with hissounding. Now he was singing. What was he singing? What a quaint, funnyair!

 "A wealthy young farmer of Plymouth, we hear, He courted a nobleman's daughter, so dear; And for to be married it was their intent, --

Hi! muskrat!--come out of there!" He almost lost his balance, andMargaret screamed a very small scream, that could not be heard a dozenyards. Recovering himself, the young man began to make his way towardsthe shore, at a point nearly opposite to where Margaret stood. Springinglightly to the firm ground, he took off his cap, and made a low bow tothe bog, saying at the same time something, Margaret could not hearwhat. Then, looking carefully about him, the young workman appeared tobe selecting a spot of earth that was to his mind; having done so, hesat down, took out a note-book, and wrote with ardour for severalminutes. Then he took off his cap, and ran his fingers through hishair--which was very curly, and bright red--till it stood up in everydirection; then he turned three elaborate somersaults; and then, withanother salute to the bog, and a prolonged whistle, he went off, leapingon his pole, and singing, as he went:

 "And for to be mar-ri-ed it was their intent; All friends and relations had given their consent. "

CHAPTER VI. 

A LESSON IN GEOGRAPHY. 

"Margaret!"

"Yes, uncle. "

"Can you come here a moment, my dear?"

"Surely, Uncle John. I was looking for you, and could not find you. "

Margaret came running in from the garden. Her uncle was sitting in hisprivate study, which opened directly on the garden, and communicated bya staircase in the wall with his bedroom. The study was a pleasant room, lined with books for the most part, but with some valuable pictures, anda great table full of drawers, and several presses or secretaries, filled with papers and family documents of every kind. Mr. JohnMontfort, recluse though he was, was the head of a large and importantfamily connection. Few of his relatives ever saw him, but most of themwere in more or less constant correspondence with him, and he knew alltheir secrets, though not one of them could boast of knowing his. He wasthe friend and adviser, the kindly helper, of many a distant cousin whohad never met the kind, grave glance of his brown eyes. Peggy Montfortused to say, in the days when it had pleased him to appear as JohnStrong, the gardener, that it "smoothed her all out, " just to look athim; and many people experienced the same feeling on receiving one ofhis letters. No one had it, however, so strongly as Margaret herself, orso she thought; and it was with a sensation of delightful relief thatshe answered his call this morning. Mr. Montfort turned round from thegreat table at which he was sitting, and held out his handaffectionately. 

"Come here, my child, " he said, "and let me look at you. Look mestraight in the eyes; yes, that will do. You are feeling well, Margaret?You look well, I must say. "

"Well? Of course, Uncle John! Am I ever anything else? I have never hada day's illness since I came here. "

"You do not feel the load of responsibility too much for your youngshoulders?" Mr. Montfort went on. "It--it is not too dull for you here, alone month after month with an elderly man, and a hermit, and one whohas the reputation of a grim and unfriendly old fellow? What do you say, Margaret?"

The quick tears sprang to Margaret's eyes. She looked up at her uncle, and saw in his eyes the quizzical twinkle that always half puzzled andwholly delighted her. "Oh, uncle!" she cried; "you really deceived methis time! I might have known you were in fun, --but you were so grave!"

"Grave?" said Mr. Montfort. "Never more so, I assure you. I may not havevery serious doubts, in my own mind; nevertheless, I want yourassurance. Do you, Margaret Montfort, find life a burden under existingcircumstances, or do you find it--well, endurable for awhile yet?"

"I find life as happy as I can imagine it, " said Margaret, simply; andthen, being absolutely truthful, she added, "That is, --I did find itso, Uncle John, --until these last two weeks. "

"Precisely!" said Mr. Montfort. "Not a word, my dear! I understand you. You are fond of children, I think, Margaret?"

"Very fond, " said Margaret, thinking that Uncle John was strange indeedto-day. 

"Get on well with them, I should suppose. You had a great deal ofinfluence over Peggy, Margaret. "

"Dear, good Peggy! She was so ready to be influenced, Uncle John. Shewas just waiting to--to be helped on a little, don't you know?"

"Yes; so Rita thought, if I remember aright!" said Mr. Montfort, dryly. "But with younger children, eh? You have had some experience of them, perhaps, Margaret?"

Was he still joking? Margaret had not much sense of humour, and she wassadly puzzled again. 

"I--I love little children, " she said. "Of course I do, Uncle John!"

"Little children, --yes. But how about boys? Active, noisy, happy-go-lucky boys? Boys that smash windows, and yell, and tear theirclothes on barbed-wire fences? How about those, Margaret?"

"Is that the kind of boy you were, Uncle John?" asked Margaret, smiling. "Because if so, I am sure I shall like them very much. "

"Very well, my dear child!" he said. "You are well and happy, and weunderstand each other, and that is all right, very right. Now, Margaret, --I ask this for form's sake merely, --have you been in thisroom before, to-day?"

"No, Uncle John, " said Margaret. 

"Of course you have not. Knew it before I asked you. Do you noticeanything unusual in the appearance of the room, my dear?"

Margaret looked about her, wondering. It produced an impressionof--well, not just the perfect order in which it was generally to befound. Several drawers were half open; a sheaf of papers lay on thefloor, as if dropped by a startled hand. The writing things weredisarranged, slightly, yet noticeably; for Mr. Montfort always kept themin one position, which was never changed save when they were in actualuse. 

"Why, it looks--as if--as if you had been in a hurry, Uncle John, " shesaid at last. 

"It looks as if _some one_ had been in a hurry, " said Mr. Montfort, significantly. "I have not been in this room before, to-day; I found itin this condition. Never mind, my dear! I am going to write a letternow. Don't let me keep you any longer. "

Margaret went away, wondering much; her uncle joined her soon, and theylooked at the roses together, and chatted as usual, and were happy, tillCousin Sophronia rapped on the window with her thimble, and askedwhether they were coming in, or whether she should come out and jointhem. 

She was trying that evening, Cousin Sophronia. Nothing on the tea-tablesuited her, to begin with. She declared the beef tea unfit to touch, anddesired Mr. Montfort to taste it, which he politely but firmly refusedto do. "But it is not fit to eat!" cried the lady. "I insist on yourtasting it, my dear John. "

"My dear Sophronia, I am extremely sorry it is not to your taste. If itis not good, I certainly do not want to taste it. Send it away and askme to taste something that is good. "

The chicken was tough. "You should change your butcher, John. Or arethese your own fowls? Chickens I will not call them; they must be twoyears old at least. Nothing disagrees with me like tough poultry. Nobodyto look after the fowls properly, I suppose. I must take them in hand;not that I have had any experience myself of fowls, but an educatedperson, you understand. So important, I always say, to bring educatedintelligence to bear on these matters. And then, these knives are sodull! Even if the fowls were tender, impossible to make an impressionwith such a knife as this. Elizabeth, what do you use for your knives?"

Elizabeth used Bristol brick, as she always had done. 

"Ah, entirely out of date, Bristol brick. You must send for some of thepreparation that William uses, John. Nothing like it. Something orother, it's called; somebody's--I can't remember now, but we will haveit, never fear, dearest John. Shameful, for you to be subjected to dullknives _and_ tough poultry. What are these? Strawberries? Dear me! I didhope we could have raspberries this evening. One is so tired ofstrawberries by this time, don't you think so?"

"I am sorry, " said Mr. Montfort. "The raspberries will be ripe in a dayor two, Sophronia; Willis thought they would hardly do to pick to-day. "

"Oh, but I assure you, my dearest John, Willis is entirely wrong. Iexamined the bushes myself; I went quite through them, and found themquite--entirely ripe. That was just Willis's laziness, depend upon it. These old servants" (Elizabeth had gone to get more cream, the ladyhaving emptied the jug on her despised strawberries) "are too lazy to beof much use. Depend upon it, John, you will know no peace until you getrid of them all, and start afresh; I am thinking very seriously aboutit, I assure you, my dear fellow. Yes, I have been longing for days fora plate of raspberries and cream. I have so little appetite, thatwhenever I _can_ tempt it a little, the doctor says, I must not fail todo so. No more, dear, thank you! It is of no consequence, you know, really, not the least in the world; only, one can be of so much moreuse, when one keeps one's health. Ah, you remember what health I had asa child, John! You remember the dear old days here, when we werechildren together?"

"I remember them very well, Sophronia, " said Mr. Montfort, steadily. "And speaking of that, I am expecting some young visitors here in a dayor two. "

Cousin Sophronia looked up with a jerk; Margaret looked at her uncle insurprise; he sipped his tea tranquilly, and repeated: "Some youngvisitors, yes. They will interest you, Sophronia, with your strongfamily feeling. "

"Who--who are they?" asked Miss Sophronia. "Most ill-judged, I must say, to have children here just now; who did you say they were, John?"

"Cousin Anthony's children. They lost their mother some years ago, youremember; I fancy Anthony has had rather a hard time with them since. Now he has to go out West for the rest of the summer, and I have askedthem to come here. "

For once Miss Sophronia was speechless. After a moment's silence, Margaret ventured to say, timidly, "How old are the children, UncleJohn?"

"Really, my dear, I hardly know. Two boys and a girl, I believe. I don'teven know their names; haven't seen their father for twenty years. Goodfellow, Anthony; a little absent-minded and heedless, but a good fellowalways. I was glad to be able to oblige him. "

Miss Sophronia recovered her speech. 

"Really, my dear John, " she said, with an acrid smile; "I had no ideayou were such a philanthropist. If Fernley is to become an asylum fororphan relations--"

"Sophronia!" said Mr. Montfort. 

His tone was quiet, but there was something in it that made the ladyredden, and check herself instantly. Margaret wondered what wouldbecome of her, if her uncle should ever speak to her in that tone. 

"I am sure I meant nothing!" said Miss Sophronia, bridling and rallyingagain. "I am sure there was no allusion to our dearest Margaret. Absurd!But these children are very different. Why, Anthony Montfort is yoursecond cousin, John. I know every shade of relationship; it isimpossible to deceive me in such matters, John. "

"I should not attempt it, my dear cousin, " said Mr. Montfort, quietly. "Anthony _is_ my second cousin. I will go further to meet you, and admitboldly that these children are my second cousins once removed, andMargaret's third cousins. Where shall we put them, Margaret?"

"My dearest John, " cried Miss Sophronia, in her gayest tone, "you arenot to give it a thought! Is he, Margaret? No, my dear fellow! It isnoble of you--Quixotic, I must think, but undeniably noble--to take inthese poor little waifs; but you shall have no further thought aboutproviding for them. Everything shall be arranged; I know the house fromgarret to cellar, remember. I will make every arrangement, dearest John, depend upon me!"

The evenings were not very gay at Fernley just now. Miss Sophronia couldnot keep awake while any one else read aloud; so she took matters intoher own hands, and read herself, for an hour by the clock. Her voice washigh and thin, and kept Mr. Montfort awake; she was apt to emphasise thewrong words, which made Margaret's soul cry out within her; and shestopped every few minutes to chew a cardamom seed with greatdeliberation. This simple action had the effect of making both herhearers extremely nervous, they could not have explained why. Also, shewas afflicted with a sniff, which recurred at regular intervals, generally in the middle of a sentence. Altogether the reading was achastened pleasure nowadays; and this particular evening it wascertainly a relief when she declared, before the hour was quite over, that she was hoarse, and must stop before the end of the chapter. On thewhole, she thought it might be better for her to go to bed early, andtake some warm drink. "It would never do for me to be laid up, withthese children coming to be seen after!" she declared. So she departed, and Margaret and her uncle sat down to a game of backgammon, and playedslowly and peacefully, lingering over their moves as long as theypleased, and tasting the pleasure of having no one say that they shouldplay this or that, "of course!"

The game over, Mr. Montfort leaned back in his chair, with an air ofcontent. 

"This is pleasant!" he said, slowly. "Margaret, my dear, this is verypleasant!" Margaret smiled at him, but made no reply. None was needed:the uncle and niece were so much alike in tastes and feelings, that theyhardly needed speech, sometimes, to know each other's thoughts. Bothwere content to sit now silent, in the soft, cheerful candle-light, looking about on the books and pictures that they loved, and feeling thesilence like a cordial. 

Suddenly Mr. Montfort's air of cheerful meditation changed. He satupright, and leaned slightly forward. He seemed to listen forsomething. Then suddenly, softly, he rose, and with silent step crossedthe room and stood a moment beside the wall. It was a very differentface that he turned to Margaret the next instant. 

"My dear, " he said, "there is some one in my study. "

"In your study, Uncle John? What do you mean? That is, --how can youtell, uncle?"

"Come here, and listen!" said her uncle. Margaret stole to his side, andlistened, her head, like his, near the wall. She heard the crackling ofpaper; the sound of a drawer pulled softly out; the clank, muffled, butunmistakable, of brass handles. What did it mean? She looked to heruncle for explanation. He shook his head and motioned her to be silent. Then, taking her hand in his, he led her softly from the room. Margaretfollowed, greatly wondering, across the wide hall; through the low doorthat led to the White Rooms, now her own; into her own sitting-room, orAunt Faith's room, as she still loved to call it. Here Mr. Montfortreleased her hand, and again motioned her to be silent. 

"I will explain by and by, my dear, " he said. "Follow me, now, and learnanother lesson in Fernley geography; I was keeping it for a surprisesome day, but never mind. Where is this place?"

Margaret noticed, in all her confusion of surprise, that the great whitechair was pushed away from its usual place. Her uncle stepped in behindthe table near which it always stood, and passed his hand along thesmooth white panel of the wall. Noiselessly it swung open, revealing adark space. Margaret obeyed his gesture, and following, found herself ina narrow passage, carpeted with felt, on which her feet made no sound. They went forward some way; it was quite dark, but she followed heruncle's guidance, and he trod as surely as if it were broad daylight. Presently he stopped, and, with a pressure of the hand, bade her listenagain. The rustling of paper sounded very clear now; there was anotherrustle, too, the rustle of silk. Suddenly, light flashed upon them;Margaret felt herself drawn swiftly forward; there was a smotheredexclamation in her uncle's voice, followed by a scream from another. 

They were standing in Mr. Montfort's study. The room was lighted by asingle candle, that stood on the writing-table; beside this table, backed against it in an attitude of terror and surprise, stood MissSophronia Montfort, her hands full of documents, her eyes glaring. Therewas a moment of silence, and Margaret counted her heart-beats. Then--

"Can I be of any assistance to you, my dear Sophronia?" asked Mr. Montfort, blandly. "You seem in distress; allow me to relieve you ofsome of these. " He took the papers quietly, and laid them on the table. Miss Sophronia gasped once, twice; opened and shut her eyes severaltimes, and swallowed convulsively; when she spoke, it was with afluttering voice, but in something like her ordinary tone. 

"My dear John! How you startled me! A--a--little surprise for you, mydear fellow. Such a shocking condition as your papers were in. Ithought--a kindness--to bring a little order out of chaos; he! he!ahem! my throat is troublesome to-night. A warm drink! Yes, my dearJohn, I remembered the old passage, you see. I said, why should Idisturb the dear fellow, to ask him for the key to the outer door? Andreally, John, these papers are too--too bad!"

She shook her head in a manner that was meant to be playful; butsuddenly the smile dropped from her face like a mask; for Mr. Montfortdid a singular thing. He bent his head forward slightly; fixed his eyeson his cousin with a peculiar expression, and advanced slowly, one step. "Sophronia!" he said. 

Miss Sophronia began to tremble. 

"Don't, John!" she cried. "John Montfort, don't do it! I am your owncousin. Your father and mine were brothers, John. I hope I know myduty--ah, don't! I will not, John Montfort!"

Margaret looked from one to the other in blank amazement. The ladyseemed in the extremity of terror. Her uncle--was this her uncle?Instead of the grave, dignified gentleman, she seemed to see a boy; aboy intent on mischief, every motion of him alive with power andmalice. Step by step he advanced, his hands clenched, his head bentforward, his eyes still fixed, bright and strong, on his cousin. 

"Sophronia!" he said, "I am coming! Sophronia! Sophronia! Sophronia!"Each time he quickened voice and step. He was almost upon her; with onewild shriek Miss Sophronia turned and fled. Her skirts whisked along thesecret passage; they heard the door bang. She was gone. 

Mr. Montfort sat down in his study chair and laughed long and silently. 

"Don't look so frightened, my dear!" he said, at last. "It was a scurvytrick, but she deserved it. I--I used to run Sophronia up-stairs, Margaret, when she was a troublesome girl. It always frightened her. I'dhave done it in another minute, if she had not run, but I knew shewould. Poor Sophronia! I suppose something of the boy stays in us, mydear, as long as we live. I--I am afraid I should rather have enjoyedrunning Sophronia up-stairs. "

CHAPTER VII. 

THE DAUNTLESS THREE. 

The next morning Miss Sophronia kept her bed; her cold, she said, wastoo severe to admit of her joining the family at breakfast. Margaretwaited on her with an uneasy sense of guilt in general, though she couldnot accuse herself of any special sin. She did her best to besympathetic and dutiful, having been brought up to respect her elderssincerely. But she was puzzled all the same, and when it came to anyquestion between her cousin and her uncle, there were no more doubts. She must put herself out of the way as much as possible, and give up, wherever her own pleasure was concerned, --where it was any matterconnected with Uncle John, she would be the Rock of Gibraltar. Thisbeing settled, the Rock of Gibraltar brought raspberries for CousinSophronia's breakfast, and made her room bright with flowers, and triedto make cheer for her. The poor lady was rather subdued, and toldMargaret she was a cherub child; then declared she would not be a burdenon any one, and sent the girl away to "amuse herself. "

"Be happy as a butterfly, my dear, all the morning; don't give me athought, I beg of you. If Frances would have a new-laid egg ready for meat eleven--positively a new-laid one, Margaret! Perhaps you would bringit yourself from the hen-yard. I have no confidence in servants, and itwould make a pleasant little trip for you. So important, I always say, for the young to have something useful to mingle with their sports. Boiled three minutes and a half, my love! I doubt if I can eat it, butit is my duty to make the attempt. Bless you! Good-bye! If you happen tohave nothing to do about twelve, you might bring your work and sit withme. I am the most sociable creature in the world; I cannot endure to bealone when I am ill; but don't have me on your mind, my love, for asingle instant. "

All the duties attended to, Margaret spent a delightful hour, withElizabeth's assistance, in making ready the rooms for the newcomers. Thelittle girl was to have Peggy's room, next her own, and that needednothing save fresh flowers in the vases, and fresh ribbons on thecurtains. But the boys were to have the old nursery, the great room thatran across the whole width of the house, on the third floor. It was apleasant room, with dormer windows facing east and south, a greatfireplace, with a high wire fender, and a huge sofa, covered with redchintz dragons. A funny sofa it was, with little drawers let in alongthe sides. John Montfort and his brothers used to lie on this sofa, whenthey had the measles and whooping-cough, and play with the brassdrawer-handles, and keep their treasures in the drawers. The windowswere barred, and there was a gate across the landing, at the top of thestairs. Elizabeth had suggested taking away the gate and the bars, "suchbig young gentlemen as these would be, most likely, sir!" but Mr. Montfort shook his head very decidedly. 

"If they are Montfort boys, Elizabeth, they will need all the bars wecan give them. Master Richard was twelve, when he squeezed himselfbetween these, and went along the gutter hanging by his hands, till hecame to the spout, and shinned down it. Never make things too easy for aMontfort boy!"

In one corner stood a huge rocking-horse, with saddle and bridle ofcrimson leather, rather the worse for wear. He was blind of one eye, andhis tail had seen service, but he was a fine animal for all that. Margaret hunted about in the attic, and found a box of ninepins. Marbles, too; Uncle John had told her that there must be marblessomewhere, in a large bag of flowered purple calico, with a red string. They had been there forty years; they must be there still. She foundthem at last, hanging from a peg of one of the great beams. On the beamclose by was written:

 "This is my Peg. If any Pig touches my Peg, that Pig will be Pegged. Signed, JOHN MONTFORT. "

"Oh, " thought Margaret, "what a pleasant boy Uncle John must have been!What good times we should have had together!" And then she reflectedthat he could not possibly have been so nice a boy as he was an uncle, and was content. 

