"My dearest John," cried Miss Sophronia, in her gayest tone, "you are not to give it a thought! Is he, Margaret? No, my dear fellow! It is noble of you—Quixotic, I must think, but undeniably noble—to take in these poor little waifs; but you shall have no further thought about providing for them. Everything shall be arranged; I know the house from garret 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 could not keep awake while any one else read aloud; so she took matters into her own hands, and read herself, for an hour by the clock. Her voice was high and thin, and kept Mr. Montfort awake; she was apt to emphasise the wrong words, which made Margaret's soul cry out within her; and she stopped every few minutes to chew a cardamom seed with great deliberation. This simple action had the effect of making both her hearers extremely nervous, they could not have explained why. Also, she was afflicted with a sniff, which recurred at regular intervals, generally in the middle of a sentence. Altogether the reading was a chastened pleasure nowadays; and this particular evening it was certainly 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 the whole, she thought it might be better for her to go to bed early, and take some warm drink. "It would never do for me to be laid up, with these children coming to be seen after!" she declared. So she departed, and Margaret and her uncle sat down to a game of backgammon, and played slowly and peacefully, lingering over their moves as long as they pleased, and tasting the pleasure of having no one say that they should play this or that, "of course!"

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

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

Suddenly Mr. Montfort's air of cheerful meditation changed. He sat upright, and leaned slightly forward. He seemed to listen for something. Then suddenly, softly, he rose, and with silent step crossed the room and stood a moment beside the wall. It was a very different face 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 you tell, uncle?"

"Come here, and listen!" said her uncle. Margaret stole to his side, and listened, her head, like his, near the wall. She heard the crackling of paper; the sound of a drawer pulled softly out; the clank, muffled, but unmistakable, of brass handles. What did it mean? She looked to her uncle 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. Margaret followed, greatly wondering, across the wide hall; through the low door that led to the White Rooms, now her own; into her own sitting-room, or Aunt Faith's room, as she still loved to call it. Here Mr. Montfort released her hand, and again motioned her to be silent.

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

Margaret noticed, in all her confusion of surprise, that the great white chair was pushed away from its usual place. Her uncle stepped in behind the table near which it always stood, and passed his hand along the smooth white panel of the wall. Noiselessly it swung open, revealing a dark space. Margaret obeyed his gesture, and following, found herself in a narrow passage, carpeted with felt, on which her feet made no sound. They went forward some way; it was quite dark, but she followed her uncle'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 listen again. The rustling of paper sounded very clear now; there was another rustle, too, the rustle of silk. Suddenly, light flashed upon them; Margaret felt herself drawn swiftly forward; there was a smothered exclamation in her uncle's voice, followed by a scream from another.

They were standing in Mr. Montfort's study. The room was lighted by a single candle, that stood on the writing-table; beside this table, backed against it in an attitude of terror and surprise, stood Miss Sophronia Montfort, her hands full of documents, her eyes glaring. There was 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 of some of these." He took the papers quietly, and laid them on the table. Miss Sophronia gasped once, twice; opened and shut her eyes several times, and swallowed convulsively; when she spoke, it was with a fluttering voice, but in something like her ordinary tone.

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

She shook her head in a manner that was meant to be playful; but suddenly the smile dropped from her face like a mask; for Mr. Montfort did a singular thing. He bent his head forward slightly; fixed his eyes on 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 own cousin. Your father and mine were brothers, John. I hope I know my duty—ah, don't! I will not, John Montfort!"

Margaret looked from one to the other in blank amazement. The lady seemed in the extremity of terror. Her uncle—was this her uncle? Instead of the grave, dignified gentleman, she seemed to see a boy; a boy intent on mischief, every motion of him alive with power and malice. Step by step he advanced, his hands clenched, his head bent forward, 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 one wild shriek Miss Sophronia turned and fled. Her skirts whisked along the secret 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 scurvy trick, but she deserved it. I—I used to run Sophronia up-stairs, Margaret, when she was a troublesome girl. It always frightened her. I'd have done it in another minute, if she had not run, but I knew she would. Poor Sophronia! I suppose something of the boy stays in us, my dear, as long as we live. I—I am afraid I should rather have enjoyed running Sophronia up-stairs."



CHAPTER VII.

THE DAUNTLESS THREE.

The next morning Miss Sophronia kept her bed; her cold, she said, was too severe to admit of her joining the family at breakfast. Margaret waited on her with an uneasy sense of guilt in general, though she could not accuse herself of any special sin. She did her best to be sympathetic and dutiful, having been brought up to respect her elders sincerely. But she was puzzled all the same, and when it came to any question 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 matter connected with Uncle John, she would be the Rock of Gibraltar. This being settled, the Rock of Gibraltar brought raspberries for Cousin Sophronia's breakfast, and made her room bright with flowers, and tried to make cheer for her. The poor lady was rather subdued, and told Margaret she was a cherub child; then declared she would not be a burden on any one, and sent the girl away to "amuse herself."

