Margaret Montfort. Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

you should not keep your present room."

      "Thank you, uncle!" said the girl whom he addressed as Margaret, and whom some of my readers may have met before. "It is not that I don't love the dear rooms, nor that it would not be a joy to be in them, for some reasons; but—I think, just to go and sit there every day, alone or with you, and think about her—it seems as if that would be easier just 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; it was a soft, fair June evening, and the fireflies were flitting through the trees, and one or two late birds were chirping drowsily. There were only 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 sleep away from age and weakness and weariness. Margaret missed her sadly indeed; but there was no bitterness in her grieving, and she felt all the more need of keeping the house cheerful and bright for her uncle, who had lost the faithful and affectionate friend who had been for years like a second mother to him. They talked of her a great deal, of the beauty and helpfulness of the long life that had brought so much joy to others; just now Mr. Montfort had proposed that Margaret should occupy the White Rooms, which had been Mrs. Cheriton's special apartments in the great rambling house; but he did not urge the matter, and they sat in silence for a time, feeling the soft beauty of the evening wrap them round 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 have one'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 so pitiful, poor old fellow! Then I took a walk, and dropped in to see how Mrs. Peyton was; she asked me to come in the morning, you know, when I could."

      "And how was she? Superb as ever?"

      "Just, Uncle John! Her dressing-jacket was blue this time, and there was a 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 real lace, most magnificent. To-day it was Valenciennes, really lovely Valenciennes, to match her cap and the frills on her jacket. And turquoise buttons and cap-pins; oh, she was a vision of beauty, I assure you. The pale pink roses on the table by her bed gave just the right touch to accentuate—if that is what I mean—all the blue. She is an artist in effects. She must have been very beautiful, Uncle John? She is beautiful now, of course, only so worn and fragile."

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

      "Oh, yes; she is always most cordial and kind. She made me tell her just how 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 with Mrs. Peyton! H'm! ha! yes, my love! and what else did you say you had done to amuse yourself?"

      "Why, Uncle John, do you think I have to be amusing myself all day? What a 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 made some buttonholes, and all the rest of the afternoon I sat under the big tulip-tree, reading 'Henry Esmond.' So you see, I have really had the most delightful day, Uncle John."

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

      "Well, possibly!" Margaret admitted. "He is rather more delightful than almost anything else, isn't he? But not half so good as one's Uncle John, when he comes home in the gloaming, with his pockets full of bonbons 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 Margarets say? Has Peggy set the prairies on fire yet? She will some day, you know."

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

      Margaret brought the lamp, and, drawing a letter from her pocket, began to 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 little Peggy's difficulties are very funny sometimes."

      "Why, I like it all, Meg, if you think Peggy would not mind my hearing it. It is all sweet and wholesome, I know; but leave out anything you think 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 the reading was over.

      "Dear little girl!" he said at last.