The marbles, and the rocking-horse, and--what else ought there to be?Tops! Uncle John had said something about tops. Here Margaret screamed, and fled to the attic door. Something was moving on the beam by whichshe had been standing, perched on a chair. Something rolled slowlyalong, half the length of the beam, and dropped to the floor and rolledtowards her. Laughing now, Margaret stooped and picked up a great ball, a leather ball, striped red and black. On one of the red stripes waswritten, in large, unconventional letters, "Roger. " It was her father'sball! Margaret held the toy very tenderly in her hands, and tried to seethe worn, thoughtful face she remembered so well, a rosy boy's face, full of light and laughter. She had seen, yesterday, strangely enough, her uncle's boyish looks, revealed in a flash of mischief; it was lesseasy to see her father's. 

As she stood meditating, the sound of wheels was heard outside. Margaretran to look out of the little gable window, then clapped her handstogether, in amazement and pleasure. The children had come!

When she reached the verandah, they were already standing there, facingMr. Montfort, who had come out by an early train, and was standinglooking at them with amused attention, holding the little girl's handsin his. 

"And what are your names, my dears?" he was saying. 

"Basil, Merton, and Susan D. , " replied the elder boy, promptly, whilethree pairs of sharp eyes were fastened on the strange uncle. 

"Battle, Murder, and Sudden Death!" said Mr. Montfort under his breath. He had no idea that any one could hear him, but a shriek of laughterstartled him, and made Margaret jump. 

"That's what Puppa calls us!" cried Basil, springing lightly up and downon the tips of his toes. "We didn't know whether you would or not; hesaid you would pretty soon, anyhow. How do you do, Uncle John? We arevery well, thank you. I am thirteen, and Mert is twelve, and Susan D. Isten. Puppa hopes we shall not be troublesome, and here are the keys ofthe trunks. "

The boy drew a long breath, and looked round him with an air of triumph. 

"Well, I should think you would know it!" said his brother. "Been sayingit all the way over here. "

"More than you could do!" retorted his elder. 

"Wouldn't do it anyhow, so there!" said the younger. 

[Illustration: "THE LITTLE GIRL HAD NEVER STIRRED, BUT STOOD GAZING UPAT THE BIG MAN WHO HELD HER HANDS. "]

These last remarks had been carried on in an undertone, the set speechhaving been delivered slowly and with much dignity. Finally each boykicked the other's shins surreptitiously, and then both stared again attheir uncle. The little girl had never stirred, but stood gazing up atthe big man who held her hands so lightly and yet so kindly, and who hadsuch bright, deep, quiet brown eyes. Margaret, standing in the doorway, scrutinised the three, and felt a sinking at the heart. Basil Montfortwas a tall boy for his age, slender and wiry, with tow-coloured hairthat stood straight on end, thin lips that curled up at the corners witha suggestion of malice, and piercing gray eyes, which he had a trick ofscrewing up till they were like gimlet points. The second, Merton, wasdecidedly better-looking, with pretty curly hair, and blue eyes with anappealing look in them; but Margaret fancied he looked a little sly; andstraightway took herself to task for the unkind fancy. The little girlwas Basil over again, save that the tow-coloured hair was put back witha round comb, and the gray eyes widely opened, instead of half shut, when she looked at any one. All three children were neatly dressed, andall looked as if they were not used to their clothes. 

"Well, " said Mr. Montfort at last, after a long, silent look at each onein turn, "I am very glad to see you, children. I hope we are going to begood friends. Boys, I was a boy myself, just two or three years ago, --orit may be four, --so you can ask me about anything you want to know. Susan, I never was a girl, you see, but that need not make muchdifference. Your Cousin Margaret--oh, here _is_ your Cousin Margaret!She will be good to you, and--and in short, you are all very welcome toFernley, and there is a swing in the garden, and the rest you can findout for yourselves. "

Margaret came forward, and shook hands with the boys, and kissed thelittle girl warmly. Evidently Susan D. Was not used to being kissed, forshe blushed, and her brothers giggled rather rudely, till they caughtMr. Montfort's eye, and stopped. 

"Young gentlemen, " said Uncle John, with an emphasis which brought theblood to Basil's cheek, "dinner will be ready"--he looked at hiswatch--"in an hour. I daresay they would like something now, Margaret;crackers and cheese, gingerbread, --what? You'll find them something. "Mr. Montfort nodded kindly, and strode away to his study. Margaret wasleft alone with the three strange children, feeling shyer than everbefore in her life. The meeting with the three cousins of her own age, two years ago, was nothing to this. 

"Are you hungry, boys?" she asked. 

"Starving!" said Merton. 

"He isn't, " said Susan D. "He's been eating all the way, ever since weleft home. He's a greedy, --that's what he is. " Then, scared at her ownvoice, she hung her head down, and put her finger in her mouth. 

"Oh, well, " said Margaret, "I daresay you would all be hungry beforedinner-time, so suppose we come into the pantry and see what we canfind. Will you come with me, Susan, dear?" She held out her hand, butthe little girl evaded it, and followed in the rear, holding her ownhands behind her back. 

"Will you call me Cousin Margaret?" the girl went on. "And shall I callyou Susie, or do you like Susan better?"

Susan not replying, Basil replied for her. "Susan D. We call her; butPuppa calls her Sudden Death when she acts bad; she mostly does actbad. "

"Don't neither!" muttered Susan D. , scowling. 

"Do teither!" retorted both brothers in a breath. 

"She ain't shy!" Basil went on. "She's sulky, that's all. Merton's shy, and I ain't. I'll tell you things, when you ask me; they won't, half thetime. "

"Well, I haven't asked you anything, yet, have I?" said Margaret, smiling, and feeling more at ease with this boy, somehow, than witheither of the others. "What can you tell me that is pleasant aboutthem?"

"That's so!" said Basil, and his lips parted suddenly in a smile thatpositively transfigured his plain face. "Well, Mert's the best boxer, and he can sing and draw. I'm the best runner, of course, 'count of mylegs being long, you see. " He held up a long, thin leg for Margaret'sinspection. "Some fellows called me Spider once, and Susan D. Scratchedtheir faces for 'em. She's great at scratching, Susan D. Is. "

"My dear!" said poor Margaret. "I thought you were going to tell me thepleasant things, Basil. "

"Ain't I?" said the boy, innocently. "She was standing up for me, yousee. She always stands up for me; Mert is a sne---- well, what I wasgoing to say, she's a pretty good runner, for a girl, and she can shin arope too, better than any of us. Mert can hang on longest with histeeth. "

"What _do_ you mean, child?" cried Margaret, laughing. Basil flashed hisbrilliant smile on her again. 

"Tables, " he explained. "Yes, please, crackers; and quite a lot ofcheese, please. "

"Greedy Gobble!" interjected Merton. 

"Well, I like that!" said Basil. "Who ate my sandwich, when I waslooking out of the window? I tell you what, I'd punch your head for twocents, young feller!"

"Boys, " said Margaret, decidedly, "I cannot have this! While you arewith me, I expect you to behave decently. "

"Yes, ma'am!" said both boys, with ready cheerfulness; and Basilcontinued his explanation. 

"We see which can hang on to a table longest, don't you know, by yourteeth. Did ever you?"

"No, I certainly never did; and--I don't think you'd better try it here, Basil. It must be very hard on your teeth, besides ruining the table. "

"It ain't healthy for the table, " Basil admitted. "You ought to see thetables at home! It makes like a little pattern round the edge, sometimes. Quite pretty, I think. Say, are you the boss here?"

Seated on the pantry dresser, swinging his legs, the young gentlemanseemed as much at home as if he had spent his life at Fernley. The twoother children were eating hastily and furtively, as if they feared eachbite might be their last. Basil crunched his crackers and nibbled hischeese with an air of perfect unconcern. "Are you the boss here?" herepeated. 

"Am I in authority, do you mean?" asked Margaret, who could not abideslang of any kind. "No, indeed, Basil. Your Uncle John is the head ofthe house, in every possible way. I hope you are all going to be verygood and obedient. He is the kindest, best man in the whole world. "

"I think he's bully, " said Basil. "I guess you're bully too, ain't you?And it's a bully place. Hi, Mert, there's a squirrel! Look at himrunning up that tree. My! Wish I had a pea-shooter!"

"Bet you couldn't hit him if you had!" cried Merton, as all threechildren watched the squirrel with breathless interest. 

"Bet I could!" said Basil, contemptuously. 

"Guess he could hit it when you couldn't hit a barn in the next county!"cried Susan D. In a kind of small shriek; then she caught Margaret'seye, blushed furiously, and tried to get behind her bread and butter. 

"I say! can we go out in the garden?" cried Basil. 

"Yes, indeed, but wouldn't you like to come up and see your rooms first?Such pleasant rooms! I am sure you will like them. "

But none of the children cared to see the pleasant rooms. Receivingpermission to play till they heard the dinner-bell, they fled suddenly, as if the constable were at their heels. Margaret saw their legstwinkling across the grass-plot. They were yelling like red Indians. Susan D. 's hat blew off at the third bound; Basil shied his cap into abush with a joyous whoop, then snatched off his brother's and threw thatafter it. Merton grappled him with a shout, and they rolled over andover at the feet of their sister, who bent down and pummelled them bothwith might and main, shrieking with excitement. As Margaret gazedaghast, preparing to fly and interfere, she heard a quiet laugh behindher, and turning, saw Mr. Montfort looking over her shoulder. 

"Battle, Murder, and Sudden Death!" he said. "Separate them? On noaccount, my dear! They have been shut up for hours, and their musclesneed stretching. Don't be alarmed, my child; I know this kind. " PoorMargaret sighed. She did not know this kind. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE FIRST CONQUEST. 

When Margaret went to bed that night, she felt as if she had beenwhipped with rods. Head, heart, and back, all ached in sympathy. Thechildren were in bed; that is, she had left them in bed; their stayingthere was another matter; however, all three were tired after theirjourney, and Uncle John thought the chances were that they would fallasleep before they had time to think of doing anything else. Among thethree, the little girl was the one who oppressed Margaret with a senseof defeat, a sense of her own incompetence. She had not expected tounderstand the boys; she had never had any experience of boys; but shehad expected to win the little girl to her, and make her a littlefriend, perhaps almost a sister. Susan D. Received her advances with anelfish coldness that had something not human in it, Margaret thought. The child was like a changeling, in the old fairy stories. That evening, when bedtime came, Margaret went up with her to the pretty room, hopingfor a pleasant time. She sat down and took the little girl on her knee. "Let us have a cuddle, dear!" she said; "put your head down on myshoulder, and I will sing you one of my own bedtime songs, that my nurseused to sing to me. "

Susan D. Sat bold upright, not a yielding joint in all her body. 

"Don't you like songs?" asked Margaret, stroking the tow-coloured hairgently. 

"No!" said the child; and with the word she wriggled off Margaret's lap, and stood twisting her fingers awkwardly, and frowning at the floor. Margaret sighed. 

"Then we will undress and get to bed, " she said, trying to speaklightly. "You must be very tired, little girl. Isn't that a pretty bed?Is your bed at home like this? Tell me about your room, won't you, Susie?"

But Susan D. Still twisted her fingers and frowned, and would not say asingle word. She made no resistance, however, when Margaret helped heroff with her clothes. "You are big enough to undress yourself, ofcourse, " the girl said, "but I will help you to-night, because you aretired, and you must feel strange, coming so far away from home. Poorlittle mite!" The child looked so small and slight, standing with herdress off, and her thin shoulders sticking out like wings, that Margaretfelt a sudden thrill of compassion, and stooping, kissed the freckledcheek warmly. The colour came into the child's face, but she stood likea stock, never moving a muscle, never raising her eyes to take note ofthe pretty, tasteful arrangements to which Margaret had given suchthought and pains. But the undressing went on, and presently she was inher little nightgown, with her hair unbraided and smoothly brushed. Shemight be pretty, Margaret decided, when she filled out a little, and hada pleasanter expression. She was so little! Surely there must be onemore effort, this first night. 

"Shall I hear you say your prayers, dear?" asked Margaret, taking thechild's two hands in hers. Susan D. Shook her head resolutely. 

"No? You like better to say them by yourself? Then I will come back in afew minutes, and tuck you up in your little nest. "

The child gave no sign; and when Margaret came back, she was standing inthe same spot, in the same position. She got into bed obediently, andmade no resistance when Margaret tucked the bedclothes in, patted hershoulder, and gave her a last good-night kiss. She might as well havekissed the pillow for any response there was, but at least there hadbeen no shrinking this time. "Good night, Susan D. , " said Margaret, cheerfully, pausing at the door. "Good night, dear! Susan, I think youmust answer when you are spoken to. "

"Good night!" said Susan D. Margaret shut the door softly and went away. As she passed along the corridor that ran round the hall, somethingstruck her forehead lightly. She looked up, and narrowly escaped gettinga fish-hook in her eye. Merton looked over the banisters, and smiledappealingly. "I was fishin', " he said. "There's fish-lines in thedrawers of the sofa. I guess I 'most caught a whale, didn't I?"

"Merton, you must go to bed at once!" said Margaret. "How long have youbeen standing there in your nightgown? You might catch your death. " (Ithad been one of old Katy's maxims that if you stood about in yournightgown for however short a time, you inevitably got your death. Margaret had never doubted it till this moment. ) "I am coming up now totuck you both up!" she added, with a happy inspiration. 

There was a hasty scuffle, then a rush, accompanied by smotheredsqueals. When Margaret reached the nursery, both boys were in bed. Merton's blue eyes were wide open, and fixed on her with mournfulearnestness; Basil was asleep, the clothes tucked in well under hischin. He lay on his back, his mouth slightly opened; he was snoringgently, but unobtrusively. Poor child! no doubt he was tired enough. Buthow had Merton managed to make so _much_ noise?

Margaret looked around her, and Merton's gaze grew more intense. His ownclothes lay in a heap on the floor, but where were his brother's?And--and what was that, smoothly folded over the back of a chair? Aclean nightgown?

But when Merton saw his cousin's eyes fix on the nightgown, he explodedin a bubbling laugh. "He--he ain't undressed at all!" he cried, gleefully. "He never! he's got his boots on, and every single--" Thespeech got no further. There was a flying whirl of blankets, a leap, andBasil was on his brother's chest, pounding him with right good will. "You sneak!" he cried. "I'll teach you--"

There was no time to think; the child would be killed before her eyes. Margaret took a firm hold on Basil's collar, and dragged him off by mainstrength, he still clawing the air. Unconsciously, she gave him a heartyshake before she let go; the boy staggered back a few paces; who wouldhave thought that Margaret had such strength in her slender wrists? Thecrisis over, she panted, and felt faint for an instant; Basil, after amoment of bewilderment, looked at her, and the smile broke all over hisface, a moment before black with rage. 

"Got me that time, didn't you?" he said, simply. "He's a mean sneak, Mert is. I'll serve him out to-morrow, don't you be afraid!"

"Basil, what does this mean?" asked Margaret, severely. "Why are you notin bed?" Then as Basil sent an eloquent glance at the pillow where hishead had been lying so quietly, she added, "Why are you not undressed, Imean? I am afraid you have been very naughty, both of you, boys. "

"Well, you see, " said Basil, apologetically, "there was all kinds ofthings in the drawers, and then I got on the rocking-horse, and itwasn't but just a minute before you came up. I say, isn't this a bullyroom, Cousin Margaret? I think Uncle John was awfully good to give ussuch a room as this. Why doesn't he sleep here himself? Bet I would, ifI owned the house. I say, do those marbles belong to him?"

"I suppose so, " said Margaret, smiling in spite of herself; "yes, I amsure they were his. But now, Basil, --"

"Well, see here!" cried the boy, excitedly. "Because, you see, they'reworth a lot, some of 'em. Why, there's agates, --why, they are perfectbeauties! Just look!" He ran towards the sofa, but Margaret stopped himresolutely. 

"To-morrow, Basil!" she said. "To-morrow you shall show me everythingyou like; but now you must go to bed, this very moment. I am prettytired, but I shall sit outside on the landing, till you tell me that youare in bed; then I shall come in and make sure for myself, and tuck youin. "

Basil illuminated the room again. "Will you?" he cried. "Honest, willyou tuck us in?"

Margaret nodded, wondering, and withdrew to the landing, where she satwith her head in her hands, saying to herself, "Let nothing disturbthee, nothing affright thee--"

Basil spoke through the keyhole. "Cousin Margaret!"

"Yes, Basil; are you ready so soon?"

"No, not quite. I wanted to say, --do you think you ought to spank me?"

"No, certainly not, my dear!"

"'Cause you can, if you think you'd better. "

"No, no, Basil; only do get to bed, like a good boy!"

"Yes, ma'am. "

A sudden plunge was heard, a thump, and the agonised shriek of asuffering bedstead. "Now I'm in bed!" said Basil. Margaret picked up thetwo heaps of clothing, and laid them neatly on two chairs. "I want youto do this yourselves after this, " she explained. "It isn't nice toleave your things on the floor. "

"All right!" "We will!" said both boys; and then they joined in afervent appeal to her not to turn their knickerbockers upside down. "'Cause all the things in your pockets spill out, " said Merton. 

"And then you get 'em mixed, and can't tell what belongs where, " criedBasil. "Thank you, Cousin Margaret; that's bully!"

Margaret tucked Merton in first; he looked so dimpled and pretty, shewas tempted to offer a caress, but the recollection of Susan D. Kepther from it. Turning away, she came to Basil's bed. The boy watched herintently as she smoothed the bedclothes with practised hand, and tuckedthem in exactly right, not too tight and not too loose. There areseveral ways of tucking a person into bed. With a pleasant "Good night!"she was about to leave him, but something in the boy's face held her. "Is there anything you want, my dear?" she asked, gently. Basil lookedat her; then turned his head away. "Mother used to put me to bed!" hemuttered, so low that Margaret could hardly hear. She did hear, however;and instantly stooping over the boy, she kissed him warmly. ThankHeaven, here was one who did want to be loved. "Dear Basil, " she said, tenderly. "Dear boy, you shall tell me all about her some day. Willyou?" The boy nodded; his eyes were eloquent, but he did not speak. Herheart still warm, Margaret looked across at Merton; but Basil pluckedher gown and whispered, "He--doesn't know. He can't remember her. Perhaps you can teach him--"

Margaret nodded, kissed the boy's white forehead once more, and wentaway with a lighter heart than she had brought with her. On the floorbelow she paused to listen at Susan's door; all was quiet there. CousinSophronia was asleep, too, no doubt; Margaret had spent part of theevening with her, reading, and listening to her doleful prophecies ofthe miseries entailed by the coming of "these dreadful children!" It wasnearly her own bedtime, too, for between Cousin Sophronia and thechildren the evening had slipped away all too fast. But surely she mighthave a few minutes of peace and joy? The library door stood open; fromit there came a stream of cheerful light, and the perfume of a Manilacigar. Oh, good! Uncle John had not gone to his study; he was waitingfor her. As she passed Miss Sophronia's door, Margaret fancied she hearda call; but she was not sure, and for once she was rebellious. She flewdown-stairs, and ran into the library. 

The pleasant room lay in shade, save for the bright gleam of thereading-lamp. Among the books which lined the walls from floor toceiling, the gilded backs of the smaller volumes caught the light andsent it back in soft, broken twinklings; but the great brown folios onthe lower shelves were half lost in a comfortable duskiness. The crimsoncurtains were drawn before the open windows, and the evening wind wavedthem lightly now and then, sending new shadows to chase the old onesalong the walls and ceiling. The thick old Turkey carpet held everypossible shade of soft, faded richness, and the brown leather armchairslooked as if they had been sat in by generations of book-lovingMontforts, as indeed they had. And amid all this sober comfort, by thegreat library table with its orderly litter of magazines and new books, sat Mr. John Montfort, book in hand and cigar in mouth, a breathingstatue of Ease, in a brown velvet smoking-jacket. He looked up, and, seeing Margaret in the doorway, laid down his book, and held out hishand with a gesture of welcome. "Well, my girl, " he said, "come and tellme all about it!"

With a great sigh of relief, Margaret dropped on the rug at her uncle'sfeet, and laid her tired head on his knee. "Uncle John!" she said. "Oh, Uncle John!" That seemed to be all she wanted to say; she shut her eyes, and gave herself up to the comfort which only comes with rest afterfatigue. 