"Be happy as a butterfly, my dear, all the morning; don't give me a thought, I beg of you. If Frances would have a new-laid egg ready for me at eleven—positively a new-laid one, Margaret! Perhaps you would bring it yourself from the hen-yard. I have no confidence in servants, and it would 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, but it is my duty to make the attempt. Bless you! Good-bye! If you happen to have nothing to do about twelve, you might bring your work and sit with me. I am the most sociable creature in the world; I cannot endure to be alone when I am ill; but don't have me on your mind, my love, for a single instant."

All the duties attended to, Margaret spent a delightful hour, with Elizabeth's assistance, in making ready the rooms for the newcomers. The little girl was to have Peggy's room, next her own, and that needed nothing save fresh flowers in the vases, and fresh ribbons on the curtains. But the boys were to have the old nursery, the great room that ran across the whole width of the house, on the third floor. It was a pleasant room, with dormer windows facing east and south, a great fireplace, with a high wire fender, and a huge sofa, covered with red chintz dragons. A funny sofa it was, with little drawers let in along the sides. John Montfort and his brothers used to lie on this sofa, when they had the measles and whooping-cough, and play with the brass drawer-handles, and keep their treasures in the drawers. The windows were barred, and there was a gate across the landing, at the top of the stairs. Elizabeth had suggested taking away the gate and the bars, "such big 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 we can give them. Master Richard was twelve, when he squeezed himself between these, and went along the gutter hanging by his hands, till he came to the spout, and shinned down it. Never make things too easy for a Montfort boy!"

In one corner stood a huge rocking-horse, with saddle and bridle of crimson leather, rather the worse for wear. He was blind of one eye, and his 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 marbles somewhere, in a large bag of flowered purple calico, with a red string. They had been there forty years; they must be there still. She found them at last, hanging from a peg of one of the great beams. On the beam close 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 reflected that 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 which she had been standing, perched on a chair. Something rolled slowly along, half the length of the beam, and dropped to the floor and rolled towards her. Laughing now, Margaret stooped and picked up a great ball, a leather ball, striped red and black. On one of the red stripes was written, in large, unconventional letters, "Roger." It was her father's ball! Margaret held the toy very tenderly in her hands, and tried to see the 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 less easy to see her father's.

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

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

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

"Basil, Merton, and Susan D.," replied the elder boy, promptly, while three 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 laughter startled him, and made Margaret jump.

"That's what Puppa calls us!" cried Basil, springing lightly up and down on the tips of his toes. "We didn't know whether you would or not; he said you would pretty soon, anyhow. How do you do, Uncle John? We are very well, thank you. I am thirteen, and Mert is twelve, and Susan D. is ten. Puppa hopes we shall not be troublesome, and here are the keys of the 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 saying it all the way over here."

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

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



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

"Well," said Mr. Montfort at last, after a long, silent look at each one in turn, "I am very glad to see you, children. I hope we are going to be good friends. Boys, I was a boy myself, just two or three years ago,—or it 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 much difference. Your Cousin Margaret—oh, here is your Cousin Margaret! She will be good to you, and—and in short, you are all very welcome to Fernley, and there is a swing in the garden, and the rest you can find out for yourselves."

Margaret came forward, and shook hands with the boys, and kissed the little girl warmly. Evidently Susan D. was not used to being kissed, for she blushed, and her brothers giggled rather rudely, till they caught Mr. Montfort's eye, and stopped.

"Young gentlemen," said Uncle John, with an emphasis which brought the blood to Basil's cheek, "dinner will be ready"—he looked at his watch—"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 was left alone with the three strange children, feeling shyer than ever before 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 we left home. He's a greedy,—that's what he is." Then, scared at her own voice, she hung her head down, and put her finger in her mouth.

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

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

Susan not replying, Basil replied for her. "Susan D. we call her; but Puppa calls her Sudden Death when she acts bad; she mostly does act bad."

"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 the time."

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

"That's so!" said Basil, and his lips parted suddenly in a smile that positively 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 my legs being long, you see." He held up a long, thin leg for Margaret's inspection. "Some fellows called me Spider once, and Susan D. scratched their faces for 'em. She's great at scratching, Susan D. is."

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

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

"What do you mean, child?" cried Margaret, laughing. Basil flashed his brilliant smile on her again.

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

"Greedy Gobble!" interjected Merton.

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

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

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

"We see which can hang on to a table longest, don't you know, by your teeth. 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 the tables 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 gentleman seemed as much at home as if he had spent his life at Fernley. The two other children were eating hastily and furtively, as if they feared each bite might be their last. Basil crunched his crackers and nibbled his cheese with an air of perfect unconcern. "Are you the boss here?" he repeated.

"Am I in authority, do you mean?" asked Margaret, who could not abide slang of any kind. "No, indeed, Basil. Your Uncle John is the head of the house, in every possible way. I hope you are all going to be very good 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 him running up that tree. My! Wish I had a pea-shooter!"