Mr. Montfort stroked her hair gently, with a touch as light as awoman's. Then he took up his book again, and began to read aloud. It wasa curious old book, bound in black leather, with great silver clasps. 

 "In that isle is a dead sea or lake, that has no bottom; and if any thing falls into it, it will never come up again. In that lake grow reeds, which they call Thaby, that are thirty fathoms long; and of these reeds they make fair houses. And there are other reeds, not so long, that grow near the land, and have roots full a quarter of a furlong long or more, at the knots of which roots precious stones are found that have great virtues; for he who carries any of them upon him may not be hurt by iron or steel; and therefore they who have those stones on them fight very boldly both by sea and land; and therefore, when their enemies are aware of this, they shoot at them darts without iron or steel, and so hurt and slay them. And also of those reeds they make houses and ships and other things, as we here make houses and ships of oak, or of any other tree. And let no man think I am joking, for I have seen these reeds with my own eyes. "

The words flowed on and on; Margaret felt her troubles smoothingthemselves out, melting away. "Who is this pleasant person?" she asked, without raising her head. 

"Sir John Mandeville, " said her uncle. "Rest a bit still, and we'll goand see the Chan of Cathay with him. Here we are!" He turned a page ortwo, and read again:

 "The emperor has his table alone by himself, which is of gold and precious stones; or of crystal, bordered with gold and full of precious stones; or of amethysts, or of lignum aloes, that comes out of Paradise; or of ivory bound or bordered with gold. And under the emperor's table sit four clerks, who write all that the emperor says, be it good or evil; for all that he says must be held good; for he may not change his word nor revoke it. "

"Oh, but I shouldn't like that, Uncle John!" cried Margaret. "Ishouldn't like that at all! Should you?"

"I don't think it would be agreeable, " Mr. Montfort admitted. "But whenwe come to anything we don't like, we can suppose that Sir Johnwas--shall we call it embroidering? And how does my girl feel now? Arethe wrinkles smoothing out at all?"

"All smooth!" replied the girl. "All gone, Uncle John. I was only alittle tired; and--Uncle John--"

"Yes, dear child. "

"You must expect that I shall do a great many wrong things, at first. Iam very ignorant, and--well, not very old, perhaps. If only I can makethe children love me!"

"They'd better love you, " said Uncle John. "If they don't, they'll getthe stick. But don't fret, Margaret; I am not going to fret, and I shallnot let you do it. The little girl seems slightly abnormal, at firstsight; but the boys--"

"Yes, Uncle John?" and Margaret raised her head and looked eagerly ather uncle, hoping for some light that would make all clear to her. "Theboys?"

"Why, the boys are just boys, my dear; nothing in the world but plainboys. Two of 'em instead of four, --thank your stars that you are inthis generation instead of the last, my love; and now take this littlehead off to bed, and don't let another anxious thought come into it. Good night, my child. "

CHAPTER IX. 

A NEWCOMER. 

"If you please, Miss Margaret, the lady would like to speak to you, inher room. "

"Miss Montfort?" (Elizabeth never would call Miss Sophronia MissMontfort. ) "Yes, Elizabeth, I will be up in a moment; tell her, please. "

Hastily pinning her collar, --it was near breakfast-time, and she hadbeen longer than usual in dressing, --Margaret ran up to the Blue Room. Miss Sophronia, in curl-papers and a long, yellow wrapper, was standingnear the window, apparently rigid with horror. 

"What is it, Cousin Sophronia? What can I do for you?"

"Margaret, I told you, --I warned you. I warned John Montfort. No one cansay that I neglected my duty in this respect; my conscience is clear. Now look, --I desire you, look out of that window, and tell me what youthink. "

Margaret looked. At first she saw nothing but the clear glass, and, beyond it, the blue sky and waving trees. But, looking again, she becameaware of two objects dangling over the upper part of the pane; a blackobject, and a white object; two small legs, one bare, the other instocking and shoe. The legs were swinging back and forth, keeping timeto a clear and lively whistle, and now and then one of them gave alittle kick, as of pure content. 

"Do you see?" demanded Miss Sophronia, in tragic tone. 

"Yes, Cousin Sophronia, I see. I can't think--but I'll run up at onceand see what it means, and bring the child down. I--" Margaret waited tosay no more, but flew up-stairs, only pausing to cast a hasty glanceinto Susan D. 's room, the door of which stood open. The room was empty;so, when she reached the top of the stairs, was the nursery. She entereda small room that was used as a storeroom; its one window lookeddirectly on the roof, and this window stood wide open. Running to lookout, Margaret saw Susan D. , seated astride of a gable, dangling her legsas aforesaid, and apparently enjoying herself immensely. The whistlestopped when she saw her cousin, and the cheerful look gave place to oneof sullenness. 

"Susan, my dear child, what are you doing here?"

"Looking for my other stocking, " replied the child. 

"Your stocking?"

"Yes. I dropped it out of the window, and I came up here to look forit. "

"She thought she could see better!" explained Basil, appearing suddenlyfrom behind the chimney. "I--good morning, Cousin Margaret. I slept verywell, thank you. "

"So did I!" chimed in Susan D. , with suspicious readiness. "I slept verywell. Good morning, Cousin Margaret, thank you!"

"That isn't right, " said Basil, as Margaret looked in bewilderment fromone to the other; "you are such a stupid, Susan D. You see, " he added, turning to Margaret, "I've been telling her that she's got to havebetter manners, and speak when she's spoken to; and, if she behavespretty well, she's going to get some hard stamps she wants; and if shedoesn't--"

"I am, " said Susan D. "Amn't I, Cousin Margaret?"

It was the first time the child had addressed Margaret directly, and thelatter hastened to assure her that her morning greeting would do verywell indeed. "But, dear children, " she cried, "I cannot let you stayhere. Indeed, you ought never to have come up; I don't believe UncleJohn would like to have you on the roof at all; and it isbreakfast-time, and Cousin Sophronia has been a good deal frightened, Susie, at seeing your legs dangling over her window in this fashion. "

"We aren't hurting the old roof!" cried boy and girl, in eagerself-defence. 

"Oh, my dears! It isn't the roof, it's your precious necks, that youmight be breaking at this moment. How are you going to get back? Basil, it makes me dizzy to look at you. "

"Then I wouldn't look, " said Basil, cheerfully. "I'm all right, CousinMargaret, just truly I am. Why, I just live on roofs, every chance Iget. And this is a bully roof to climb on. "

Margaret covered her eyes with her hands, as the boy came tripping alongthe ridge-pole towards her; but the next moment she put the hands downresolutely. "Let me help you!" she said. "Susan, take my hand, dear, andlet me help you in. "

But Susan D. Needed no helping hand; she scrambled up the slope of theroof like a squirrel, and wriggled in at the window before Margaretcould lay hands on her. "I'm all right!" she said, shyly. "I didn't findmy stocking, though. I'll get another pair. " But Margaret soon found thestocking, and in due time could report to Cousin Sophronia that thechildren were both safe on the ground, and more or less ready forbreakfast. Merton had not shared in the roof expedition; he had climbedthe great chestnut-tree instead, and appeared at breakfast with most ofthe buttons off his jacket, and a large barn-door tear in hisknickerbockers. 

Miss Sophronia greeted the children with firmness. "How do you do, mydears?" she said. "I am your Cousin Sophronia, and I shall take theplace of a mamma to you while you are here. If you do as I tell you, weshall get on very well, I dare say. You are Basil? Yes, you look likeyour Uncle Reuben. You remember Reuben, John? What a troublesome boy hewas, to be sure! And this is Merton. H'm! Yes! The image of his father. Anthony; to be sure! And what is your name, child? Susan D. ? Ah, yes!For your Aunt Susan, of course. And are you a good girl, Susan D. ?"

Susan D. Hung her head, and looked defiant. 

"Always answer when you are spoken to, " said the lady, with mildseverity. "I'm afraid your father has let you run wild; but we willalter all that. Little boy--Merton, I mean, you are taking too muchsugar on your porridge. Too much sugar is very bad for children. Hand methe bowl, if you please. I am obliged to take a good deal of sugar--thedoctor's orders! There are one--two--three buttons off your jacket. Thiswill never do!"

"I scraped 'em off, shinning up the tree, " said Merton, sadly. "I barkedall my shins, too; but I found the squirrel's nest. "

"Oh, Merton, you didn't meddle with it?" cried Margaret. "That littlesquirrel is so tame, I should be very sorry to have him teased. Youdidn't tease him, did you, dear?"

Merton looked injured. "I just put my hand into his old hole, and he bitme, nasty thing! I'll kill him, first chance I get. "

"You will do nothing of the kind, " said Mr. Montfort, quietly. "You willlet the squirrel alone, Merton, or I shall have to stop the climbingaltogether. You understand?"

"Yes, sir, " said Merton. "Ow! you stop that, now!"

"Did you speak to me, sir?" inquired Mr. Montfort, politely. 

"Well, he kicked my sore shin, " growled Merton, glaring savagely atBasil. Basil chuckled gleefully. Mr. Montfort looked from one to theother. 

"Kick each other as much as you like out-of-doors, " he said. "Here, youcan either behave yourselves or leave the table. Take your choice. " Hespoke very quietly, and went on with his letter, without another glanceat the boys; indeed, no second glance was needed, for the childrenbehaved remarkably well through the rest of breakfast. 

That morning was a trying time for Margaret. She tried hard to rememberher uncle's parting words, as he drove away: "Let them run, these firstfew days, and don't worry; above all, don't worry!"

[Illustration: "MERTON WAS TEASING CHIQUITO. "]

Yes, but how could she help worrying? If it had been only running! Butthese children never seemed content to stay on their feet for tenminutes together. Now they were turning somersaults round and round thegrass-plot, till her head grew dizzy, and Cousin Sophronia screamedfrom the window that they would all be dead of apoplexy in less than tenminutes. Now they were hanging by their heels from the lower branches ofthe horse-chestnut tree, daring each other to turn a somersault in theair and so descend. Now Merton was teasing Chiquito, and getting hisfinger bitten, and howling, while Basil jeered at him, and wanted toknow whether a sixty-year-old bird was likely to stand "sauce" from aten-year-old monkey. Now Susan D. Had caught her frock on a bramble, andtorn a long, jagged rent across the front breadth, that filled Margaretwith despair. Poor Susan D. ! By afternoon, Miss Sophronia had taken herinto custody, and marched her off to her own room, to stay there tillbedtime. 

"The child was rebellious, my dear Margaret; positively disrespectful. Alittle discipline, my love, is what that child needs. It is my duty togive it to her, and I shall do my duty cheerfully. At your age, it isnot to be expected that you should know anything about children. Leaveall to me, and you will be surprised at the result. A firm rein for afew weeks, --I shall manage her, never fear!"

Margaret was humble-minded, and fully conscious of her total lack ofexperience; still, she could not feel that a system of repression wasthe one most likely to succeed with Susan D. 

"If we could win the child's affection, " she began, timidly. MissSophronia pounced upon her. 

"My love, you naturally think so! Believe me, I know what I am talkingabout. I have practically brought up William's children; the result isastonishing, everybody says so. " (Everybody did, but their astonishmentwas hardly what the good lady fancied it. ) "Trust, --dearest Margaret, simply confide absolutely in me! So important, I always say, for theyoung to have entire confidence in their elders. "

Margaret was thankful when dinner was over, and her cousin gone to takeher afternoon nap. Basil was in a lowering mood, the result of hissister's imprisonment. He would do nothing but rage against CousinSophronia, so Margaret was finally obliged to send him away, and sitdown with a sigh to her work, alone. 

It was very pleasant and peaceful on the verandah. The garden was hotand sunny at this hour, but here the shade lay cool and grateful, andMargaret felt the silence like balm on her fretted spirit. It was allwrong that she should be so fretted; she argued with herself, scolded, tried to bring herself to a better frame of mind; but nature was toostrong for her, and the best she could do was to resolve that she wouldtry, and keep on trying, her very best; and that Uncle John should notknow how worried she was. That, surely, she could manage: to keep asmiling face when he was at home, and to made light of all these hourlypin-pricks that seemed to her sensitive nature like sword-thrusts. 

So quiet! Only the sound of the soft wind in the great chestnut-trees, and the clear notes of a bird in the upper branches. A rose-breastedgrosbeak! Her uncle had been teaching her something about birds, and sheknew this beautiful creature, and loved to watch him as he hoveredabout the nest where his good wife sat. His song was almost like theoriole's, Margaret thought. She laid down her embroidery, and watchedthe flashes of crimson appear and disappear. What a wonderful, beautifulthing! How good to live in the green country, where lovely sights andsounds were one's own, all day long. Why should one let oneself bedistressed, even if things did not go just to one's mind?

A soft cloud seemed to be stealing over her spirit; it was not sleep, but just a waking dream, of peace and beauty, and the love of all lovelythings in the green and blossoming world, where life floated by to themusic of birds, --

"I beg your pardon, Miss Margaret; were you asleep, miss?"

Margaret sat upright, and looked a little severe. It would never do evento look as if she had been asleep, in the middle of the afternoon. "No, Elizabeth, " she said. "What is wanted?"

"Only miss, Frances was wishful to know whether she should keep MasterMerton's dinner any longer, or whether she'd cook something fresh forhim along with his supper. "

No more dreaming for Margaret! She sprang to her feet, suddenlyconscious of the fact that Merton had not been seen for several hours. It could not have been more than eleven o'clock when he was in her room;now-- "What time is it, Elizabeth?"

"Going on five, Miss Margaret. Mr. Montfort'll soon be here, miss; maybeMaster Merton might have gone to meet him. "

Margaret shook her head; that did not seem at all likely. She hailedBasil, who came sauntering up the gravel walk, his brow still clouded, kicking the pebbles before him. 

"Oh, Basil, have you seen Merton? He has not been in the house sincethis morning, and I am anxious about him. "

Basil shrugged his shoulders. "Run away, most likely!" he said, carelessly. "He's always running away, Mert is. "

"Always running away! But where could he run to, Basil? He does not knowhis way about here. He surely would not run away in a strange place. "

Basil smiled superior. "That's just why he'd do it. He likes to find outnew places; we both do. I wouldn't leave Susan D. , or I'd have gone, too, bet I would. No use staying here, to be bossed round. "

"Oh, Basil, don't talk so, but help me, like a dear boy, to findMerton. "

Basil stood uncertain. He raised a threatening glance towards MissSophronia's window; but Margaret was beside him in a moment. "Basil, toplease me!" she said. She laid her hand on the boy's shoulder. He stoodstill, and Margaret had a moment of painful doubt; but the next instanthe raised his face to her with his own enchanting smile. "All right!" hesaid. "You are all right, Cousin Margaret, whatever other folks are, andI'll help you every single bit I can. "

"That's my good, helpful boy!" said Margaret, heartily. "Oh, Basil, youand I together can do a great deal, but alone I feel rather helpless. You shall be my little--no, not little--you shall be my brother, andtell me how to manage Merton and Susan, and make them love me. But thefirst thing is to find Merton. What can have become of the child? Whereshall we look for him?"

"I think perhaps down by the bog, " said Basil, looking very importantand pleased with his new responsibility. "He said he was going downthere, first chance he got. I meant to go, too, but I won't if you don'twant me to, Cousin Margaret. There's a bully--"

"Basil!"

"There's a--a superb workman down there; do you know him, CousinMargaret? I guess he's the boss, or something. He wears blue overallsand a blue jumper, and he can vault--oh my! how that fellow can vault!"

"Basil, I don't feel at all sure that your uncle would wish you to betalking with strange workmen. At any rate, I think you ought to askleave, don't you?"

"Maybe I ought!" said Basil, cheerfully. "But it's too late now, yousee, 'cause I have talked to him, quite lots, and he's awfully jolly. Oh, Jonah! I do believe there he is now; and--Cousin Margaret! I dobelieve he's got Mert with him! Look!"

Margaret looked. A man was coming across the field that lay beyond thegarden wall; a workingman, from his blue overalls and jumper; a youngman, from the way he moved, and from his light, springy step. Margaretcould not see his face, but his hair was red; she could see that overthe burden that he carried in his arms. 

Coming nearer, this burden was seen to be a child. A chimney-sweeper?No, for chimney-sweepers are not necessarily wet; do not drip black mudfrom head to foot; do not run streams of black bog water. 

"Merton!" cried poor Margaret, who knew well the look of that mud andwater. "Oh, what has happened? Is--is he hurt?" she cried out, runningtowards the wall. 

The young workman raised a cheerful face, streaked with black, andpresenting the appearance of a light-hearted savage in trim for afuneral. 

"Not a bit hurt!" he called in return. "All right, only wet, and atrifle muddy. Little chap's had a bath, that's all. Hope you haven'tbeen anxious about him. "

"Oh, yes, I have been anxious--thank you! You are sure--he has not beenin danger?"

"Well, " the stranger admitted, "just as well I was there, perhaps. Itisn't a safe place for children, you see. How are you now, old chap? Hewas a bit dizzy when I picked him up, you see. "

Merton lifted his black head, and looked ruefully at Margaret. 

"You told me not to go!" he said. "I won't go again. "

"Well, I guess you won't!" cried Basil, excitedly. "Why, you've been inall over; it's all up to your chin, and some of it's on the back of yourhead. I say, you must--"

The young man made him a sign quickly. "He's all right!" he said. "Mudbaths extremely hygienic; recommended by the medical fraternity;a--where did you say I should put him?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Margaret. "I am letting you hold him allthis time, and you are getting all wet, too. "

"No consequence, not the least in the world. Besides, --past participleperhaps more appropriate than present. "

Margaret led the way to the verandah, and the stranger finally depositedhis burden on the steps. Looking down at himself, he seemed for thefirst time aware of his singular appearance, for he blushed, and, lifting his cap, was turning away with a muttered apology, in which theword "clothes" was the only word Margaret could hear. 

"Oh!" she cried, "you are not going yet! I--I have not thanked you! Youhave saved the child's life, I know you have. I--I have seen somethingof that bog, " she shuddered. "Mr. Montfort will want to see you, andthank you himself. Do at least tell me your name, so that we may knowwho it is that has done us this great service. "

But here the young man caught sight of his face, reflected in awindow-pane, and lost the last vestige of self-possession. "If--ifyou'll excuse me, " he cried, "I think I'll go before Mr. Montfort comes. The costume of a Mohawk on the war-path--effective, but unusual;a--call to-morrow if I may, to see if the little chap is all right. Mr. Montfort kindly asked me--good day!"

"But you haven't told her your name!" Basil shouted after him. 

"Oh! Of course!--a--Merryweather! Gerald Merryweather. "

CHAPTER X. 

"I MUST HELP MYSELF. "

 "DEAR MARGARET:

 "I find a telegram here which obliges me to run on to Philadelphia at once. I may be away all the week; do as well as you can, dear child, and don't let B. , M. , and S. D. Tear you to pieces. I forgot to tell you that the young man in charge of the bog-draining turns out to be the son of an old friend of mine, Miles Merryweather. I asked him to come up to the house; if he should come while I am away, you will be good to him. I will let you know by telegraph when to expect me. 

 "Always affectionately yours, "JOHN MONTFORT. "

Margaret read this brief letter with a sinking heart. How was she tokeep up without Uncle John? How was she to cope with all thedifficulties that beset her path like sharp-thorned briers? If she hadbut Aunt Faith--if she had but some one to turn to! She had tried totake counsel with Mrs. Peyton, but the beautiful woman was still, atfifty, a spoiled child, far younger in many ways than Margaret herself;she would only laugh, and advise her to get rid of Miss Sophronia bysome trick, or practical joke. 

"Freeze her out, my dear! Get rid of her, somehow! That is all theadvice I can give you. And bring the young barbarians to see me; I amsure they will amuse me. "

Margaret had just been acting on this last request. She had taken thetwo boys to see the invalid, and had left them there now, coming awaywith a sore and angry heart. Mrs. Peyton had been drawing the childrenout, laughing at their remarks about their cousin, and paying no regardto Margaret's entreaties. At length Margaret had simply come away, withno more than a brief "Good afternoon!" feeling that she could not trustherself to say more. Emily Peyton only laughed; she had full confidencein her charm, and thought she could bring back her puritanical littlefriend whenever she chose to smile in a particular way; meanwhile, thechildren were a new toy, and amused her. 

But Margaret felt that she had had almost enough of Mrs. Peyton. Beautywas a great deal, charm and grace were a great deal more; but they didnot take the place of heart. No, there was no one to help her! Well, then she must help herself, that was all!

She stood still, her mind full of this new thought. She was eighteenyears old; she was well and strong, and possessed of averageintelligence. "Look here!" she said suddenly, aloud. "If you cannotmanage those children, why, I am ashamed of you. Do you hear?"

The other self, the timid one, did hear, and took heart. The girl feltnew strength coming to her. The world had changed, somehow; thegiants, --were they only windmills, after all? Up, lance, and at them!

In this changed mood she went on, humming a little song to herself. Asshe drew near the wood that skirted the bog, the song was answered byanother, trolled in a cheerful bass voice:

 "The lady was pleased for to see him so bold; She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold; She said she had found it while walking around, As she was a-hunting with her dog and her gun. "

The "blue boy, " as she mentally called him, came dancing out of thewood, throwing up his cap, and singing as he came. At sight of Margarethe paused, in some confusion, cap in hand. 

"I--I beg your pardon, " he said. "I trust I did not disturb you with mycarol? There isn't generally any one here, you know; I get rather tofeel as if it all belonged to me. I hope the little chap is all rightto-day, Miss--Is it Miss Montfort?"

"Oh, yes! Certainly!" said Margaret, blushing in her turn. "I ought tohave said, of course--yes, thank you, Mr. Merryweather, Merton is quitewell to-day; and I really think he has had a lesson, for he has not runaway since, and it is two or three days ago. I--my uncle has beensuddenly called away on business, but he asked me to say--that is, weshall be very glad to see you at the house any day; Miss Montfort, hiscousin, --my uncle's cousin, --is there with me and the children. "

"Thanks awfully, " murmured Gerald. "I'd like to come ever so much, someday; but I keep all in a mess so--" he glanced down ruefully at his blueclothes, and finding them quite respectably clean, brightened visibly. "My father was at school with Mr. Montfort; Miles Merryweather, perhapshe told you, Miss Montfort?"

"Yes, he told me. I--I always think Uncle John must have been such adelightful boy. I am sure they must have had good times together. "

"So was the Pater, no end; I mean, my father was an agreeable youthalso. " Gerald stopped short, and glanced sidelong at the young girl. Hewas well used to girls, having sisters and cousins; but they were usedto him, too, and he somehow felt that this sweet, serious-looking maidenwas not accustomed to young men, and that he must, as he silently put itto himself, "consider the prudent P, and the quaintly quiggling Q. "

"And Uncle John must have been a brilliant scholar!" Margaret went on, warming to her subject. She had never, as it happened, walked and talkedwith a lad before in her quiet life; she did not know quite how to doit, but so long as she talked about Uncle John, she could not go wrong. "He knows so much, --so much that he must have learned early, because itis so a part of him. Wasn't he head of his class most of the time? Henever will talk about it, but I am sure he must have been. "

"I am not so sure about that, " Gerald admitted; "I know he was the bestwrestler, and that he and my father were generally neck and neck in allthe running races. He was a better high kick, because his legs werelonger, don't you know, but the Pater was ahead in boxing. "

Margaret was bewildered. Was this scholarship? Was this the record thatbrilliant boys left behind them? She gave a little sigh; the mention oflong legs brought her back to Basil again. Dear Basil! he had only onepair of knickerbockers left that was fit to be seen. She ought to bemending the corduroys this moment, in case he should come home all inpieces, as he was apt to do. 

"Have you any little brothers, Mr. Merryweather?" she asked, followingthe thread of her thought. 

"One; Willy. That is, he's not so very little now, but he's a good bityounger than Phil and I; Phil is my twin. Willy--oh, I suppose he mustbe fourteen, or somewhere about there, to a field or two. "

"Basil is twelve, " said Margaret, thoughtfully. "And does he--or did he, two years ago, --I suppose a boy develops very quickly, --did he want tobe climbing and jumping and running _all_ the time?"

"Let me see!" said Gerald, gravely. "Why--yes, I should say so, MissMontfort. Of course he stops now and then to eat; and then there's thetime that he's asleep, you know; you have to take out that. Butotherwise, --yes, I should say you had described Willy's existence prettywell. "

"And climbing on roofs?" Margaret went on. "And tumbling into bogs, andturning somersaults? What _can_ be the pleasure of turning oneselfwrong side up and getting the blood into one's head?"

Margaret stopped suddenly, and the colour rushed into her face; no needof somersaults in her case. For had not this young man been turningsomersaults the first time she saw him? And turning them in the samesenseless way, just for the joy of it, apparently? She glanced at him, and he was blushing too; but he met her look of distress with one socomic in its quizzical appeal, that she laughed in spite of herself. 

"I love to turn somersaults!" he murmured. "'Twas the charm of mychirping childhood; it is now the solace of my age. Don't be severe, Miss Montfort. I turn them now, sometimes; I will not deceive you. "

"Oh! oh, yes, I know!" said Margaret, timidly, but still laughing inspite of herself. "I--I saw you the other day, Mr. Merryweather. Ithought--you seemed to be enjoying yourself very much. "

"No! Did you, though?" cried Gerald. "I say! Where was it? I never meantto do it when people were round. I'm awfully sorry. "

"Oh, no!" said Margaret, confused. "Why shouldn't you? It--it was by theedge of the bog. I had come round that way, and you were leaping with apole about the bog, and I--stayed to watch you. I hope you don't mind;"this foolish girl was blushing again furiously, which was mostunnecessary; "and--I thought you must be a foreigner; I don't know why. And--and then you came out, and turned a somersault, and--I wonderedwhy, that was all. You see, I never had a brother, and I have neverknown any boys in all my life till now. I don't mean that you are a boy, of course!"

"Oh, but I _am_!" cried Gerald. "What else am I but a boy? I wish theycould hear you at home. Why, I'm just Jerry, you know, and--and I'vealways been that kind of boy, I'm afraid; just like Willy, only a gooddeal worse. And now--well, I've been through college, and now I'm in theSchool of Mines, and I'm twenty-one, and all that, but I can't seem tomake myself feel any older, don't you know. I don't know what's going tobecome of me. Hilda says I won't grow up till I fall--oh! you don'tknow Hilda, do you, Miss Montfort?"

"Hilda?" repeated Margaret. "I only know Hilda in the 'Marble Faun. '"

"Hildegarde Merryweather; Hildegarde Grahame she used to be. I thoughtyou might possibly have--well, she's my aunt according to the flesh. Iwish you did know her!"

"Your aunt? Is she--is she about Uncle John's age? I know so few people, you see. I have lived a very quiet life. "

"Oh, no! She--well, I suppose she's a little older than you, but notvery much. She married Roger, don't you know. He's my half-uncle allright, but he's ever so many years younger than the Pater, nearer ourage, you might almost say; and Hildegarde and the girls, my sisters, --Isay! I wish you knew them all, Miss Montfort. "

"I wish I did, " said Margaret, simply. "There are no girls of my own agenear here. Last year I had my cousins, and I miss them so much!"

"Of course you must!" said sympathetic Gerald. "Girls are no end--I--Imean, I like them too, ever so much. " He paused, and wished he knew theright thing to say. How pretty and sweet she was! Not like Hilda, ofcourse (Hilda was this young man's ideal of what a girl should be), butwith a little quiet way of her own that was very nice. She must have noend of a time of it with these youngsters! He spoke his thought aloud. They were nearing Fernley, and he must leave her soon. "You must behaving some difficulty with those youngsters, Miss Montfort. If I couldhelp you any time, I wish you'd let me know. There have always been sucha lot of us at home, I'm used to most kinds of children, you see; and Ishould be ever so glad--"

[Illustration: "'Won't you come in?'"]

"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret, gratefully. "I am sure you are verykind; and if you would advise me sometimes--now that Uncle John isaway--I should be most grateful. But--I ought to be able to manage themmyself, it seems to me, without help. If I can only make them love me!"She looked straight at Gerald, and her dark gray eyes were verywistful in their unconscious appeal. 

"I'd like to see 'em not!" said the young man, straightway. "Littlebeggars! They couldn't help themselves!" He was about to add that hewould thrash them handsomely if they did not love her, but pulledhimself together, and blushed to his ears, and was only comforted byseeing out of the tail of his eye that the girl was wholly unconsciousof his blushes. After all, there was some sense in freckles and sunburn. 

But here they were now at the gates of Fernley. "Won't you come in?"said Margaret. But Gerald, becoming once more conscious of hisworking-clothes, which he had entirely forgotten, excused himself. If hemight come some evening soon? Yes, he might, and should. He lingeredstill a moment, and Margaret, after a moment's shyness, held out herhand frankly. "I am so glad to know you!" she said, simply. "UncleJohn--Mr. Montfort said I was to be good to you, and I will try. "

"I'm sure you couldn't be anything else!" said Gerald, with fervour. "Thanks, awfully, Miss Montfort. Good-bye!" Lifting his cap, the youngman turned away, feeling homesick, and yet cheerful. Passing round thecorner of the house, and finding himself well out of sight of the younggirl, he relieved his feelings by turning a handspring; and on coming tohis feet again, encountered the awful gaze of two greenish eyes, bentupon him from an upper window of the house. 

"Now I've done it!" said the youth, brushing himself, and assuming allthe dignity of which he was master. "Wonder who that is? Housekeeper, perhaps? Quite the Gorgon, whoever it is. Wish I didn't turn over soeasily. "

Margaret went into the house singing, with a lighter heart than she hadfelt since Uncle John's letter came. Perhaps she had made a friend; atany rate, a pleasant acquaintance. What a frank, nice, gentlemanly--boy!"For he is a boy, just as he says!" she acknowledged to herself. Andwhat kind, honest eyes he had; and how thoughtful to offer to help herwith the children!

Her pleasant meditations were harshly interrupted. Miss Sophronia camedown-stairs, with her brown and yellow shawl drawn over her shoulders;this, Margaret had learned, was a bad sign. 

"Margaret, who was that young man? I saw you! There is no use inattempting to conceal anything from me, my dear. I saw you talking witha young man at the gate. "

"Why should I conceal it?" asked Margaret, wondering. "It was Mr. Merryweather, Cousin Sophronia. He was a schoolmate of Uncle John's, --Imean his father was. "

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the lady, sharply. "Don't tell me anythingof the kind, miss. He was a common workman, a day-labourer. I tell you Isaw him! Do you suppose I have no eyes in my head? I shall consider itmy duty to tell your uncle as soon as he comes home. I am surprised atyou, Margaret. I thought at least you were discreet. William's daughterswould no more think of talking with such a person--but that comes ofleaving a young person alone here with servants. My dear, I shall makeit a point henceforward--"

She stopped; for the gentle Margaret turned upon her with eyes of fire. "Cousin Sophronia, I cannot listen to this; I will not listen! I am agentlewoman, and must be spoken to as a gentlewoman. I am eighteen yearsold, and am accountable to no one except Uncle John for my behaviour. Let me pass, please! I want to go to my room. "

The girl swept by, her head high, her cheeks burning with righteouswrath. Miss Sophronia gazed after her speechless; it was as if a dovehad ruffled its wings and flown in her face. "Ungrateful girl!" said thelady to herself. "I never meet with anything but ingratitude wherever Igo. She is as bad as those girls of William's, for all her soft looks. The human heart is very, very depraved. But I shall do my duty, in spiteof everything. "

CHAPTER XI. 

THE SECOND CONQUEST. 

The boys came home late for tea that night, bubbling over with joy. Basil declared that they did not want any supper. "Mrs. Peyton gave ussome of her supper. I say, Cousin Margaret, isn't she bully?"

"Basil, if you _could_ find another adjective now and then! I cannotimagine anything less appropriate to Mrs. Peyton than--the one youused. "

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter! She _is_ bully! She had broiled chicken, awhole one, and she just took a little piece off the breast for herself, and then she told Mert and me each to take a leg and run. And we did!And Mert sat down in the china bath-tub with his, and smashedit, --cracked it, at least, --and she said she didn't care. "

"And the table-drawer was full of chocolate peppermints, " chimed inMerton, "and we ate so many, I don't feel very well now, I think, p'r'aps. "

"And she told us lots of things!" cried Basil again; he looked towardsMiss Sophronia, with sparkling eyes. "She told us about when she was alittle girl, and used to stay here, when Uncle John's puppa and mummawere alive. I say! And you were here, too, she said, Cousin Sophronia. And she said--lots of things!" The boy stopped suddenly, and gave hisbrother a look of intelligence. 

"Ho!" said Merton, "I know what you mean, --you mean about the ghost, that scared--I say! You stop pinching, will you? I'll punch your--"

"Merton!" said Margaret, warningly. 

"Well, he was pinching me!" whined Merton. "And it did scare you, didn'tit, Cousin Sophronia?"

Miss Sophronia looked disturbed. "Merton, you should speak when you arespoken to!" she said, severely. "I am surprised that Mrs. Peyton shouldhave told you such things. There certainly were some very strangeoccurrences at Fernley, Margaret, when I was a young girl. They neverwere explained to my satisfaction; indeed, I never heard of their beingexplained at all. Little boys, if you do not want any supper, you may aswell run away. I do not approve of their going to see Emily Peyton, Margaret. I shall make a point of their not doing so in future. She wasalways malicious. "

She seemed much fluttered, and Margaret, wondering, hastened to changethe subject. "I wonder where Susan D. Can be. I have not seen the childsince I came in, and she did not answer when I called her. Elizabeth, doyou--"

"Pardon me, Margaret, my love!" Miss Sophronia interposed. "Susan D. Isin bed; I sent her to bed an hour ago. "

"Oh, Cousin Sophronia! Without her supper? What had she done?"

"She was disobedient, my dear, --disobedient and impertinent. I have nodoubt that this will have an excellent effect upon the child. Basil, what do you want? I told you to go away. "

"Cousin Margaret, could I speak to you a moment, please?" asked the boy. 

"I will come to you, Basil, " said Margaret, quickly. "Will you excuseme, Cousin Sophronia, please? I have quite finished. Now, Basil, what isit?"

She led the boy carefully out of earshot, for thunder and lightning werein his face, and she foresaw an outburst. 

"Susan D. Is in bed!" cried Basil. "She has had no supper at all;Elizabeth said so. That woman sent her. Cousin Margaret, I won't standit. I--I'll set fire to her clothes! I'll shoot her! I'll--I'll kill hersome way--"

Margaret laid her hand over the boy's mouth. "You will be silent!" shesaid. "Not a word, not a syllable, till you can speak like a civilisedbeing. We will have no savages here. "

Basil said no word, --he knew well enough when he must obey, --but he sethis teeth, and clenched his fists; the veins on his temples swelled, hiswhole childish frame shook with anger. Margaret had never seen any one, not even Rita, in such a passion as this. For a few moments, the twostood motionless, facing each other. Then Margaret took the boy's handin hers, and led him out into the garden. Still holding his hand, shepaced up and down the green walk in silence, Basil following obediently. The evening was falling soft and dusk; the last bird was chirpingsleepily; the air was full of the scent of flowers. Behind the darktrees, where the sun had gone down, the sky still glowed with soft, yellow light. "See!" said Margaret, presently. "There is the first star. Let us wish! Oh, Basil dear, let us wish--and pray--for a good thing, for strength to overcome--ourselves. "

The boy's hand pressed hers convulsively, but he did not speak at first. Presently he said, almost in a whisper, "She is so little, --and so thin!I told Mother I would take care of her. But--I said--I would try not tolet go of myself, too. "

Very tenderly Margaret drew the child down beside her, on a rusticbench that stood under one of the great tulip-trees. In the quietdarkness, she felt his heart open to her even more than it had done yet. In the hour that followed, she learned the story of a wild, faithfulnature, full of mischief, full of love. The passionate love for hismother, whom he remembered well; the faithful, scowling devotion to thelittle sister, whom no one should scold but himself, and whom he shook, and bullied, and protected with a sole eye to her good; all this, andmuch more, Margaret learned. The two sat hand in hand, and took counseltogether. "Oh, it is so good to have some one to talk to, " cried Basil. 

"Isn't it, dear?" said Margaret. "Now you know how I feel with UncleJohn away; and--oh, Basil, before I had Uncle John, --when my fatherdied, --oh, my dear! But you are going to be my brother now, Basil, --mydear, dear little brother, aren't you? And you will tell me how to makeSusan D. Love me. I think you do love me a little already, don't you, Basil?"

For all answer, Basil threw his arms round her, and gave her such a hugas made her gasp for breath. 

"Dear boy, " cried Margaret, "don't--kill me! Oh, Basil! I tried to hugSusan D. The other day, and I might as well have hugged the door! Shewon't even let me kiss her good night; that is, she lets me, but thereis no response. Why doesn't she like me, do you think?"

"She does!" said Basil. "Or she will, soon as she can get out ofherself. Don't you know what I mean, Cousin Margaret? It's as if she hada dumb spirit, like that fellow in the Bible, don't you know? Nobody butme understands; but you will, just once you get inside. "

"Ah, but how shall I ever get inside?" said Margaret. 

Basil nodded confidently. "You will!" he said. "I know you will, sometime. Oh, Cousin Margaret, mayn't I take her something to eat? She'salways hungry, Susan D. Is, and I know she won't sleep a mite if shedoesn't have anything. I--no, I won't let go again, but it _is_ themeanest, hatefullest thing that ever was done in the world! Now isn'tit, Cousin Margaret? Don't you think so yourself?"

Sorely puzzled as to the exact path of duty, Margaret tried to explainto the boy how ideas of discipline had changed since Cousin Sophroniawas a young girl; how, probably, she had herself been brought up withrigid severity, and, never having married, had kept all the oldcast-iron ideas which were now superseded by wider and better knowledgeand sympathy. As to this particular point, what should she say? Herwhole kind nature revolted against the thought of the hungry child, alone, waking, perhaps weeping, with no one to comfort her; yet howcould she, Margaret, possibly interfere with the doings of one oldenough to be her mother?

Pondering in anxious perplexity, she chanced to raise her eyes to thehouse. It was brightly lighted, and, as it happened, the curtains hadnot been drawn. "Look!" said Margaret, pressing the boy's hand in hers. "Basil, look!"

One long, narrow window looked directly upon the back stairs, which ledfrom the servants' hall to the upper floor. Up these stairs, past thewindow, a figure was now seen to pass, swiftly and stealthily; a portlyfigure, carrying something that looked like a heaped up plate; thefigure of Frances the cook. It passed, and in a moment more they sawlight, as of an opening door, flash into the dark window of the cornerroom where the little girl slept. 

"Do you know, Basil, " said Margaret, "I wouldn't worry any more aboutSusan D. 's being hungry. There is one person in Fernley whom no one, noteven Uncle John, can manage; that is Frances. "

An hour or so later, Margaret was coming down from the nursery. Mertonhad announced, as bedtime drew near, that he "felt a pain;" and Margarethad no difficulty in tracing it to Mrs. Peyton's careless indulgence. She stole down quietly to the cheerful back room where Frances andElizabeth sat with their sewing, and begged for some simple remedy. Frances rose with alacrity. "Checkerberry cordial is what you want, Miss Margaret, " she said. "I've made it for thirty years, and I hope Iknow its merits. No wonder the child is sick. If some had their way, everybody in this house 'ud be sick to starvation. "

"I am afraid it was the other thing in this case, Frances, " saidMargaret, meekly. "I'm afraid Master Merton ate too many rich things atMrs. Peyton's. " Now in general, Frances could not abide patiently themention of Mrs. Peyton; but this time she declared she was glad thechild had had enough to eat for once. "'Twill do him no harm!" she said, stoutly. "Give him ten drops of this, Miss Margaret, in a wine-glass ofhot water, --wait a minute, dear, and I'll mix it myself, --and he'll turnover and go to sleep like a lamb. Treating children as if they was onehalf starch and t'other half sticks! Don't tell me!"