"Bet you couldn't hit him if you had!" cried Merton, as all three children 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's eye, 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. Receiving permission to play till they heard the dinner-bell, they fled suddenly, as if the constable were at their heels. Margaret saw their legs twinkling 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 a bush with a joyous whoop, then snatched off his brother's and threw that after it. Merton grappled him with a shout, and they rolled over and over at the feet of their sister, who bent down and pummelled them both with might and main, shrieking with excitement. As Margaret gazed aghast, preparing to fly and interfere, she heard a quiet laugh behind her, and turning, saw Mr. Montfort looking over her shoulder.

"Battle, Murder, and Sudden Death!" he said. "Separate them? On no account, my dear! They have been shut up for hours, and their muscles need stretching. Don't be alarmed, my child; I know this kind." Poor Margaret 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 been whipped with rods. Head, heart, and back, all ached in sympathy. The children were in bed; that is, she had left them in bed; their staying there was another matter; however, all three were tired after their journey, and Uncle John thought the chances were that they would fall asleep before they had time to think of doing anything else. Among the three, the little girl was the one who oppressed Margaret with a sense of defeat, a sense of her own incompetence. She had not expected to understand the boys; she had never had any experience of boys; but she had expected to win the little girl to her, and make her a little friend, perhaps almost a sister. Susan D. received her advances with an elfish 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, hoping for 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 my shoulder, and I will sing you one of my own bedtime songs, that my nurse used 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 hair gently.

"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 speak lightly. "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 a single word. She made no resistance, however, when Margaret helped her off with her clothes. "You are big enough to undress yourself, of course," the girl said, "but I will help you to-night, because you are tired, and you must feel strange, coming so far away from home. Poor little mite!" The child looked so small and slight, standing with her dress off, and her thin shoulders sticking out like wings, that Margaret felt a sudden thrill of compassion, and stooping, kissed the freckled cheek warmly. The colour came into the child's face, but she stood like a stock, never moving a muscle, never raising her eyes to take note of the pretty, tasteful arrangements to which Margaret had given such thought and pains. But the undressing went on, and presently she was in her little nightgown, with her hair unbraided and smoothly brushed. She might be pretty, Margaret decided, when she filled out a little, and had a pleasanter expression. She was so little! Surely there must be one more effort, this first night.

"Shall I hear you say your prayers, dear?" asked Margaret, taking the child'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 a few minutes, and tuck you up in your little nest."

The child gave no sign; and when Margaret came back, she was standing in the same spot, in the same position. She got into bed obediently, and made no resistance when Margaret tucked the bedclothes in, patted her shoulder, and gave her a last good-night kiss. She might as well have kissed the pillow for any response there was, but at least there had been no shrinking this time. "Good night, Susan D.," said Margaret, cheerfully, pausing at the door. "Good night, dear! Susan, I think you must 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, something struck her forehead lightly. She looked up, and narrowly escaped getting a fish-hook in her eye. Merton looked over the banisters, and smiled appealingly. "I was fishin'," he said. "There's fish-lines in the drawers 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 you been standing there in your nightgown? You might catch your death." (It had been one of old Katy's maxims that if you stood about in your nightgown for however short a time, you inevitably got your death. Margaret had never doubted it till this moment.) "I am coming up now to tuck you both up!" she added, with a happy inspiration.

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

Margaret looked around her, and Merton's gaze grew more intense. His own clothes 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? A clean nightgown?

But when Merton saw his cousin's eyes fix on the nightgown, he exploded in a bubbling laugh. "He—he ain't undressed at all!" he cried, gleefully. "He never! he's got his boots on, and every single—" The speech got no further. There was a flying whirl of blankets, a leap, and Basil 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 main strength, he still clawing the air. Unconsciously, she gave him a hearty shake before she let go; the boy staggered back a few paces; who would have thought that Margaret had such strength in her slender wrists? The crisis over, she panted, and felt faint for an instant; Basil, after a moment of bewilderment, looked at her, and the smile broke all over his face, 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 not in bed?" Then as Basil sent an eloquent glance at the pillow where his head had been lying so quietly, she added, "Why are you not undressed, I mean? I am afraid you have been very naughty, both of you, boys."

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

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

"Well, see here!" cried the boy, excitedly. "Because, you see, they're worth a lot, some of 'em. Why, there's agates,—why, they are perfect beauties! Just look!" He ran towards the sofa, but Margaret stopped him resolutely.

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

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

Margaret nodded, wondering, and withdrew to the landing, where she sat with her head in her hands, saying to herself, "Let nothing disturb thee, 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 a suffering bedstead. "Now I'm in bed!" said Basil. Margaret picked up the two heaps of clothing, and laid them neatly on two chairs. "I want you to do this yourselves after this," she explained. "It isn't nice to leave your things on the floor."

"All right!" "We will!" said both boys; and then they joined in a fervent 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," cried Basil. "Thank you, Cousin Margaret; that's bully!"

Margaret tucked Merton in first; he looked so dimpled and pretty, she was tempted to offer a caress, but the recollection of Susan D. kept her from it. Turning away, she came to Basil's bed. The boy watched her intently as she smoothed the bedclothes with practised hand, and tucked them in exactly right, not too tight and not too loose. There are several 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 looked at her; then turned his head away. "Mother used to put me to bed!" he muttered, so low that Margaret could hardly hear. She did hear, however; and instantly stooping over the boy, she kissed him warmly. Thank Heaven, 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. Will you?" The boy nodded; his eyes were eloquent, but he did not speak. Her heart still warm, Margaret looked across at Merton; but Basil plucked her 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 went away with a lighter heart than she had brought with her. On the floor below she paused to listen at Susan's door; all was quiet there. Cousin Sophronia was asleep, too, no doubt; Margaret had spent part of the evening with her, reading, and listening to her doleful prophecies of the miseries entailed by the coming of "these dreadful children!" It was nearly her own bedtime, too, for between Cousin Sophronia and the children the evening had slipped away all too fast. But surely she might have a few minutes of peace and joy? The library door stood open; from it there came a stream of cheerful light, and the perfume of a Manila cigar. Oh, good! Uncle John had not gone to his study; he was waiting for her. As she passed Miss Sophronia's door, Margaret fancied she heard a call; but she was not sure, and for once she was rebellious. She flew down-stairs, and ran into the library.

The pleasant room lay in shade, save for the bright gleam of the reading-lamp. Among the books which lined the walls from floor to ceiling, the gilded backs of the smaller volumes caught the light and sent it back in soft, broken twinklings; but the great brown folios on the lower shelves were half lost in a comfortable duskiness. The crimson curtains were drawn before the open windows, and the evening wind waved them lightly now and then, sending new shadows to chase the old ones along the walls and ceiling. The thick old Turkey carpet held every possible shade of soft, faded richness, and the brown leather armchairs looked as if they had been sat in by generations of book-loving Montforts, as indeed they had. And amid all this sober comfort, by the great library table with its orderly litter of magazines and new books, sat Mr. John Montfort, book in hand and cigar in mouth, a breathing statue of Ease, in a brown velvet smoking-jacket. He looked up, and, seeing Margaret in the doorway, laid down his book, and held out his hand with a gesture of welcome. "Well, my girl," he said, "come and tell me all about it!"

With a great sigh of relief, Margaret dropped on the rug at her uncle's feet, 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 after fatigue.

Mr. Montfort stroked her hair gently, with a touch as light as a woman's. Then he took up his book again, and began to read aloud. It was a 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 smoothing themselves 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 go and see the Chan of Cathay with him. Here we are!" He turned a page or two, 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. "I shouldn't like that at all! Should you?"

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

"All smooth!" replied the girl. "All gone, Uncle John. I was only a little tired; and—Uncle John—"

"Yes, dear child."

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

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

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

"Why, the boys are just boys, my dear; nothing in the world but plain boys. Two of 'em instead of four,—thank your stars that you are in this generation instead of the last, my love; and now take this little head 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, in her room."

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

Hastily pinning her collar,—it was near breakfast-time, and she had been longer than usual in dressing,—Margaret ran up to the Blue Room. Miss Sophronia, in curl-papers and a long, yellow wrapper, was standing near 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 can say 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 you think."

Margaret looked. At first she saw nothing but the clear glass, and, beyond it, the blue sky and waving trees. But, looking again, she became aware of two objects dangling over the upper part of the pane; a black object, and a white object; two small legs, one bare, the other in stocking and shoe. The legs were swinging back and forth, keeping time to a clear and lively whistle, and now and then one of them gave a little 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 once and see what it means, and bring the child down. I—" Margaret waited to say no more, but flew up-stairs, only pausing to cast a hasty glance into 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 entered a small room that was used as a storeroom; its one window looked directly on the roof, and this window stood wide open. Running to look out, Margaret saw Susan D., seated astride of a gable, dangling her legs as aforesaid, and apparently enjoying herself immensely. The whistle stopped when she saw her cousin, and the cheerful look gave place to one of 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 for it."

"She thought she could see better!" explained Basil, appearing suddenly from behind the chimney. "I—good morning, Cousin Margaret. I slept very well, thank you."

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

"That isn't right," said Basil, as Margaret looked in bewilderment from one 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 have better manners, and speak when she's spoken to; and, if she behaves pretty well, she's going to get some hard stamps she wants; and if she doesn't—"

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

It was the first time the child had addressed Margaret directly, and the latter hastened to assure her that her morning greeting would do very well indeed. "But, dear children," she cried, "I cannot let you stay here. Indeed, you ought never to have come up; I don't believe Uncle John would like to have you on the roof at all; and it is breakfast-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 eager self-defence.

"Oh, my dears! It isn't the roof, it's your precious necks, that you might 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, Cousin Margaret, just truly I am. Why, I just live on roofs, every chance I get. And this is a bully roof to climb on."

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

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

Miss Sophronia greeted the children with firmness. "How do you do, my dears?" she said. "I am your Cousin Sophronia, and I shall take the place of a mamma to you while you are here. If you do as I tell you, we shall get on very well, I dare say. You are Basil? Yes, you look like your Uncle Reuben. You remember Reuben, John? What a troublesome boy he was, 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 mild severity. "I'm afraid your father has let you run wild; but we will alter all that. Little boy—Merton, I mean, you are taking too much sugar on your porridge. Too much sugar is very bad for children. Hand me the bowl, if you please. I am obliged to take a good deal of sugar—the doctor's orders! There are one—two—three buttons off your jacket. This will never do!"