Knowing that none of this wrath was directed against herself, Margaretwisely held her tongue, and departed with her glass, leaving Francesstill muttering, and Elizabeth with lips pursed up in judicious silence. And Merton took it and felt better, and was glad enough to be petted alittle, and finally to be tucked up with the hot water-bottle for acomforter. 

As has been said, Margaret was coming down-stairs after this mission wasfulfilled, when she met Miss Sophronia coming up. "All quiet up-stairs, my dear?" said the lady. "I am going to bed myself, Margaret, for I feela little rheumatic, or I should rather say neuralgic, perhaps. Thesethings are very obscure; the doctor says my case is a very remarkableone; he has never seen another like it. Yes, and now I am going to makesure that this child is all right, and that she does not actually needanything. Duty, Margaret, is a thing I can never neglect. "

Margaret followed her cousin into the room, feeling ratherself-reproachful. Perhaps she had been unjust in her judgment. CousinSophronia was of course doing the best, or what she thought the best, for this poor wild little girl. 

Miss Sophronia advanced towards the bed, holding up her candle. Margaret, looking over her shoulder, saw the child lying fast asleep, her hand under her cheek. Her face was flushed, and her fair hair lay ina tangle on the pillow. Margaret had never seen her look so nearlypretty. There were traces of tears on her face, too, and she sobbed alittle, softly, in her sleep. 

"Poor little thing!" whispered Margaret; but Miss Sophronia was notlooking at Susan D. Now. With stiff, outstretched finger she pointed tothe floor. "Look at that!" she said, in a penetrating whisper. Indeed, the child had dropped her clothes on the floor all at once, and they layin an untidy heap, shocking to Margaret's eyes, which loved to seethings neatly laid. She shook her head and was about to murmur someextenuation of the offence, when--Miss Sophronia set down the candle onthe stand; then, with a quick, decided motion, she pulled the sleepingchild out of bed. "Susan D. , " she said, "pick up your clothes at once. Never let me find them in this condition again. Shocking!"

The child stood helpless, bewildered, blinking, half awake, at thelight, not in the least understanding what was said to her. MissSophronia took her by the shoulder, not unkindly, and repeated hercommand. "Pick them up at once, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you, never to leave your clothes on the floor again. " Still only halfcomprehending, the child stooped, stumbling as she did so, and pickingup the clothes, laid them on the chair as she was directed. 

"There!" said Miss Sophronia, in high satisfaction. "Now, my dearestMargaret, you will see that this child will never neglect her clothesagain. A lesson promptly administered, on the spot, is worth all thepreaching in the world. Get into bed again, Susan D. , and go to sleeplike a good child. Some day you will be very grateful to your CousinSophronia for teaching you these things. "

She turned away with the candle. Margaret, standing in the shadow, sawthe child still standing in the middle of the room, a forlorn, shiveringlittle figure, silent; the most piteous sight those tender eyes had everlooked upon. Softly the girl closed the door. "Margaret, " she heard hercousin say. "Oh, she is gone down-stairs!" and the steps went awayalong the entry. But Margaret groped her way to where Susan D. Stood;the next moment she had the child in her arms, and was pressing herclose, close. A rocking-chair was by; she had seen it, and knew where tolay her hand to draw it forward. She sank down in it, and rocked to andfro, murmuring inarticulate words of comfort. The night was warm, butstill the child shivered; Margaret, groping again, found a shawl, andwrapped it round her. There was no more holding off, no more resistance;the little creature clung around Margaret's neck with a desperate hold, as if she dared not let her go for an instant. Her breast heaved once ortwice, silently; then she burst into a passion of tears, and sobbed onher cousin's heart. "I love you!" cried the child. "You are good, and Ilove you! Don't--don't leave me alone, please don't!"

Margaret held her close in her warm, loving arms. "My lamb!" she said. "My little girl! Indeed I will not leave you. Quiet now, dearie; quietand don't cry! Oh, Susan D. , I have no mother, either, dear; let uslove each other a great, great deal!" and Susan D. Sobbed, and curledcloser yet, as if she would wind herself into the very heart that beatso kindly and so tenderly. 

So they sat, till the sobs died away into soft, broken breathings. Margaret began to sing, and crooned one after another the old songs thatKaty used to sing to her when she was rocked just so on that broad, faithful Irish breast. Susan D. Lifted her head a little towards herear. "What is it?" said Margaret, bending down. 

"I--I do like singing!" whispered the child. 

Margaret nodded, and sang on. By and by the almost frantic clasp of thesmall arms loosened; the head sank back gently on her arm; the child wasasleep. Margaret rose to lay her down, but instantly she started upagain, affrighted, and cried out, and begged not to be left alone. Whatwas to be done? Margaret hesitated; then she bade the child hold fast, and slowly, carefully she made her way down the stairs and through thepassage to her own room, and did not pause till the little child waslying safe, happy, and wondering, in the white bed, in the wonderfulWhite Room. 

"Crowd me?" said Cousin Margaret. "Not a bit of it! There is plenty ofroom, and in the morning we will have a most lovely cuddle, and tellstories. But now go to sleep this very minute, Susan D. , while I do myhair. Good night, little sister!"

"Good night!" said Susan D. "I love you! Good night!"

CHAPTER XII. 

THE VOICE OF FERNLEY. 

From that night, Susan D. Was Margaret's friend and true lover. 

She followed her round in the hope of being able to do some littleservice of love. She brought her flowers, and hunted the fields for thelargest and finest berries for her. At any hour of the day, Margaretmight feel a little hot hand slide into hers and deposit a handful ofwarm, moist raspberries or blueberries. Sometimes this bred trouble, aswhen Merton waylaid his sister, and wrested the hard-won treasures fromher for his own refreshment; with the result of shrieks and scuffling, and a final thrashing from his elder brother; or, as when CousinSophronia detected the child sidling along with closed palm, anddemanded to see what she had. Susan D. Resisted stoutly, till atlength, yielding to superior strength, she threw the berries on thefloor, and trampled them into the carpet. There was a good deal of thiskind of thing; but still the change was a blessed one, and Margaret, when she met the beaming look of love in the child's face, andremembered the suspicious scowl that had greeted her only so few daysago, was most thankful, and felt it to be worth any amount of trouble, even to taking the spots out of the carpet, which was a hard thing todo. 

"I told you!" said Basil, smiling superior. "I told you, once you gotinside, you'd find the kid not at all so bad. I say, Cousin Margaret, you're not a fraidcat, are you?"

"A what, Basil?"

"A fraidcat! Don't you know what a fraidcat is, Cousin Margaret? Seemsto me you didn't learn many modern expressions when you were a littlegirl, did you?"

"Really, Basil, I think I learned all that were necessary, " saidMargaret, laughing. "I did not learn slang, certainly, nor boy-jargon, and I don't care to take lessons, thank you. Don't you think good, plain English is good enough?"

"Oh, well, it sounds all right from you, 'cause you are you, and youwouldn't match yourself if you didn't talk that way, I suppose. But itwould sound silly for a boy to go on so, don't you see?"

"I am afraid I don't see very well, Basil, but no matter. The things Iam afraid of are spiders and caterpillars and cows! Is that what youwanted to know?"

"N--not exactly!" said the boy; "but no matter, Cousin Margaret. Youhaven't got a ball of twine, have you? Oh, yes, please! Thank you, thatis just exactly what I wanted. You always know where things are, don'tyou? That's bully!"

The children had been very good for the last few days; singularly good, Margaret thought, as she sat on the verandah in the pleasant twilight, reviewing the day's doings, and wondering what happy day would bringUncle John back to her. Certainly, he would find a good deal ofimprovement. Merton had not run away since his experience in the bog;Susan D. Was won, and Basil grew more and more helpful and considerate. More than that, the children, all three of them, seemed to have quieteddown of their own accord. At this hour, they were generally shouting andscreaming, racing over the grass, or tumbling headlong from the trees, keeping Margaret in a constant state of terror, and Cousin Sophronia inone of peevish irritation and alarm. But now they had gone of their ownwill to the summer-house, saying that they were going to tell stories, and see how quiet they could be. They were quiet, indeed, for she couldnot even hear their voices. Cousin Sophronia, coming out with aninquiry, became instantly suspicious, and declared she must go and seewhat they were about; but Margaret begged her to wait a little. "Theycan do no harm in the summer-house!" she said. "And--Uncle John thoughtwe would better let them alone a good deal, Cousin Sophronia. "

"My love, " said the lady, seating herself, and folding her hands for agood talk, "your Uncle John is a babe, simply a babe in these matters. Even if he knew anything about children, --which he does not, --it wouldbe my duty, my positive duty, to shield him from all anxieties of thiskind. Why else did I come here, my love, except for this very thing?"

"Did you, then, know that Cousin Anthony wished to send the children?"asked Margaret, perhaps not without a spice of gentle malice. 

"Ahem! No, not precisely, my love! But--but it was my firm resolve toprotect dearest John from every species of annoyance. Every species, mydear! John Montfort--good gracious! What is that?" She started to herfeet, and Margaret followed her example. A sound seemed to pass them inthe air; a strange sound, something between a sigh and a moan. Itswelled for a moment, then died away among the trees beyond theverandah. Miss Sophronia clutched Margaret's arm. "You--you made thatnoise?" she whispered. "Say it was you, Margaret!"

"Indeed, it was not I, Cousin Sophronia!" said Margaret. "It must havebeen a sudden gust of wind. It is gone now; it must surely have beenthe wind. Shall I bring you a wrap? Do you feel chilly?"

Miss Sophronia still held her arm. "No, no! Don't go!" she said. "I--Ifeel rather nervous to-night, I think. Nerves! Yes, no one knows what Isuffer. If you had any idea what my nights are-- You may be right, mydear, about the wind. It is a misfortune, I always say, to have suchexquisite sensibility. The expression is not my own, my love, it isDoctor Soper's. Shall we go into the house, and light the lamps? So muchmore cheerful, I always think, than this dreary twilight. "

Margaret hesitated a moment. The evening was very warm, and once in thehouse, her cousin would be sure to shut all the windows and draw thecurtains. Still, she must not be selfish--

"If I join you in a few minutes, Cousin Sophronia?" she said. "Thechildren--I suppose it is time for them to come in. I will just go downto the summer-house and see--"

The sentence remained unfinished; for at that moment, almost closebeside them, arose the strange moaning sound once more. This time MissSophronia shrieked aloud. "Come!" she cried, dragging Margaret towardsthe house. "Come in this moment! It is the Voice! The Voice of Fernley. I will not stay here; I will not go in alone. Come with me, Margaret!"

She was trembling from head to foot, and even Margaret, who was nottimid about such matters, felt slightly disturbed. Was this some trickof the children? She must go and hunt them up, naughty little things. Ah! What was that, moving in the dusk? It was almost entirely dark now, but something was certainly coming up the gravel walk, something thatglimmered white against the black box-hedges. Miss Sophronia utteredanother piercing shriek, and would have fled, but Margaret detained her. "Who is that?" said the girl. "Basil, is that you? Where are the otherchildren?"

The white figure advanced; it was tall and slender, and seemed to haveno head. Miss Sophronia moaned, and cowered down at Margaret's side. 

"I beg pardon!" said a deep, cheerful voice. "I hope nothing is wrong. It is only I, Miss Montfort, --Gerald Merryweather. "

Only a tall youth in white flannels; yet, at that moment, no one, saveUncle John himself, could have been more welcome, Margaret thought. "Oh, Mr. Merryweather, " she said, "I am so glad to see you! No, nothing iswrong, I hope; that is--won't you come up on the verandah? Mycousin--Cousin Sophronia, let me present Mr. Merryweather. "

Mr. Merryweather advanced, bowing politely to the darkness; when, to hisamazement, the person to whom he was to pay his respects sprang forward, and clutched him violently. 

"You--you--you abominable young man!" cried Miss Sophronia, shrilly. "You made that noise; you know you made it, to annoy me! Don't tell meyou did not! Get away from here this instant, you--you--impostor!"

Margaret was struck dumb for an instant, and before she could speak, Gerald Merryweather was replying, quietly, as if he had been throttledevery day of his life:

"If choking is your object, madam, you can do it better by pulling theother way, I would suggest. By pulling in this direction, you see, youonly injure the textile fabric, and leave the _corpus delicti_comparatively unharmed. "

He stood perfectly still; Miss Sophronia still clutched and shook him, muttering inarticulately; but now Margaret seized and dragged her off bymain force. "Cousin Sophronia!" she cried. "How can you--what can you bethinking of? This is Mr. Merryweather, I tell you, the son of UncleJohn's old schoolmate. Uncle John asked him to call. I am sure you arenot well, or have made some singular mistake. "

"I don't believe a word of it!" said Miss Sophronia. "Not one singleword! What was he making that noise for, I should like to know?"

Mr. Merryweather answered with a calm which he was far from feeling. Hispet necktie was probably ruined, his collar crumpled, very likely hiscoat torn. He had taken pains with his toilet, and now he had been setupon and harried, by some one he had never seen, but whom he felt sureto be the Gorgon who had glared at him out the window several daysbefore. This was a horrid old lady; he saw no reason why he should beattacked in the night by horrid old ladies, when he was behavingbeautifully. 

"I am sorry!" he said, rather stiffly. "I was not conscious of speakingloud. Miss Montfort asked who it was, and I told her. If I have offended_her_, I am ready to apologise--and withdraw. "

This sounded theatrical, it occurred to him; but then, the whole scenewas fit for the variety stage. Poor Margaret felt a moment of despair. What should she do?

"Mr. Merryweather, " she said, aloud, "Miss Montfort has been muchstartled. Just before you came, we heard a noise; rather a strangenoise, which we could not account for. I think her nerves are somewhatshaken. She will be better in a moment. And--and I was just going to thesummer-house, to call the children. Would you come with me, I wonder?"

Miss Sophronia clamoured that she could not be left alone, but for onceMargaret was deaf to her appeals. She was too angry; her guest--thatis, her uncle's guest--to be set upon and shaken, as if he were anaughty child caught stealing apples, --it was too shameful! He wouldthink they were all out of their senses. 

"Oh, I am so sorry! So sorry!" she found herself saying aloud. "Mr. Merryweather, I am so mortified, so ashamed! What can I say to you?"

"Say!" said Gerald, his stiffness gone in an instant. "Don't sayanything, Miss Montfort. I--I don't mean that; I mean, there's nothing_to_ say, don't you know? Why, it wasn't your fault! Who ever thought ofits being your fault?"

"I ought to have recognised you sooner!" said Margaret. "It was prettydark, and we had really been startled, and my cousin is very nervous. Ifyou would _please_ overlook it this time I should be so grateful!"

"Oh, I _say_!" cried the young man. "Miss Montfort, if you go on in thisway, I shall go back and ask the old--and ask the lady to choke me somemore. I--I _like_ being choked! I like anything; only don't go on so!Why, it isn't any matter in the world. Perhaps it relieved her feelingsa bit; and it didn't do me any harm. " He felt of his necktie, andsettled his collar as well as he could, thankful for the friendlydarkness. "Indeed, I am all right!" he assured her, earnestly. "Trivetsaren't a circumstance to me, as far as rightness is concerned. Now ifyou'll forget all about it, Miss Montfort, please, I shall be as happyas the bounding roe, --or the circumflittergating cockchafer!" he added, as a large June-bug buzzed past him. 

"You are very good!" murmured Margaret. "I am sure--but here is thesummer-house. Children, are you here? Basil! Susan D. !"

No answer came. The frogs chirped peacefully, the brook at the foot ofthe garden sent up its soft, bubbling murmur; there was no other sound. It was very dark, for the trees were thick overhead. The firefliesflitted hither and thither, gleaming amid the thickets of honeysuckleand lilac; the young man's figure beside her glimmered faintly in thedarkness, but there was no glimpse of Susan D. 's white frock, orBasil's white head. 

"Children!" cried Margaret again. "Don't play any tricks, dears! It isbedtime, and after, and you must come in. Susan, Cousin wants you, dear!"

Silence; not a rustle, not a whisper. 

"I should suppose they had gone, " said Gerald. "Or do you think they areplaying hookey? Wait a minute, and I'll hunt around. "

But search availed nothing; the children were not in the summer-house, nor near it. "They must have gone back to the house, " said Margaret. "Thank you so much, Mr. Merryweather. I am sorry to have given you allthis trouble for nothing. "

"Oh, trouble!" said Gerald. "This isn't my idea of trouble, MissMontfort. What a pretty place this is! Awfully--I mean, extremelypretty. "

"It is pretty in the daytime. I should hardly think you could seeanything now, it is so dark. "

"Well, yes, it is dark; but I mean it seems such a pleasant place tosit and rest in a little. Hadn't you better sit and rest a minute, MissMontfort? The children are all right, you may be sure. Gone to bed, mostlikely, like good little kids. I--I often went to bed, when I was akid. "

Margaret could not help laughing; nevertheless, she turned decidedlytowards the house. "I am afraid I cannot be sure of their having gone tobed, " she said. "I think I must find them, Mr. Merryweather, but if youare tired, you shall rest on the verandah while I hunt. "

Gerald did not want to rest on the verandah, particularly if his recentassailant were still there. He wanted to stay here in the garden. Heliked the fireflies, and the frogs; the murmur of the brook, and thesoft voice speaking out of the darkness. He thought this was a very nicegirl; he wished she would not be so uneasy about those tiresomeyoungsters. However, as there seemed to be no help for it, he followedMargaret in silence up the gravel walk. She need not hurry so, hethought; it was very early, not half past eight yet. He wanted to makehis call; he couldn't dress up like this every night; and, besides, itwas a question whether he could ever wear this shirt again by daylight. 

Miss Sophronia was not on the verandah. 

"Will you not come in?" asked Margaret at the door; but Gerald felt, rather than heard, the uneasiness in her voice, and decided, muchagainst his inclination, that it would be better manners to say goodnight and take himself off. 

"I think I must be going, " he had begun already, when, from the opendoor behind them, burst a long, low, melancholy wail. The girl startedviolently. The young man bent his ear in swift attention. The voice--thecry--trembled on the air, swelled to a shriek; then died slowly awayinto a dreary whisper, and was gone. 

Before either of the young people could speak, the library door wasflung open, and a wild figure came flying out. Miss Sophronia threwherself once more upon Gerald, and clung to him with the energy ofdesperation. "My dear young man!" cried the distracted lady. "Save me!Protect me! I knew your father! I was at school with yourmother, --Miranda Cheerley. Save me, --hold me! Do not desert me! You aremy only hope!"

It was past nine o'clock when Gerald Merryweather finally took hisdeparture. The children had been discovered, --in bed, and apparentlyasleep. Three neatly folded piles of clothes showed at least that theyhad gone to bed in a proper and reasonable manner. Miss SophroniaMontfort had finally been quieted, by soothing words and promises, followed up by hot malted milk and checkerberry cordial, the lattergrimly administered by Frances, and so strong that it made the poor ladysneeze. Margaret was to sleep with her; Gerald was to come the nextmorning to see how she was; meanwhile, Frances and Elizabeth, the latterbadly frightened, the former entirely cool and self-possessed, were tosleep in the front chamber, and be at hand in case of any untowardevent. 

There was nothing further to be done save to shake hands warmly withMargaret, submit to an embrace from Miss Sophronia, and go. Mr. Merryweather strode slowly down the garden path, looking back now andthen at the house, where already the lights on the lower floor werebeing extinguished one by one. 

"That's a very nice girl!" he murmured. "Hildegarde would approve ofthat girl, I know. But on the other hand, my son, that is a horrid oldlady. I should like--Jerry, my blessed infant, I _should_ like--to makethat old lady run!" He turned for a final glance at the house;considered the advisability of turning a handspring; remembered hiswhite flannels, and, with a bow to the corner window, was gone in thedarkness. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

WHO DID IT?

"Frightened, was she?" said Mrs. Peyton. "How sad! Margaret, you are notlooking at my bed-spread. This is the first day I have used it, and Iput it on expressly for you. What is the use of my having pretty things, if no one will look at them?"

"Indeed, it is very beautiful!" said Margaret. "Everything you have isbeautiful, Mrs. Peyton. "

"It is Honiton!" said Mrs. Peyton. "It ought to be handsome. But you donot care, Margaret, it is perfectly easy to see that. You don't careabout any of my things any more. I was simply a new toy to you in thebeginning, and you liked to look at me because I was pretty. Now youhave new toys, --Sophronia Montfort, I suppose, and a sweet plaything sheis! and you pay no further attention to me. Deny it if you can!"

Margaret did not attempt to deny it; she was too absolutely truthful notto feel a certain grain of fact in the lady's accusation. Life wasopening fuller and broader upon her every day; how could she think oflace bed-spreads, with three children constantly in her mind, to thinkand plan and puzzle for? To say nothing of Uncle John and all the rest. And as to the "new toy" aspect, Margaret knew that she might well enoughturn the accusation upon her lovely friend herself; but this she was tookind and too compassionate to do. Would not any one want toys, perhaps, if forced to spend one's life between four walls?

So she simply stroked the exquisite hand that lay like a piece of carvedivory on the splendid coverlet, and smiled, and waited for the nextremark. 

"I knew you would not deny it!" the lady said. "You couldn't, you see. Well, it doesn't matter! I shall be dead some day, I hope and trust. SoSophronia was frightened? Tell me more about it!"

"She was very much frightened!" said Margaret. "Mrs. Peyton, I wantedto ask you--when the children came home yesterday, they said somethingabout your having told them some story of old times here; of a ghost, orsome such thing. I never heard of anything of the sort. Do you--do youremember what it was? I ought not to torment you!" she added, remorsefully; for Mrs. Peyton put her hand to her head, and her browcontracted slightly, as if with pain. 

"Only my head, dear, it is rather troublesome to-day; I suppose I oughtnot to talk very much! Yes, there was a ghost, or something like one, inold times, when I was a child. I wasn't at Fernley at the time, but Iheard about it; Sophronia was there, and I remember she was frightenedinto fits, just as you describe her last night. "

"What--do you remember anything about it? It isn't that old story ofHugo Montfort, is it, the man who looks for papers?"

"Oh, no, nothing so interesting as that! I always longed to see Hugo. No, this is just a voice that comes and goes, wails about the rooms andthe gardens. It is one of the Montfort women, I believe, the one whocut up her wedding-gown and then went mad. "

"Penelope?"

"That's it! Penelope Montfort. Once in a while they see her, but veryrarely, I believe. "

"Mrs. Peyton, you are making fun of me. Aunt Faith told me there was noghost except that of Hugo Montfort; of course I don't mean that there isreally that; but no ghost that people had ever fancied. "

"Ah, well, my dear, all this was before Mrs. Cheriton came to Fernley!Before such a piece of perfection as she was, no wandering ghost wouldhave ventured to appear. Now don't stiffen into stone, MargaretMontfort! I know she was a saint, but she never liked me, and I am not asaint, you see. I was always a sinner, and I expect to remain one. Andcertainly, there was a white figure seen about Fernley, at that time Iwas speaking of; and no one ever found out what it was; and if you wantto know any more, you must ask John Montfort. There, now my head isconfused, and I shall not have a straight thought again to-day!"

The lady turned her head fretfully on the pillow. Margaret, who knew herways well, sat silent for some minutes, and then began to sing softly:

 O sweetest lady ever seen, (With a heigh ho! and a lily gay, ) Give consent to be my queen, (As the primrose spreads so sweetly. )

Before the long ballad was ended, the line between Mrs. Peyton'seyebrows was gone, and her beautiful face wore a look of contentmentthat was not common to it. 

"Go away now!" the lady murmured. "You have straightened me out again. Be thankful for that little silver voice of yours, child! You can domore good with it in the world than you know. I really think you are oneof the few good persons who are not odious. Go now! Good-bye!"

Margaret went away, thinking, as she had often thought before, how likeher Cousin Rita this fair lady was. "Only Rita has a great, great dealmore heart!" she said to herself. "Rita only laughs at people when sheis in one of her bad moods. Dear Rita! I wonder where she is to-day. And Peggy is driving the mowing machine, she writes; mowing hundreds ofacres, and riding bareback, and having a glorious time. "

A letter had come the day before from Peggy Montfort, telling of all herdelightful doings on the farm, and begging that her darling Margaretwould come out and spend the rest of the summer with her. "DarlingMargaret, do, do, _do_ come! Nobody can possibly want you as much as Ido; nobody can begin to think of wanting you one hundredth part as muchas your own Peggy. "

Margaret had laughed over the letter, and kissed it, and perhaps therewas a tear in her eye when she put it away to answer. It was good, goodto be loved. And Peggy did love her, and so she hoped--she knew--didUncle John; and now the children were hers, two of them, at least; hersto have and to hold, so far as love went. Go away and leave them now, when they needed her every hour? "No, Peggy dear, not even to see yoursweet, round, honest face again. "

Coming back to the house she found Gerald Merryweather on the verandah. He was in his working clothes again, but they were fresh and spotless, and he was a pleasant object to look upon. He explained that he hadcalled to inquire for the ladies' health, and to express his hope thatthey had suffered no further annoyance the night before. He was on hisway to the bog, and just thought he would ask if there was anything hecould do. 

"Thank you!" said Margaret, gratefully. "You are very good, Mr. Merryweather. No; nothing more happened; and my poor cousin got somesleep after awhile. But I still cannot imagine what the noise was, canyou?"

"So many noises at night, don't you know?" said Gerald. "Especiallyround an old house like this. You were not personally alarmed, were you, Miss Montfort? I think you may be pretty sure that there was nothingsupernatural about it. Oh, I don't mean anything in particular, ofcourse; but--well, I never saw a ghost; and I don't believe in 'em. Doyou?"

"Certainly not. I didn't suppose any one believed in them nowadays. But, --do you know, I really am almost afraid my Cousin Sophronia does. She will not listen to any explanation I can suggest. I really--oh, hereshe is, Mr. Merryweather!"

Miss Sophronia greeted Gerald with effusion. "I heard your voice, mydear young man, " she said, "and I came down to beg that you would taketea with us this evening--with my niece--she is quite the same as my ownniece; I make no difference, dearest Margaret, I assure you, --with myniece and me. If--if there should be any more unpleasant occurrences, itwould be a comfort to have a man, however young, on the premises. Willissleeps in the barn, and he is deaf, and would be of little use. Hecouldn't even be of the smallest use, if we should be murdered in ourbeds. "

"Oh, but we are not going to be murdered, Cousin Sophronia, " saidMargaret, lightly. "We are going to be very courageous, and just letthat noise understand that we care nothing whatever about it. "

"Margaret, my love, you are trivial, " responded Miss Sophronia, peevishly. "I wish you would pay attention when I speak. I ask Mr. Merryweather to take tea with us, and you talk about noises. Verysingular, I am sure. "

"Oh, but of course it would be very pleasant, indeed, to have Mr. Merryweather take tea with us!" cried Margaret, in some confusion. "Ihope you will come, Mr. Merryweather. "

It appeared that nothing in the habitable universe would give Mr. Merryweather greater pleasure. At half-past six? He would not fail to beon hand; and if there should be noises again, why--let those who madethem look to themselves. And, with this, the young man took his leave. 

The children were very troublesome that day. Margaret could not seem tolay her hand on any one of them. If she called Basil, he was "in thebarn, Cousin Margaret, helping Willis with the hay. Of course I'll come, if you want me, but Willis seems to need me a good deal, if you don'tmind. "

When it was time for Susan D. 's sewing, the child came most obedientlyand affectionately; but her thimble was nowhere to be found, and she hadmislaid her spool, and, finally, when everything was found, she had notsat still ten minutes, when she was "_so_ thirsty; and must go and get aglass of water, please, Cousin Margaret!"

"Susan, " said Margaret, "I want to talk to you, and I cannot seem to geta chance for a word. Sit still now, like a good little girl, and tellme--"

"Yes, Cousin Margaret, I couldn't find my thimble first, you see; andthen there wasn't any spool, and I left it in my basket yesterday, I'msure I did, but Merton _will_ take it to teach the kitten tricks with, and then it gets all dirty. Don't you know how horrid a spool is when akitten has been playing with it? You have to wind off yards and yards, and then the rest is sort of fruzzly, and keeps making knots. "

"Yes, I know. Susan D. , what were you doing last evening?" saidMargaret. 

"Last evening?" repeated the child. "We were in the summer-house, Cousin Margaret. We were playing Scottish Chiefs, don't you know? Mertonhad to play Lord Soulis, 'cause he drew the short straw; but he gotcross, and wouldn't play good a bit. "

"Wouldn't play _well_, or _nicely_, " corrected Margaret. "But afterthat, Susan dear?"

"That took a long time, " said the child. It seemed, when she was alonewith Margaret, that she could not talk enough; the little pent-up naturewas finding most delightful relief and pleasure in unfolding before thesympathy that was always warm, always ready. 

"You see, when it came to carrying me off (I was Helen Mar, after I'dbeen Marion and was dead), Merton was just horrid. He said he wouldn'tcarry me off; he said he wouldn't have me for a gift, and called meScratchface, and all kinds of names. And of course Lord Soulis wouldn'thave talked that way; so Wallace (of course Basil _had_ to be Wallacewhen he drew the long straw, and he never cheats, though Merton does, whenever he gets a chance)--well, and so, Wallace told him, if hedidn't carry me off in two shakes of a cat's tail--"

"Susan D. !"

"Well, that's what he _said_, Cousin Margaret. I'm telling you just asit happened, truly I am. If he didn't carry me off in two shakes of acat's tail, he'd pitch him over the parapet, --you know there's asplendid parapet in the summer-house, --and so he wouldn't, and so hedid; but Mert held on, and they both went over into the meadow. I guessLord Soulis got the worst of it down there, for when they climbed upagain he did carry me off, though he pinched me hard all the way, andmade my arm all black and blue; I didn't say anything, because I wasHelen Mar, but I gave it to him good--I mean well--this morning, andserved him out. And then Wallace had to rescue me, of course, and thatwas _great_, and we all fell over the parapet again, and that was theway I tore the gathers out of my frock. So you see, Cousin Margaret!"

Susan D. Paused for breath, and bent over her sewing with exemplarydiligence. Margaret took the child's chin in her hand, and raised herface towards her. 

"Susan, " she said, gently, "after you had that fine play--it must havebeen a great play, and I wish I had seen it--after that, what did youdo?"

"We--we--went to bed!" said Susan D. 

"Why did you go without coming to say good night? Answer me truly, dearchild. "

The two pairs of gray eyes looked straight into each other. A shadow offear--a suggestion of the old look of distrust and suspicion--crept intothe child's eyes for a moment; but before Margaret's kind, firm, lovinggaze it vanished and was gone. A wave of colour swept over her face; hereyes wavered, gave one imploring glance, and fell. 

"Aren't you going to tell me, Susan D. ?" asked Margaret once more. 

"N--no!" said Susan D. , in a whisper scarcely audible. 

"No? And why not, dear child?"

"I promised!" whispered Susan D. 

"Susan D. , do you know anything about that strange noise that frightenedus so last night?"

But not another word would Susan D. Say. She looked loving, imploring, deprecating; she threw her arms around Margaret's neck, and hid her faceand clung to her; but no word could she be brought to say. At lastMargaret, displeased and puzzled, felt constrained to tell the childrather sternly to fold her work and go away, and not come back to hertill she could answer questions properly. Susan went obediently; at thedoor she hesitated, and Margaret heard a little sigh, which made herheart go out in sympathy toward the little creature. Instantly she rose, and, going to the child, put her arms round her affectionately. 

"Darling, I think you are puzzled about something, " she said, quickly. Susan D. Nodded, and clung close to her cousin's side. 

"I will not ask you anything more, " said Margaret. "I am going to trustyou, Susan D. , not to do anything wrong. Remember, dear, that the twomost important things in the world are truth and kindness. Now kiss me, dear, and go. "

Left alone, Margaret sat for some time, puzzling over what had happened, and wondering what would happen next. It was evident that the childrenwere concerned in some way, or at least had some knowledge, of themysterious sounds which had so alarmed Miss Sophronia. What ought she todo? How far must she try to force confession from them, if it were herduty to try; and how could she do it?

Thus pondering, she became aware of voices in the air; she sat near theopen window, and the voices were from above her. The nursery window! Shelistened, bending nearer, and holding her breath. 

"Well, if you back out now, Susan D. , it will be mean!" Basil wassaying. "What did you say to her?"

"I didn't say anything!" Susan D. Answered, sullenly. 

"Why didn't you tell her that we had a pain, and didn't want to botherher, 'cause she had company?" cried Merton, eagerly. "I had that allfixed to tell her, only she never asked me. "

"I wouldn't tell her a lie, " said Susan D. "Basil, you wouldn't tell hera lie, either, you know you wouldn't, when she looks at you that way, straight at you, and you can't get your eyes away. "

"Of course I wouldn't, " said Basil. "And the reason she didn't ask you, Merton, was because she knew it wouldn't make much difference what yousaid. That's the trouble about you. But now, Susan, if you had only hada little dipplo-macy, you could have got through all right, as I did. "

"I don't know what you mean by dipplo-macy, " retorted Susan. 

"Ho, stupid!" sneered Merton. 

"I don't believe you know what it means yourself!" cried Basil. "Come, tell now, if you are so wise. What does it mean? Ah, I knew you didn'tknow! You _are_ a sneak, Mert! Well, I guess in the beginning, when Adamwas making the words, you know, he must have wanted to hide from theserpent or something--perhaps a hairy mammoth, or a megatherium, Ishouldn't wonder, --so he said, 'Dip low, ' and then 'Massy!' for a kindof exclamation, you see. And spelling gets changed a lot in the courseof time; you can see that just from one class to another in the grammarschool. Well, anyhow, it means a sort of getting round things, managingthem, without telling lies, or truth either. "

"You've got to tell one or the other, " objected Susan D. 

"No, you haven't, either! Now, how did I manage? I have just kept out ofCousin Margaret's way all day, so far, and I'm going to keep out therest of it. I've been helping Willis ever since breakfast, and he says Ireally helped him a great deal, and I'll make a farmer yet; only Iwon't, 'cause I'm going into the navy. And now pretty soon I'm going in, in a tearing hurry, and ask her if I can take some lunch and go over tosee Mr. Merryweather at the bog, 'cause he is going to give me a lessonin surveying. He _is_; he said he would, any time I came over. And so, you see--"

"That's all very well, " interrupted Merton, scornfully. "But when itcomes night, what'll you do then, I should like to know?"

"Easy enough. I shall have a headache, and she won't ask me questionswhen I have a headache; she'll just sit and stroke my head, and put meto sleep. "

"Ho! How'll you get your headache? Have to tell a lie then, I guess. "

"No, sir, I won't! And if you say that again, I'll bunt you up againstthe wall. Easy enough to get a headache. I don't know whether I shalleat hot doughnuts, or just ram my head against the horse-chestnut-treetill it aches; but I'll get the headache, you may bet your boots--"

"Basil, she asked you not to say that, and you said you wouldn't. "

"Well, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. Pull out a hair, Susan D. , and thenI shall remember next time. Ouch! You pulled out two. "

"I say, come on!" cried Merton. "We've got lots of things to see to. Wehave to--"

The voices were gone. Margaret sat still, sewing steadily, and workingmany thoughts into her seam. 

It might have been half an hour after this that Basil burst into theroom, breathless and beaming, his tow-colored hair standing on end. "Oh, Cousin Margaret, can I--I mean may I, go over to the bog? Mr. Merryweather said he would give me a lesson in surveying; and Frances isgoing to put me up some luncheon, and I'm in a _norful_ hurry. May I go, please?"

"Yes, Basil; you may go after you have answered me one question. "

"Yes, Cousin Margaret, " said the diplomat. "I may miss Mr. Merryweatherif I don't go pretty quick, but of course I will. "

"Basil, did you make that strange noise last night?"

"No, Cousin Margaret!" cried the boy; the smile seemed to break fromevery corner of his face at once, and his eyes looked straight truthinto hers. "I did not. Is that all? You said one question! Thank youever and ever so much! Good-bye!" And he was gone. 

"It is quite evident that I am not a dipplo-mat, " said Margaret, with alaugh that ended in a sigh. "I wish Uncle John would come home!"

CHAPTER XIV. 

BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE. 

The evening fell close and hot. Gerald Merryweather, taking his way toFernley House, noticed the great white thunder-heads peering above theeastern horizon. "There'll be trouble by and by, " he said. 

 "I wonder, oh, I wonder, If they're afraid of thunder. 

"Ever lapsing into immortal verse, my son. You are the Lost Pleiad ofLiterature, that's what you are; and a mighty neat phrase that is. Oh, my Philly, why aren't you here, to take notice of my coruscations? Fullmany a squib is born to blaze unseen, and waste its fizzing--Hello, you, sir! Stop a minute, will you?"

A small boy was scudding along the path before him. He turned his head, but on seeing Gerald he only doubled his rate of speed. Merton was agood runner for his size, but it was ill trying to race the GambollingGreyhound, as Gerald had been called at school. Two or three quicksteps, two or three long, lopping bounds, and Master Merton was caught, clutched by the collar, and held aloft, wriggling and protesting. 

"You let me go!" whined Merton. "Oh, please Mr. Merryweather, don't stopme now. It's very important, indeed, it is. "

"Just what I was thinking, " said Gerald. "We'll go along together, myson. I wouldn't squirm, if I were you; destructive to the collar;believe one who has suffered. What! it is not so many years. Takecourage, small cat, and strive no more!"

Merton, after one heroic wriggle, gave up the battle, and walked besidehis captor in sullen silence. 

"Come!" said Gerald. "Let us be merry, my son. As to that noise, now!"

"What noise?" asked Merton, peevishly. 

"The roarer, my charmer. Why beat about the bush? You frightened theold--that is, you alarmed both your cousins, with the joyful instrumentknown among the profane as a roarer. Tush! Why attempt concealment? HaveI not roared, when time was? And a very pretty amusement, I could neverdeny; but I wouldn't try it again, that's all. You hear, young sir? Iwouldn't try it again. "

"I don't know what you mean--" Merton began; but at this Gerald liftedhim gently from the ground by his shirt-collar, and, waving him about, intimated gently that it would not be good for his health to tell lies. 

"Well, I didn't do it, anyhow!" Merton protested. "Honest, I did not. "

"Honesty is not written in your expressive countenance, Master MertonMontfort, " said Gerald. "However, it may be so. We shall see. Meantime, young fellow, and merely as between man and man, you understand, itwould be money in your youthful pocket if you could acquire the habit oflooking a person in the eyes, and not directing that cherubic gaze atthe waistcoat buttons, or even the necktie, of your in-ter-loc-utor. Now, here we are at the house, and you may go, my interesting popinjay. Bear in mind that my eye is upon you. Adieu! adieu! Rrrrrememberrrrme!!!"

Gerald put such dramatic fervour into this farewell that Merton was asheartily frightened as he could have desired, and scurried away withoutstopping to look behind. 

"That's not such a very nice little boy, I believe, " said Gerald. "T'other one is worth a cool dozen of Master Merton. Well, they won't domuch mischief while I am to the fore. Though I should be loth tointerfere with the end they probably have in view. I should like fullwell myself to make that-- Ah, good evening, Miss Montfort!"

 * * * * *

It was so hot after tea, that even Miss Sophronia made no suggestion ofsitting in the house. They all assembled on the verandah, which facedsouth, so that generally here, if anywhere, a breath of evening coolnessmight be had. To-night, however, no such breath was to be felt. Thethunder-heads had crept up, up, half-way across the sky; their snowywhite had changed to blackish blue; and now and again, there openedhere or there what looked like a deep cavern, filled with lurid flame;and then would follow a long, rolling murmur, dying away into faintmutterings and losing itself among the treetops. 

Miss Sophronia was very uneasy. At one moment she declared she must gointo the house, she could not endure this; the next she vowed she wouldrather see the danger as it came, and she would never desert the others, never. 

"Do you think there is danger, my dear young man?" she asked, forperhaps the tenth time. 

"Why, no!" said Gerald. "No more than usual, Miss Montfort. These trees, you see, are a great protection. If the lightning strikes one of them, of course it will divert the fluid from the house. If you have no ironabout your person--"

But here Miss Sophronia interrupted him. She begged to be excused for amoment, and went into the house. When she returned, her head wasenveloped in what looked like a "tidy" of purple wool, while her feetwere shuffling along in a pair of blue knitted slippers. 