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

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

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

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Montfort, quietly. "You will let the squirrel alone, Merton, or I shall have to stop the climbing altogether. 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 at Basil. Basil chuckled gleefully. Mr. Montfort looked from one to the other.

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

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



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

"The child was rebellious, my dear Margaret; positively disrespectful. A little discipline, my love, is what that child needs. It is my duty to give it to her, and I shall do my duty cheerfully. At your age, it is not to be expected that you should know anything about children. Leave all to me, and you will be surprised at the result. A firm rein for a few weeks,—I shall manage her, never fear!"

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

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

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

Margaret was thankful when dinner was over, and her cousin gone to take her afternoon nap. Basil was in a lowering mood, the result of his sister's imprisonment. He would do nothing but rage against Cousin Sophronia, so Margaret was finally obliged to send him away, and sit down with a sigh to her work, alone.

It was very pleasant and peaceful on the verandah. The garden was hot and sunny at this hour, but here the shade lay cool and grateful, and Margaret felt the silence like balm on her fretted spirit. It was all wrong that she should be so fretted; she argued with herself, scolded, tried to bring herself to a better frame of mind; but nature was too strong for her, and the best she could do was to resolve that she would try, and keep on trying, her very best; and that Uncle John should not know how worried she was. That, surely, she could manage: to keep a smiling face when he was at home, and to made light of all these hourly pin-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-breasted grosbeak! Her uncle had been teaching her something about birds, and she knew this beautiful creature, and loved to watch him as he hovered about the nest where his good wife sat. His song was almost like the oriole's, Margaret thought. She laid down her embroidery, and watched the flashes of crimson appear and disappear. What a wonderful, beautiful thing! How good to live in the green country, where lovely sights and sounds were one's own, all day long. Why should one let oneself be distressed, 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 lovely things in the green and blossoming world, where life floated by to the music of birds,—

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

Margaret sat upright, and looked a little severe. It would never do even to 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 Master Merton's dinner any longer, or whether she'd cook something fresh for him along with his supper."

No more dreaming for Margaret! She sprang to her feet, suddenly conscious 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; maybe Master Merton might have gone to meet him."

Margaret shook her head; that did not seem at all likely. She hailed Basil, 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 since this 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 know his 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 out new 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 find Merton."

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

"That's my good, helpful boy!" said Margaret, heartily. "Oh, Basil, you and 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, and tell me how to manage Merton and Susan, and make them love me. But the first thing is to find Merton. What can have become of the child? Where shall we look for him?"

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

"Basil!"

"There's a—a superb workman down there; do you know him, Cousin Margaret? I guess he's the boss, or something. He wears blue overalls and 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 be talking with strange workmen. At any rate, I think you ought to ask leave, don't you?"

"Maybe I ought!" said Basil, cheerfully. "But it's too late now, you see, '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 do believe he's got Mert with him! Look!"

Margaret looked. A man was coming across the field that lay beyond the garden wall; a workingman, from his blue overalls and jumper; a young man, from the way he moved, and from his light, springy step. Margaret could not see his face, but his hair was red; she could see that over the 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 mud from head to foot; do not run streams of black bog water.

"Merton!" cried poor Margaret, who knew well the look of that mud and water. "Oh, what has happened? Is—is he hurt?" she cried out, running towards the wall.

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

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

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

"Well," the stranger admitted, "just as well I was there, perhaps. It isn't a safe place for children, you see. How are you now, old chap? He was 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 in all over; it's all up to your chin, and some of it's on the back of your head. I say, you must—"

The young man made him a sign quickly. "He's all right!" he said. "Mud baths 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 all this time, and you are getting all wet, too."

"No consequence, not the least in the world. Besides,—past participle perhaps more appropriate than present."

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

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

But here the young man caught sight of his face, reflected in a window-pane, and lost the last vestige of self-possession. "If—if you'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 to keep up without Uncle John? How was she to cope with all the difficulties that beset her path like sharp-thorned briers? If she had but Aunt Faith—if she had but some one to turn to! She had tried to take counsel with Mrs. Peyton, but the beautiful woman was still, at fifty, a spoiled child, far younger in many ways than Margaret herself; she would only laugh, and advise her to get rid of Miss Sophronia by some trick, or practical joke.

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

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

But Margaret felt that she had had almost enough of Mrs. Peyton. Beauty was a great deal, charm and grace were a great deal more; but they did not 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 eighteen years old; she was well and strong, and possessed of average intelligence. "Look here!" she said suddenly, aloud. "If you cannot manage those children, why, I am ashamed of you. Do you hear?"

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

In this changed mood she went on, humming a little song to herself. As she drew near the wood that skirted the bog, the song was answered by another, 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 the wood, throwing up his cap, and singing as he came. At sight of Margaret he paused, in some confusion, cap in hand.