"There!" she said, "I have removed every atom of metal, my dear youngman, down to my hairpins, I assure you; and there were nails in myshoes, Margaret. My dear, I advise you to follow my example. Soimportant, I always say, to obey the dictates of science. I shall alwaysconsider it a special providence that sent this dear young man to us atthis trying time. Go at once, dearest Margaret, I implore you. "

But Margaret refused to adopt any such measures of precaution. She wasenjoying the slow oncoming of the storm; she had seldom seen anythingmore beautiful, she thought, and Gerald agreed with her. He was sittingnear her, and had taken Merton on his knee, to that young gentleman'smanifest discomposure. He wriggled now and then, and muttered someexcuse for getting down, but Gerald blandly assured him each time thathe was not inconveniencing him in the least, and begged him to makehimself comfortable, and entirely at home. Meantime, Margaret hadcalled Basil and Susan D. To her side, and was holding a hand of each, calling upon them from time to time to see the wonderful beauty of theapproaching storm. They responded readily enough, and were reallyinterested and impressed. Once or twice, it is true, Basil stole aglance at his sister, and generally found her looking at him in apuzzled, inquiring fashion; then he would shake his head slightly, andgive himself up once more to watching the sky. 

It was a very extraordinary sky. The clouds, now deep purple, covered italmost from east to west; only low down in the west a band of angryorange still lingered, and added to the sinister beauty of the scene. The red caverns opened deeper and brighter, and now and again a long, zigzag flash of gold stood out for an instant against the black, andfollowing it came crack upon crack of thunder, rolling and rumbling overtheir heads. But still the air hung close and heavy, still there was nobreath of wind, no drop of rain. 

Sitting thus, and for the moment silent, there came, in a pause of thethunder, a new sound; a sound that some of them, at least, knew well. Close at hand, rising apparently from the very wall at their side, camethe long, eerie wail of the night before. Louder and louder it swelled, till it rang like a shriek in their ears, then suddenly it broke andshuddered itself away, till only the ghost of a sound crept from theirears, and was lost. Margaret and Gerald both sprang to their feet, thegirl held the children's hands fast in hers, the lad clutched the boy inhis arms till he whimpered and cried; their eyes met, full of inquiry, the same thought flashing from blue eyes and gray. Not the children?What, then? Before Gerald could speak, Miss Sophronia was clinging tohim again, shrieking and crying; calling upon him to save her; but thistime Gerald put her aside with little ceremony. 

"If you'll take this boy!" he cried. "Hold him tight, please, and don'tlet him get off. I'm going--if I may?" he looked swift inquiry atMargaret. 

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried the girl. "Do go! We are all right. CousinSophronia, you _must_ let him go. "

Dropping Merton into the affrighted lady's arms, the lithe, active youthwas in the house in an instant, following the Voice of Fernley. There itcame again, rising, rising, --the cry of a lost soul, the wail of arepentant spirit. 

"A roarer, by all means!" said young Merryweather. "But where, and bywhom?" He ran from side to side, laying his ear against the wall here, there, following the sound. Suddenly he stopped short, like a dogpointing. Here, in this thickness of the wall, was it? Then, there mustbe a recess, a something. What corresponded to this jog? Ha! that littlelow door, almost hidden by the great picture of the boar-hunt. Locked?No; only sticking, from not having been opened, perhaps, for years. Ityielded. He rushed in, --the door closed behind him with a spring. Hefound himself in total darkness, --darkness filled with a hideous cry, that rang out sharp and piercing, --then fell into sudden silence. 

"Is it you, Master Merton?" said a whisper. "I didn't wait; I thoughtmaybe--"

Gerald stretched out his arm, and grasped a solid form. Instantly he wasgrasped in return by a pair of strong arms, --grasped and held with aspowerful a grip as his own. A full minute passed, two creaturesclutching each other in the pit-dark, listening to each other'sbreathing, counting each other's heart-beats. Then--

"Who are you?" asked Gerald, under his breath. 

"None of your business!" was the reply, low, but prompt. "Who are you, if it comes to that?"

"Why, --why, you're a woman!"

"And you're a man, and that's worse. What are you doing here?"

"I am taking tea here. I'm a visitor. I have been here all the evening. "

"And I've been here twenty years. I'm the cook. "

The young man loosed his hold, and dropped on the floor. He rocked backand forth, in silent convulsions of laughter. 

"The cook! Great Cæsar, the cook! Oh, dear me! Stop me, somebody. What--what did you do it for?" he gasped, between the paroxysms. 

"Hush! Young Mr. Merryweather, is it? Do be quiet, sir! We're close bythe verandah. Was--was she frightened, sir?"

"She? Who? One of 'em was. "

"She--the old one. I wouldn't frighten Miss Margaret; but she has toomuch sense. Was the other one scared, sir?"

"Into fits, very near. You did it well, Mrs. Cook! I couldn't have doneit better, --look here! I shall have to tell them, though. I cameexpressly to find out--"

Groping in the dark, Frances clutched his arm again, this time in agentler grasp. "Don't you do it, sir!" she whispered. "Young gentleman, don't you do it! If you do, she'll stay here all her days. No one can'tstand her, sir, and this were the only way. Hark! Save us! What's that?"

No glimmer of light could penetrate to the closet where they stood, inthe thickness of the wall, but a tremendous peal of thunder shook thehouse, and Miss Sophronia's voice could be heard calling frantically onGerald to come back. 

"I must go, " said Gerald. "I--I won't give you away, Mrs. Cook. Shake!"

"You're a gentleman, sir, " replied Frances. They shook hands in thedark, and Gerald ran out. Even as he opened the door the storm broke. Aviolent blast of wind, a blinding flare, a rattling volley of thunder, and down came the rain. 

A rush, a roar, the trampling of a thousand horses; and overhead thegreat guns bellowing, and the flashes coming and going--it was a wildscene. The family had come in, and were all standing in the front hall. All? No, two, only, --Margaret and Miss Sophronia. In the confusion andtumult, the children had escaped, and were gone. Margaret, a littlepale, but perfectly composed, met Gerald with a smile, as if it were themost ordinary thing in the world for young gentlemen to walk out of thewall. She was supporting Miss Sophronia, who had quite lost her head, and was crying piteously that they would die together, and that whoeverescaped must take her watch and chain back to William. "Poor William, what will become of him and those helpless babes?"

"It's all right, Miss Montfort, " said Gerald, cheerfully. "I ran thenoise down, and it was the simplest thing in the world. Nothing to bealarmed about, I do assure you; nothing. "

"What was it?" asked Margaret, in an undertone. 

"I'll tell you by and by, " replied the young man, in the same tone. "Notnow, please; I promised--somebody. You shall know all in good time. "

His look of bright confidence was not to be resisted. Margaret noddedcheerfully, and submitted to be mystified in her own home by an almosttotal stranger. Indeed, the Voice of Fernley had suddenly sunk intoinsignificance beside the Voice of Nature. The turmoil outside grew moreand more furious. At length a frightful crash announced that thelightning had struck somewhere very near the house. This was the laststraw for poor Miss Sophronia. She fled up-stairs, imploring Gerald andMargaret to follow her. "Let us die together!" she cried. "I amresponsible for your young lives; we will pass away in one embrace. Thelong closet, Margaret! It is our only chance of life, --the long closet!"

The long closet, as it was called, was in reality a long enclosedpassage, leading from the Blue Room, where Miss Sophronia slept, to oneof the spare chambers beyond. It was a dim place, lighted only by atransom above the door. Here were kept various ancient family relicswhich would not bear the light of day; a few rusty pictures, someancient hats, and, notably, a bust of some deceased Montfort, whichstood on a shelf, covered with a white sheet, like a half-length ghost. Margaret did not think this gloomy place at all a cheerful place for anervous woman in a thunder-storm; so, nodding to Gerald to follow, sheran up-stairs. But before she reached the landing, terrific shrieksbegan to issue from the upper floor; shrieks so agonising, soear-piercing, that they dominated even the clamour of the storm. Margaret flew, and Gerald flew after. What new portent was here?Breathless, Margaret reached the door of the long closet. It stood open. On the floor inside crouched Miss Sophronia, uttering the franticscreams which rang through the house. Apparently she had lost the use ofher limbs from terror, else she would not have remained motionlessbefore the figure which was advancing towards her from the gloom of thelong passage. First a dusky whiteness glimmered from the black of thefurther end, where the half-ghost sat on its shelf; then gradually thewhiteness detached itself, took shape, --if it could be calledshape, --emerged into the dim half-light, --came on slowly, silently. Shrouded, like the ghostly bust behind it, tall and slender, with darklocks escaping beneath the hood or cowl that drooped low over itsface, --with one hand raised, and pointing stiffly at the unhappywoman, --the figure came on--and on--till it saw Margaret. Then itstopped. Next came in view the bright, eager face of GeraldMerryweather, looking over Margaret's shoulder. And at that, thespectre began, very slowly, and with ineffable dignity, to retreat. 

"Exclusive party, " whispered Gerald. "Objects to our society, MissMontfort. Shall I head him off, or let him go?"

Margaret made no reply; she was bending over the poor lady on the floor, trying to make her hear, trying to check the screams which still rangout with piercing force. 

[Illustration: A LIVELY GHOST. ]

"Cousin Sophronia! Cousin, do stop! Do listen to me! It is a trick, anaughty, naughty trick; nothing else in the world. Do, please, stopscreaming, and listen to me. Oh, what shall I do with her?" This remarkwas addressed to Gerald; but that young gentleman was no longer besideher. He had been keeping his eye on the spectre, which slowly, softlyglided back and back, until it melted once more into the thick blacknessat the further end. Gerald dodged out into the hall, and ran along theouter passage, to meet, as he expected, the ghost full and fair at theother door. "Run!" cried a small voice. "I'll hold him; run!" Gerald wasgrasped once more, this time by a pair of valiant little hands whichdid their best, and which he put aside very gently, seeing a petticoatbeneath them. "You sha'n't catch him!" cried the second spectre, clinging stoutly to his legs. 

 "Twice he wrung her hands in twain, But the small hands closed again!"

Meantime the spectre-in-chief had darted back into the closed passage. There was a crash. The half-ghost toppled over as he ran against it, andwas shivered on the floor, adding another noise to the confusion. Thephantom raced along the passage, took a flying leap over MissSophronia's prostrate form, revealing, had any looked, an unsuspectedblackness of leg beneath the flowing white, and scudded along the squareupper hall. By this time Gerald was at his heels again, and a prettyrace it was. Round the hall, up the stairs, and round the landing of theattic flight. At the attic door the spectre wavered an instant, --thenturned, and dashed down-stairs again. Once more round the upper hall, now down the great front staircase, gathering his skirts as he went, the black legs now in good evidence, and making wonderful play. A goodrunner, surely. But the Greyhound was gaining; he was upon him. Thephantom gave a wild shriek, gained the front door with one desperateleap, and plunged, followed by his pursuer, into the arms of a gentlemanwho stood in the doorway, in the act of entering. 

"Easy, there!" said Mr. Montfort, receiving pursuer and pursued withimpartial calm. "Is it the Day of Judgment, or what?"

CHAPTER XV. 

A DEPARTURE. 

"I am extremely sorry, Sophronia, that you were so alarmed last night. Itrust you feel no ill effects this morning?"

"Ill effects! My dear John, I am a wreck! Simply a wreck, mentally andphysically. I shall never recover from it--never. "

"Oh, don't say that, Cousin Sophronia!" exclaimed Margaret, who wasreally much distressed at all that passed. 

"My love, if it is the truth, I must say it. Truth, Margaret, is what Ilive for. No, I shall never recover, I feel it. My prayer is that theseunhappy children may never know that they are the cause of myuntimely--"

"Has Basil made his apology?" asked Mr. Montfort, abruptly. 

"Yes, John, yes; I am bound to say he has, though he showed littlefeeling in it. Not a tenth part so much as little Merton, who was inreal sorrow, --actually shed tears, --although he had no hand in the crueldeceit. Ah! Merton is the only one of those children who has any heart. "

"Indeed?" said Mr. Montfort, "I didn't know it was as bad as that. "

"Quite, I assure you, dearest John. If it were not for my poor Williamand his children, I should take Merton with me and be a mother to him. His nerves, like mine, are shattered by the terrible occurrences of thelast two nights. He was positively hysterical as he pointed out tome--what I had already pointed out to you, Margaret--that the _realthing_ had not been explained. I might, in time, live down the effect ofthose children's wicked jest; but the Voice of Fernley has never beenexplained, and never will be. "

Mr. Montfort pulled his moustache, and looked out of the window, observing the prospect; but Margaret cried:

"Oh, Cousin Sophronia, you are wrong; indeed, indeed you are! Young Mr. Merryweather found out all about it last night, only he had not time totell us. He said it was something perfectly simple, and that there wasno need of being alarmed in the least. "

"By the way, " said Mr. Montfort, "I have a note from the lad thismorning. He found some special tools were needed, and went up to town bythe early train to see about them. May be gone a day or two, he says. What was the noise like, Margaret?"

Margaret was about to tell all she knew, but Miss Sophronia interrupted. "Spare me, dearest Margaret, spare me the recalling of details. I amstill too utterly broken, --I shall faint, I know I shall. John, it wassimply the voice that was heard ten, or it may be fifteen years ago, when I was a young girl. You must remember; it is impossible but thatyou must remember. "

"I remember perfectly, " said Mr. Montfort. "That was thirty years ago, Sophronia; that was in 1866. Oh, yes, I remember. " Again Mr. Montfortbecame absorbed in the view from the window. His face was very grave;why, then, did the buttons on his waistcoat shake? "And Master Mertonwas frightened, was he?" he resumed, presently. "Ha! that looks bad. Good morning, Jones, " as a respectable-looking man in livery came up thegravel walk. "A note for me? no answer? thanks. " The man touched hishat, and departed; Mr. Montfort opened the pretty, pearl-coloured note, and read, as follows:

 "DEAR JOHN:

 "Don't punish the children; it was partly my fault, and partly your own. I supposed you expected something to happen, and I thought the old trick would serve as well as a new one. 

 "As ever, E. P. "

"Humph!" said Mr. Montfort, twisting the note, and frowning at thewindow. "Precisely! and so, you were saying, Sophronia--ahem! that is, you are obliged to leave us?"

"Yes, my dearest John, I must go. I could not, no! I could not sleepanother night beneath this roof. I have told Willis. I am cut to theheart at leaving you, so helpless, with only this poor child here, andthose--those dreadful children of Anthony's. I would so gladly havemade a home for you, my poor cousin. I live only for others; but stillit seems my duty _to_ live, and I am convinced that another night herewould be my death. "

"I will not attempt to change your purpose, Sophronia. At the same timeI am bound to tell you that--a--that the disturbance of which you speakis of no supernatural kind, but is attributable to--to human agencyaltogether. If you wish, I will have it looked into at once, or we canwait till young Merryweather comes back. He seemed to know about it, yousay, Margaret. And--but at any rate, Sophronia, we can write you thesequel, and, if you feel uneasy, why, as you say-- You have orderedWillis? Then I'll go and get some tags for your trunks. "

Mr. Montfort retired with some alacrity, and Margaret, with anunexplained feeling of guilt at her heart, offered to help MissSophronia with her packing. 

An hour later the lady was making her adieux. The carriage was at thedoor, Willis had strapped on the two trunks, and all was ready. Mr. Montfort shook his cousin by the hand, and was sorry that her visit hadended in such an untoward manner. Margaret begged Cousin Sophronia'spardon for anything she might have done amiss. Indeed, the girl's heartwas full of a vague remorse. She had tried, but she felt that she mighthave tried harder to make things go smoothly. But Miss Sophronia bore, she declared, no malice to any one. 

"I came, dear John, determined to do my best, to be a sister to you inevery way; it will always be a comfort to think that I have been withyou these two months. It may be that some time, when my nerves arerestored, I may be able to come to Fernley again; if you should make anychanges, you understand me. Indeed, a complete change, my dear cousin, is the thing I should most recommend. Missing me as you will, --acompanion of your own age, --you might still marry, dearest John, youmight indeed. Emily--"

"That will do, Sophronia!" said Mr. Montfort, sternly. "Have youeverything you want for the journey?"

"Everything, I think, dear John. Ah! well, good-bye, Margaret! It hasbeen a blow to find that you do not love me, my dear, as I have lovedyou, but we must bear our burdens. "

"What do you--what can you mean, Cousin Sophronia?" asked Margaret, turning crimson. "I am sure I have tried--"

"Ah! well, my dear, one gives oneself away, " said the lady. "You said inyour letter to your cousin, --I recall the precise words--'I have triedto love her, but I cannot succeed. ' Yes; very painful to one who has aheart like mine; but I find so few--"

"Cousin Sophronia, " cried the girl, all softer thoughts now merged in aburning resentment. "You--you read my letter, the letter that was on myown desk, in my own room?"

"Certainly, my love, I did. I hope I know something about young girlsand their ways; I considered it my duty, my sacred duty, to see what youwrote. "

"You seem to know little about the ways of gentle people!" criedMargaret, unable for once to restrain herself. Her uncle laid his handon her arm. "Steady, little woman!" he said. His quiet, warning voicebrought the angry girl to herself, the more quickly that she knew hissympathy was all with her. 

"I--I should not have said that, Cousin Sophronia, " she said. "I begyour pardon! Good-bye!"

She could not say more; she stood still, with burning cheeks, while Mr. Montfort helped the lady into the carriage. 

"A pleasant journey to you, Sophronia, " he said, as he closed the door. "Willis--"

"Good-bye!" cried Miss Sophronia, out of the window. "Bless you, dearestJohn! Margaret, my love, I shall always think of you most tenderly, believe me, in spite of everything. It is impossible for me to harbourresentment. No, my child, I shall always love you as a sister. I havetaken the old vinaigrette with me, as a little souvenir of you; I knewit would give you pleasure to have me use it. Bless you! And, John, ifyou want me to look up some good servants for you, I know of anexcellent woman who would be the very thing--"

"Willis!" said Mr. Montfort again. "You'll miss that train, Sophronia, if you don't, --_bon voyage!_"

Mr. Montfort stood for some seconds looking after the carriage as itdrove off; then he drew a long breath, and threw out his arms, openinghis broad chest. 

"Ha!" said he. "So that is over. Here endeth the-- What, crying, MayMargaret? Come and sit here beside me, child; or shall we come out andsee the roses? Really astonishing to have this number of roses inAugust; but some of these late kinds are very fine, I think. "

Chatting quietly and cheerfully, he moved from one shrub to another, while Margaret wiped her eyes, and gradually quieted her troubledspirit. 

"Thank you, Uncle John!" she said, presently. "You know, don't you? Youalways know, just as papa did. But--but I never heard of any one's doingsuch a thing, did you?"

"Didn't you, my dear? Well, you see, you didn't know your CousinSophronia when she was a girl. And--let us be just, " he added. "You, belonging to the new order, have no idea of what many people thought anddid forty years ago. I have no doubt, from my recollection of my AuntMelissa, Sophronia's mother, that she read all her children's letters. Iknow she searched my pockets once, thinking I had stolen sugar; Ihadn't, that time, and my white rat was in my pocket, and bit her, and Iwas glad. "

Seeing Margaret laugh again, Mr. Montfort added, in a different tone, "And now, I must see those boys. "

The children were sent for to the study, where they remained for sometime. Basil and Susan D. Came out looking very grave; they went up tothe nursery in silence, and sat on the sofa, rubbing their headstogether, and now and then exchanging a murmur of sympathy andunderstanding. Merton remained after the others, and when he emergedfrom the fatal door, he was weeping profusely, and refused to becomforted by Elizabeth; and was found an hour after, pinching Chico'stail, and getting bitten in return. Telling Margaret about itafterward, Mr. Montfort said:

"Basil and the little girl tell a perfectly straight story. It is justas I supposed; they were trying the old ghost trick that we other boys, your father and Richard and I, Margaret, played on Sophronia years ago. If the thunder-storm had not brought you all up-stairs, there would havebeen some very pretty ghost-gliding, and the poor soul would very likelyhave been frightened into a real fit instead of an imaginary one. Children don't realise that sort of thing; I certainly did not, nor mybrothers; but I think these two realise it now, and they are not likelyto try anything of the kind again. As for the noise, --"

"Yes, Uncle John, I am really much more puzzled about that noise, for, of course, I saw the other foolishness with my eyes. "

"Well!" said Mr. Montfort, comfortably, "we used to make that noise witha thing we called a roarer; I don't know whether they have such thingsnow. You take a tomato-can, and put a string through it, and then you--It really does make a fine noise, very much what you describe. Yes, Ihave that on my conscience, too, Margaret. You see, I told you I knewthis kind of child, and so I do, and for good reason. But Basil won'tsay anything at all about the matter. He says it was not his hunt, andhe will tell all that he did, but cannot tell on others; which isentirely proper. But when I turned to that other little scamp, Merton, Icould get nothing but floods of tears, and entreaties that I would askFrances. 'Frances knows all about it!' he said, over and over. "

"And have you seen Frances?"

"N--no, " replied Mr. Montfort, rather slowly. "I am going to see Francesnow. "

Accordingly, a few minutes later, Frances, bustling about her kitchen, became aware of her master standing in the doorway. She became aware ofhim, I say, but it was with "the tail of her eye" only; she took nonotice of him, and went on rattling dish-pans at an alarming rate. Sheappeared to be house-cleaning; at all events, the usually neat kitchenwas in a state of upheaval, and the chairs and tables, tubs andclothes-horses, were so disposed that it was next to impossible for anyone to enter. Moreover, Frances apparently had a toothache, for her facewas tied up in a fiery red handkerchief; and when Mr. Montfort saw thathandkerchief, he looked grave, and hung about the door more like aschoolboy than a dignified gentleman and the proprietor of FernleyHouse. 

"Good morning, Frances, " he said at length, in a conciliatory tone. 

"Good morning, sir, " said Frances; and plunged her mop into a pail ofhot water. 

"You have a toothache, Frances? I am very sorry. "

"Yes, sir, I have; thank you, sir. "

"A--Frances--I came to ask if you can tell me anything about the strangenoise that frightened the ladies so, last night and the night before. "

"No, sir, " said Frances. "I can't tell you nothing about it. There do berats enough in this house, Mr. Montfort, to make any kind of a noise;and I do wish, sir, as the next time you are in town, you would get me arat-trap as is good for something. There's nothing but trash, as therats won't look at, and small blame to them. I can't be expected to dowithout things to do with, Mr. Montfort, and I was saying so toElizabeth only this morning. "

"I will see to the traps, Frances. But this noise that I am speaking of;Master Merton says--"

"And I was wishful to ask you, sir, if you would please tell MasterMerton to keep out of my kitchen, and not come bothering here every hourin the day. The child is that greedy, he do eat himself mostly ill everyday, sir, as his father would be uneasy if he knew it, sir. And to havefolks hanging round my kitchen when I am busy is a thing I never couldabide, Mr. John, as you know very well, sir, and I hope you'll excuse mefor speaking out; and if you'd go along, sir, and be so kind, maybe Icould get through my cleaning so as to have dinner not above half anhour or so late, though I'm doubtful myself, harried as I have been. "

"I really don't see what I am to do with Frances, " said Mr. Montfort, ashe went back to his study; "she grows more and more impracticable. Shewill be giving me notice to quit one of these days, if I don't mind. Iam very sure the house belongs to her, and not to me. But, until MasterGerald Merryweather comes back, I really don't see how I am to find outwho worked that roarer. "

CHAPTER XVI. 

PEACE. 

Peace reigned once more at Fernley House; peace and cheerfulness, andmuch joy. It was not the same peace as of old, when Margaret and heruncle lived their quiet tête-à-tête life, and nothing came to break theeven calm of the days. Very different was the life of to-day. The peacewas spiritual purely, for the lively and varied round of daily life gavelittle time for repose and meditation, at least for Margaret. She hadbegun to give the children short but regular lessons in the morning, finding that the day was not only more profitable but pleasanter forthem and for all, if it began with a little study. And the lessons werea delight to her. Remembering her struggles with Peggy, --dear Peggy, --itwas a joy to teach these young creatures the beginnings of her belovedEnglish history, and to see how they leaped at it, even as she herselfhad leaped so few years ago. They carried it about with them all day. Margaret never knew whom to expect to dinner in these days. Now ascowling potentate would stalk in with folded arms and announce that hewas William the Conqueror, and demand the whereabouts of Hereward theWake (who was pretty sure to emerge from under the table, and engage insanguinary combat, just after he had brushed his hair, and have to besent up to the nursery to brush it over again); now a breathless pairwould rush in, crying that they were the Princes in the Tower, and wouldshe please save them, for that horrid old beast of a Gloster was comingafter them just as fast as he could come. Indeed, Margaret had to make arule that they should be their own selves, and no one else, in theevening when Uncle John came home, for fear of more confusion than hewould like. 

"But I get so _used_ to being Richard, " cried Basil, after a day ofcrusader-life. "You can't do a king well if you have to keep stoppingand being a boy half the time. Don't you see that yourself, CousinMargaret?"

Yes, Margaret saw that, but she submitted that she liked boys, and thatit was trying for a person in private life, like herself, to live allday in royal society, especially when royalty was so excited as theMajesty of England was at this juncture. 

"Oh, but why can't you be some one too, Cousin Margaret? I suppose SusanD. Would hate to give up being Berengaria, after you gave her thatlovely gold veil--I say, doesn't she look bul--doesn't she look prettyin it? I never thought Susan D. Would come out pretty, but it's mostlythe way you do her hair--what was I saying, Cousin Margaret? Oh, yes, but there are other people you could be, lots and lots of them. And--Merton doesn't half do Saladin. He keeps getting mad when I run himthrough the body, and I _can't_ make him understand that I don't meanthose nasty, fat, black things in ponds, when I call him 'learnedleech, ' and you know he _has_ to be the leech, it says so in the'Talisman. ' And so perhaps you would be Saladin, and he can be SirKenneth, though he's too sneaky for him, too. Or else you could be thehermit, Cousin Margaret. Oh, do be the hermit! Theodoric of Engedi, youknow, the Flail of the Desert, that's a splendid one to do. All you haveto do is keep jumping about and waving something, and crying out, 'I amTheodoric of Engedi! I am the Flail of the Desert!' Come on, CousinMargaret, oh, I say, do!" And Susan D. , tugging at her cousin's gown, shouted in unison, "Oh, I say, do, Cousin Margaret!"

If any one had told Margaret Montfort, three months before this, thatshe would, before the end of the summer, be capering about the garden, waving her staff, and proclaiming herself aloud to be the highlytheatrical personage described above, she would have opened her eyes ingentle and rather scornful amazement. But Margaret was learning manythings in these days, and among them the art of being a child. Her lifehad been mostly spent with older people; she had never known till nowthe rapture of being a little girl, a little boy. Now, seeing it inthese bright faces, that never failed to grow brighter at sight of her, she felt the joy reflected in her own face, in her own heart; and it wasgood to let all the quiet, contained maiden ways go, once in a while, and just be a child with the children, or a Flail of the Desert, as inthe present instance. 

John Montfort, leaning on the gate, watched the pretty play, wellpleased. "They have done her all the good in the world, " he said tohimself. "It isn't only what she has done for them, bless her, but forher, too, it has been a great thing. I was selfish and stupid to thinkthat a young creature could go on growing to fulness, without otheryoung creatures about it. How will she feel, I wonder, about theirgoing? How would she like--"

[Illustration: "THE 'FLAIL OF THE DESERT. '"]

At this moment he was discovered by Basil, who charged him with a joyousshout. "Oh, here is Uncle John! Oh, Uncle John, don't you want to beSaladin, please? Here's Merton has hurt his leg and gone off in a sulk, and I'll get you a scimitar in a minute--it's the old sickle, and Willissays it's so rusty you can't really do much mischief with it; andhere's the Hermit of Engedi, you know, and he can shout--"

But, alas, for the Lion-hearted! When he turned to summon his hermit, hesaw no flying figure, brandishing a walking-stick and crying aloud, buta demure young lady, smoothing her hair hurriedly and shaking out thefolds of her dress, as she hastened to meet her uncle. 

"Bravo!" said Uncle John. "But why did you stop, Meg? It wouldn't havebeen the first time I had played Saladin, I assure you!"

"Oh, uncle! I am really too much out of breath to play any more. Andbesides, it is near tea-time, and the children must go and get ready. Iwill come in a moment, Susan dear, and do your hair. Are there anyletters, Uncle John? Oh, two, from the girls; how perfectly delightful!Oh, I must run up, but we'll read them after tea, shall we, Uncle John?"

"With all my heart, my dear; and I have a letter, too, about which Ishall want to consult you. Go now, or Susan D. Will be trying to braidher own hair, a thing to be avoided, I have observed. "

Tea over, and Mr. Montfort seated at ease with his cigar, the childrenengaged in an enchanting game of Bat (played with worn-out umbrellas, from which the sticks had been taken: this game is to be highlyrecommended where there is space for flapping and swooping), Margaretopened her letters; reopened them, rather, for it must be confessed thatshe had peeped into both while she was braiding her own hair andchanging her dress for the pretty evening gown her uncle always liked tosee. 

"Peggy is actually off for school, Uncle John. It does not seem possiblethat we are in September, and the summer really gone. She seems in highspirits over it, dear child. Listen!

 "DARLING DEAREST MARGARET:

 "I am going to-morrow; I waited till the last minute, so that I could tell you the last of me. My trunk is almost all packed, and I really think I have done it pretty well. Thank you, ever and ever and ever so much, for the nice things to tie up my shoes in. They are just lovely, and so is the shoe-bag to hang against the wall. I mean to put away every shoe just the very minute I take it off, and not have them kicking about the closet floor at all, ever. And the combing-sack! Oh, Margaret, it is a perfect beauty! Ever so much too pretty to do my hair in, and mother says so, too, but I shall, because you made it for me to, and think of you all the time I am, and--

 "I got a little mixed there, but you will know what I mean, dearest Margaret. Tell Uncle John I am so perfectly delighted with the lovely ring, I don't know _what_ to _do_. Oh, Margaret, you know how I always wanted a ring, and how I used to admire that sapphire of Rita's; and to think of having a sapphire ring myself--why, I can hardly believe it even now! I couldn't go to sleep for ever so long last night, just watching it in the moonlight. Of course I shall write to Uncle John and thank him myself, but I couldn't wait just to let him know how happy I was. (Margaret, if you think he would like it, or at least wouldn't mind it, you might give him a hug just now and say I sent it, but don't unless you are _perfectly sure_ he wouldn't mind, because you know how I _love_ Uncle John, even if I am just the least bit afraid of him, and I'm sure that is natural when you think what a goose I am. )"

Margaret paused, laughing, to throw her arms around her uncle, and tellhim that this was "Peggy's hug;" then she went on:

 "I was so glad to get your last letter, and to hear all about dear, darling Fernley, and Uncle John, and Elizabeth and Frances, and all the funny things those funny children have been doing. Margaret, they are almost exactly like us children when we were their age. I never began to think about growing up till I read about how they carry on, and then saw that we didn't act so any more, Jean, and Flora, and I. Jean is younger than me, of course, but she's more grown up, I really think. I think you must have a lovely time, now that--well, you said I mustn't call names, and so I won't, but I know just exactly what kind of a person she was, Margaret, and _so do you_, and you can't deny it, so now!

 "Margaret, of course I do feel rather scared about school, for I am still very ignorant, and I suppose all the girls will know about forty thousand times as much as I do, and they will call me stupid, and I know I am; but I mean to be brave, and remember all the things you have said, and mother has helped me, too, oh, a lot, and she says she just wishes she had had the chance when she was a girl, and I know now just how she feels. And then when I come home, you see, I can teach the little girls, and that will be great. But I never shall try to teach them spelling, or history, for you know I cannot; and I cannot remember to this day who Thomas à Bucket was, and why they called him that. 

 "Hugh came in just now, and I asked him that, and he laughed, and said Thomas à Bucket was certainly pale before they got through with him. I don't know what he means, but he says you will, so I write it down. Good-bye, dearest, darling Margaret. Give heaps and oceans and lots of love to Uncle John, and most of all to your own darling self, from

 "PEGGY. "

"I wonder how Peggy will get on at school?" said Margaret. "Very well, Ishould think. Certainly no one can help liking her, dear girl; and shewill learn a great deal, I am sure. "

"She'll never learn English history, " said Mr. Montfort; "but after all, there are other things, May Margaret, though you are loth to acknowledgeit. "

"And now for Rita. I'll just run through it again, Uncle John, tosee--oh! oh, yes! The first part is all just that she wants to see me, and so on, --her wild way. She has had the most wonderful summer, --'thePyrenees, Margaret! Never before have I seen great mountains, that scalethe heavens, you understand. The Titans are explained to me. I haveseen, and my soul has arisen to their height. I could dwell with thee, Marguerite, on snow-peaks tinged with morning rose, peaks that touch thestars, that veil themselves in clouds of evening;' perhaps I'll skip alittle here, Uncle John. Interlaken, --the Jungfrau, --oh, she _is_ havinga glorious time. Oh! oh, dear me, uncle!"

"Well, my dear? She has not fallen off the Jungfrau?"

"No, not that; but she--she is--or she thinks she is--going to bemarried. "

Mr. Montfort whistled. "To the Matterhorn, or to some promising youngavalanche? Pray enlighten me, my dear. "

"Oh! don't laugh, Uncle John, I am afraid it may be serious. A youngCuban, she says, a soldier, of course. " Margaret ran her eyes down thepage, but found nothing sober enough to read aloud. "He seems to be avery wonderful person, " she said, timidly. "Handsome, and a miracle ofcourage, --and a military genius; if war should come, Rita thinks he willbe commander-in-chief of the Cuban army. You don't think it will reallycome to war, Uncle John?"

"I cannot tell, Margaret, " said Mr. Montfort, gravely. "Things arelooking rather serious, but no one can see just what is coming yet. Andthis seems to be a bona fide engagement? It isn't little Fernando, isit?"

"No! oh, no! She says--she is sorry for Fernando, but he will always beher brother. This one's name is--let me see. José Maria SalvadorSantillo de Santayana. What a magnificent name! He had followed her fromCuba, and he has Uncle Richard's permission to pay his addresses toRita, and she says--she says he is the dream of her life, embodied inthe form of a Greek hero, with the soul of a poet, and the intellect ofa Shakespeare. So I suppose it is all right, uncle; only, she is veryyoung. "

"Young! My dear child, she was grown up while you were still in thenursery, " said Mr. Montfort. "According to Spanish ideas, it is hightime for her to be married, and I am sure I wish the dear girl allhappiness. We must look over the family trinkets, Margaret, and findsomething for our bird of Paradise. There are some pretty bits ofjewelry; but that will keep. Now, if you can stop wondering andromancing for a moment, May Margaret, I, too, have a letter, about whichI wish to consult you. "

"Yes, uncle, oh, yes! I hope he is good as well as handsome, don't you?She says the Santillo nose is the marvel of all Cuba. "

"The Santillo nose may be pickled in brine, my dear, for ought I care; Ireally want your attention, Margaret, and you must come down from theclouds. Here is Anthony Montfort writing for his children. "

"_What!_" cried Margaret, waking suddenly from her dream. "What did yousay about the children, Uncle John? Cousin Anthony writing for them?What can you mean?"

"Why, my love, I mean writing for them, " said Mr. Montfort, calmly. "Heis, you may remember, a relation of theirs, a father in point of fact. He has found an excellent opening in California, and means to staythere. He says--I'll read you his letter, or the part of it that relatesto the children. Hum--'grateful to you'--ha! yes, here it is. 'Ofcourse I must make some arrangement about the children. One of the boyscan come to me, but I cannot take care of both, so Basil will have to goto boarding-school, and Susan D. , too. If you would be so good as tolook up a good school or two, I should be ever so much obliged. Basilcan take care of himself, you'll only have to consign and ship him;perhaps you can get some one to go with the little girl, and see to herthings and all that. It's a shame to call upon you, '--h'm! so forth!Well, Meg, what do you say?"

But Margaret said nothing. She was sitting with her hands fallen on herlap, gazing at her uncle with a face of such piteous consternation thathe had much ado to keep his countenance. 

"Take them away!" she faltered, presently. "Take away--my children? Oh, Uncle John!"

Mr. Montfort looked away, and smoked awhile in silence, giving the girltime to collect herself. Margaret struggled with the tears that wantedto rush to her eyes. She forced herself to take up the letters that layin her lap and fold them methodically. When he saw that her handstrembled less, Mr. Montfort said, quietly, "The children have been agreat deal of care to you, Margaret; but you have grown fond of them, Iknow, and so have I. I think a good deal of your judgment, my dear, young as you are. What would you like best to have done about the littlepeople? Take time; take time! Anthony practically leaves the wholematter in my hands. In fact, I think he is puzzled, and feels perhapsthat he has not done as well as he might for them always. Take time, mychild. "

"Oh, I don't need any time, Uncle John!" cried Margaret, trying to speaksteadily. "I--I didn't realise, I suppose--it has all come about sogradually--I didn't realise all that they were to me. To lose Basil andSusan D. , --I don't see how I can let them go, uncle; I don't indeed. Youwon't think me ungrateful, will you, dear? I was, oh, so happy, beforethey came; but now--they are so dear, so dear! and--and Susan D. Isused to me, and to have her go to a stranger who might not understandthe poor little shut-up nature--oh, how can I bear it? how can I bearit?"

"Well, my dear, " said Mr. Montfort, comfortably. "How if you did nothave to bear it?"

Then, as Margaret raised her startled eyes to his, he went on, in thekind, steady tone that always brought quiet and peace with it. 

"How if we made the present arrangement--part of it, atleast--permanent? Let Merton go to his father; I should not care to havethe bringing up of Merton. But there is an excellent school near here, on the island, to which Basil could go, staying the week and coming homehere for Sunday; and if little Susan would not be too much care foryou, --she's a dear little girl, once you get through the prickles, --why, May Margaret, it seems to me--"

But Mr. Montfort got no further; for here was Margaret sobbing on hisbreast as if she were Rita herself, and calling him the best anddearest and kindest, and telling him that she was so happy, so happy;and that was why she was crying, only she could not stop; and so on andso on, till Uncle John really thought he should have to send forFrances. At his suggesting this, however, Margaret laughed through hertears, and presently struggled into something like composure. 

"And, after all, " said Mr. Montfort, "how do you know the children willwant to stay with you, you conceited young woman?"

"Oh, Uncle John! I will teach Susan D. All I know, and a great dealmore, I hope, for I shall be learning all the time now, if I haveanother coming after me. And we will keep house together, and it will belike the little sister, like little Penelope, Uncle John. And then tohave Basil coming home every week, all full of school, and fun, andnoise, --why, how perfectly delightful it will be! And I will not letthem overrun you, dear uncle; they have been good lately, haven'tthey?"

"They have been extremely good, my dear. All the same, I think you woulddo well to interview them on the subject, before you prepare all yourchickens for the market. See, there are your two coming up the walk thismoment. You might go--"

But Margaret was already gone. Mr. Montfort watched her light figureflying down the walk, and thought she had grown almost back into a childagain, since the children came. "And yet all a woman, " he said; "all asweet, wholesome, gentle woman. See her now with her arms around thechild; the little creature clings to her as if she were the mother itnever knew. Ah! she is telling them. No need to smother her, children. Inever really meant to separate you; no, indeed. I only wanted you tofind out for yourselves, as I have found out for myself. No moresolitude at Fernley, please God; from now on, young faces and hearts, and sunshine, and a home; the future instead of the past. "

The good man laid down his cigar, quietly and carefully, as he dideverything, and opened his arms as the three, Margaret and herchildren, came flying towards him; and they ran into those kind strongarms and nestled there, and looked into his eyes and knew that they wereat home. 

THE END. 

THE

"Queen Hildegarde" Series. 

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 

Page 125, word "the" was inserted into the text (out of the window)

Page 188, "year" changed to "years" (for thirty years)

Page 226, "bothér" changed to "bother" (want to bother her)

Page 268, "scimetar" changed to "scimitar" (a scimitar in a)

The asterism on used on the second to the last advertising page waschanged to *** for this text version.