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

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

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

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

"So was the Pater, no end; I mean, my father was an agreeable youth also." Gerald stopped short, and glanced sidelong at the young girl. He was well used to girls, having sisters and cousins; but they were used to him, too, and he somehow felt that this sweet, serious-looking maiden was not accustomed to young men, and that he must, as he silently put it to 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 talked with a lad before in her quiet life; she did not know quite how to do it, 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 it is so a part of him. Wasn't he head of his class most of the time? He never 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 best wrestler, and that he and my father were generally neck and neck in all the running races. He was a better high kick, because his legs were longer, don't you know, but the Pater was ahead in boxing."

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

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

"One; Willy. That is, he's not so very little now, but he's a good bit younger than Phil and I; Phil is my twin. Willy—oh, I suppose he must be 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 to be climbing and jumping and running all the time?"

"Let me see!" said Gerald, gravely. "Why—yes, I should say so, Miss Montfort. Of course he stops now and then to eat; and then there's the time that he's asleep, you know; you have to take out that. But otherwise,—yes, I should say you had described Willy's existence pretty well."

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

Margaret stopped suddenly, and the colour rushed into her face; no need of somersaults in her case. For had not this young man been turning somersaults the first time she saw him? And turning them in the same senseless 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 so comic in its quizzical appeal, that she laughed in spite of herself.

"I love to turn somersaults!" he murmured. "'Twas the charm of my chirping 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 in spite of herself. "I—I saw you the other day, Mr. Merryweather. I thought—you seemed to be enjoying yourself very much."

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

"Oh, no!" said Margaret, confused. "Why shouldn't you? It—it was by the edge of the bog. I had come round that way, and you were leaping with a pole about the bog, and I—stayed to watch you. I hope you don't mind;" this foolish girl was blushing again furiously, which was most unnecessary; "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 wondered why, that was all. You see, I never had a brother, and I have never known 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 they could hear you at home. Why, I'm just Jerry, you know, and—and I've always been that kind of boy, I'm afraid; just like Willy, only a good deal worse. And now—well, I've been through college, and now I'm in the School of Mines, and I'm twenty-one, and all that, but I can't seem to make myself feel any older, don't you know. I don't know what's going to become of me. Hilda says I won't grow up till I fall—oh! you don't know 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 thought you might possibly have—well, she's my aunt according to the flesh. I wish 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 not very much. She married Roger, don't you know. He's my half-uncle all right, but he's ever so many years younger than the Pater, nearer our age, you might almost say; and Hildegarde and the girls, my sisters,—I say! I wish you knew them all, Miss Montfort."

"I wish I did," said Margaret, simply. "There are no girls of my own age near 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—I mean, I like them too, ever so much." He paused, and wished he knew the right thing to say. How pretty and sweet she was! Not like Hilda, of course (Hilda was this young man's ideal of what a girl should be), but with a little quiet way of her own that was very nice. She must have no end 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 be having some difficulty with those youngsters, Miss Montfort. If I could help you any time, I wish you'd let me know. There have always been such a lot of us at home, I'm used to most kinds of children, you see; and I should be ever so glad—"



"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret, gratefully. "I am sure you are very kind; and if you would advise me sometimes—now that Uncle John is away—I should be most grateful. But—I ought to be able to manage them myself, 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 very wistful in their unconscious appeal.

"I'd like to see 'em not!" said the young man, straightway. "Little beggars! They couldn't help themselves!" He was about to add that he would thrash them handsomely if they did not love her, but pulled himself together, and blushed to his ears, and was only comforted by seeing out of the tail of his eye that the girl was wholly unconscious of 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 his working-clothes, which he had entirely forgotten, excused himself. If he might come some evening soon? Yes, he might, and should. He lingered still a moment, and Margaret, after a moment's shyness, held out her hand frankly. "I am so glad to know you!" she said, simply. "Uncle John—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 young man turned away, feeling homesick, and yet cheerful. Passing round the corner of the house, and finding himself well out of sight of the young girl, he relieved his feelings by turning a handspring; and on coming to his feet again, encountered the awful gaze of two greenish eyes, bent upon him from an upper window of the house.

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

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

Her pleasant meditations were harshly interrupted. Miss Sophronia came down-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 in attempting to conceal anything from me, my dear. I saw you talking with a 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,—I mean his father was."

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the lady, sharply. "Don't tell me anything of the kind, miss. He was a common workman, a day-labourer. I tell you I saw him! Do you suppose I have no eyes in my head? I shall consider it my duty to tell your uncle as soon as he comes home. I am surprised at you, Margaret. I thought at least you were discreet. William's daughters would no more think of talking with such a person—but that comes of leaving a young person alone here with servants. My dear, I shall make it 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 a gentlewoman, and must be spoken to as a gentlewoman. I am eighteen years old, 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 righteous wrath. Miss Sophronia gazed after her speechless; it was as if a dove had ruffled its wings and flown in her face. "Ungrateful girl!" said the lady to herself. "I never meet with anything but ingratitude wherever I go. 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 spite of 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 us some of her supper. I say, Cousin Margaret, isn't she bully?"

"Basil, if you could find another adjective now and then! I cannot imagine anything less appropriate to Mrs. Peyton than—the one you used."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter! She is bully! She had broiled chicken, a whole 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 smashed it,—cracked it, at least,—and she said she didn't care."

"And the table-drawer was full of chocolate peppermints," chimed in Merton, "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 towards Miss Sophronia, with sparkling eyes. "She told us about when she was a little girl, and used to stay here, when Uncle John's puppa and mumma were alive. I say! And you were here, too, she said, Cousin Sophronia. And she said—lots of things!" The boy stopped suddenly, and gave his brother 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't it, Cousin Sophronia?"

Miss Sophronia looked disturbed. "Merton, you should speak when you are spoken to!" she said, severely. "I am surprised that Mrs. Peyton should have told you such things. There certainly were some very strange occurrences at Fernley, Margaret, when I was a young girl. They never were explained to my satisfaction; indeed, I never heard of their being explained at all. Little boys, if you do not want any supper, you may as well 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 was always malicious."

She seemed much fluttered, and Margaret, wondering, hastened to change the subject. "I wonder where Susan D. can be. I have not seen the child since I came in, and she did not answer when I called her. Elizabeth, do you—"

"Pardon me, Margaret, my love!" Miss Sophronia interposed. "Susan D. is in 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 no doubt 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 excuse me, Cousin Sophronia, please? I have quite finished. Now, Basil, what is it?"

She led the boy carefully out of earshot, for thunder and lightning were in 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 stand it. I—I'll set fire to her clothes! I'll shoot her! I'll—I'll kill her some way—"

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

Basil said no word,—he knew well enough when he must obey,—but he set his teeth, and clenched his fists; the veins on his temples swelled, his whole 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 two stood motionless, facing each other. Then Margaret took the boy's hand in hers, and led him out into the garden. Still holding his hand, she paced up and down the green walk in silence, Basil following obediently. The evening was falling soft and dusk; the last bird was chirping sleepily; the air was full of the scent of flowers. Behind the dark trees, 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 to let go of myself, too."

Very tenderly Margaret drew the child down beside her, on a rustic bench that stood under one of the great tulip-trees. In the quiet darkness, 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, faithful nature, full of mischief, full of love. The passionate love for his mother, whom he remembered well; the faithful, scowling devotion to the little 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, and much more, Margaret learned. The two sat hand in hand, and took counsel together. "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 Uncle John away; and—oh, Basil, before I had Uncle John,—when my father died,—oh, my dear! But you are going to be my brother now, Basil,—my dear, dear little brother, aren't you? And you will tell me how to make Susan 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 hug as made her gasp for breath.

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

"She does!" said Basil. "Or she will, soon as she can get out of herself. Don't you know what I mean, Cousin Margaret? It's as if she had a dumb spirit, like that fellow in the Bible, don't you know? Nobody but me 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, some time. Oh, Cousin Margaret, mayn't I take her something to eat? She's always hungry, Susan D. is, and I know she won't sleep a mite if she doesn't have anything. I—no, I won't let go again, but it is the meanest, hatefullest thing that ever was done in the world! Now isn't it, Cousin Margaret? Don't you think so yourself?"

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

Pondering in anxious perplexity, she chanced to raise her eyes to the house. It was brightly lighted, and, as it happened, the curtains had not 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 led from the servants' hall to the upper floor. Up these stairs, past the window, a figure was now seen to pass, swiftly and stealthily; a portly figure, carrying something that looked like a heaped up plate; the figure of Frances the cook. It passed, and in a moment more they saw light, as of an opening door, flash into the dark window of the corner room where the little girl slept.

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

An hour or so later, Margaret was coming down from the nursery. Merton had announced, as bedtime drew near, that he "felt a pain;" and Margaret had no difficulty in tracing it to Mrs. Peyton's careless indulgence. She stole down quietly to the cheerful back room where Frances and Elizabeth 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 I know 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," said Margaret, meekly. "I'm afraid Master Merton ate too many rich things at Mrs. Peyton's." Now in general, Frances could not abide patiently the mention of Mrs. Peyton; but this time she declared she was glad the child 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 of hot water,—wait a minute, dear, and I'll mix it myself,—and he'll turn over and go to sleep like a lamb. Treating children as if they was one half starch and t'other half sticks! Don't tell me!"

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

As has been said, Margaret was coming down-stairs after this mission was fulfilled, 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 feel a little rheumatic, or I should rather say neuralgic, perhaps. These things are very obscure; the doctor says my case is a very remarkable one; he has never seen another like it. Yes, and now I am going to make sure that this child is all right, and that she does not actually need anything. Duty, Margaret, is a thing I can never neglect."

Margaret followed her cousin into the room, feeling rather self-reproachful. Perhaps she had been unjust in her judgment. Cousin Sophronia 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 in a tangle on the pillow. Margaret had never seen her look so nearly pretty. There were traces of tears on her face, too, and she sobbed a little, softly, in her sleep.

"Poor little thing!" whispered Margaret; but Miss Sophronia was not looking at Susan D. now. With stiff, outstretched finger she pointed to the 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 lay in an untidy heap, shocking to Margaret's eyes, which loved to see things neatly laid. She shook her head and was about to murmur some extenuation of the offence, when—Miss Sophronia set down the candle on the stand; then, with a quick, decided motion, she pulled the sleeping child 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 the light, not in the least understanding what was said to her. Miss Sophronia took her by the shoulder, not unkindly, and repeated her command. "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 half comprehending, the child stooped, stumbling as she did so, and picking up the clothes, laid them on the chair as she was directed.

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

She turned away with the candle. Margaret, standing in the shadow, saw the child still standing in the middle of the room, a forlorn, shivering little figure, silent; the most piteous sight those tender eyes had ever looked upon. Softly the girl closed the door. "Margaret," she heard her cousin say. "Oh, she is gone down-stairs!" and the steps went away along 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 her close, close. A rocking-chair was by; she had seen it, and knew where to lay her hand to draw it forward. She sank down in it, and rocked to and fro, murmuring inarticulate words of comfort. The night was warm, but still the child shivered; Margaret, groping again, found a shawl, and wrapped 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 or twice, silently; then she burst into a passion of tears, and sobbed on her cousin's heart. "I love you!" cried the child. "You are good, and I love 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; quiet and don't cry! Oh, Susan D., I have no mother, either, dear; let us love each other a great, great deal!" and Susan D. sobbed, and curled closer yet, as if she would wind herself into the very heart that beat so 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 that Katy 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 her ear. "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 the small arms loosened; the head sank back gently on her arm; the child was asleep. Margaret rose to lay her down, but instantly she started up again, affrighted, and cried out, and begged not to be left alone. What was to be done? Margaret hesitated; then she bade the child hold fast, and slowly, carefully she made her way down the stairs and through the passage to her own room, and did not pause till the little child was lying safe, happy, and wondering, in the white bed, in the wonderful White Room.

"Crowd me?" said Cousin Margaret. "Not a bit of it! There is plenty of room, and in the morning we will have a most lovely cuddle, and tell stories. But now go to sleep this very minute, Susan D., while I do my hair. 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 little service of love. She brought her flowers, and hunted the fields for the largest and finest berries for her. At any hour of the day, Margaret might feel a little hot hand slide into hers and deposit a handful of warm, moist raspberries or blueberries. Sometimes this bred trouble, as when Merton waylaid his sister, and wrested the hard-won treasures from her for his own refreshment; with the result of shrieks and scuffling, and a final thrashing from his elder brother; or, as when Cousin Sophronia detected the child sidling along with closed palm, and demanded to see what she had. Susan D. resisted stoutly, till at length, yielding to superior strength, she threw the berries on the floor, and trampled them into the carpet. There was a good deal of this kind 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, and remembered the suspicious scowl that had greeted her only so few days ago, 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 to do.

"I told you!" said Basil, smiling superior. "I told you, once you got inside, 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? Seems to me you didn't learn many modern expressions when you were a little girl, did you?"

"Really, Basil, I think I learned all that were necessary," said Margaret, 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 you wouldn't match yourself if you didn't talk that way, I suppose. But it would 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 I am afraid of are spiders and caterpillars and cows! Is that what you wanted to know?"

"N—not exactly!" said the boy; "but no matter, Cousin Margaret. You haven't got a ball of twine, have you? Oh, yes, please! Thank you, that is just exactly what I wanted. You always know where things are, don't you? 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 bring Uncle John back to her. Certainly, he would find a good deal of improvement. 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 quieted down of their own accord. At this hour, they were generally shouting and screaming, racing over the grass, or tumbling headlong from the trees, keeping Margaret in a constant state of terror, and Cousin Sophronia in one of peevish irritation and alarm. But now they had gone of their own will 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 could not even hear their voices. Cousin Sophronia, coming out with an inquiry, became instantly suspicious, and declared she must go and see what they were about; but Margaret begged her to wait a little. "They can do no harm in the summer-house!" she said. "And—Uncle John thought we would better let them alone a good deal, Cousin Sophronia."

"My love," said the lady, seating herself, and folding her hands for a good 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 would be my duty, my positive duty, to shield him from all anxieties of this kind. 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 to protect dearest John from every species of annoyance. Every species, my dear! John Montfort—good gracious! What is that?" She started to her feet, and Margaret followed her example. A sound seemed to pass them in the air; a strange sound, something between a sigh and a moan. It swelled for a moment, then died away among the trees beyond the verandah. Miss Sophronia clutched Margaret's arm. "You—you made that noise?" she whispered. "Say it was you, Margaret!"

"Indeed, it was not I, Cousin Sophronia!" said Margaret. "It must have been a sudden gust of wind. It is gone now; it must surely have been the 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—I feel rather nervous to-night, I think. Nerves! Yes, no one knows what I suffer. If you had any idea what my nights are— You may be right, my dear, about the wind. It is a misfortune, I always say, to have such exquisite sensibility. The expression is not my own, my love, it is Doctor Soper's. Shall we go into the house, and light the lamps? So much more cheerful, I always think, than this dreary twilight."