Margaret Montfort. Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

learn to cook, will she? And she is getting hold of her mother! This is as it should be, Margaret, eh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "That is just it, Uncle John. She wants to go to Europe, and her father does not approve of her going just at present, and so—well, you shall hear part of it, at any rate.

      "Margaret, my Soul!"

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

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

      "Your unhappy

       "Margarita Maria Dolores de

       San Real Montfort."

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

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

      "Rita."

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

CHAPTER II.

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DOMESTIC.

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      Life was pleasant enough for Margaret Montfort, in those days. The hours were still sad which she had been used to spend with Mrs. Cheriton, the beloved Aunt Faith; but there was such peace and blessedness in the thought of her, that Margaret would not have been without the gentle sorrow. She loved to sit in the White Rooms, sometimes with her uncle, but more often alone. In the morning, she generally walked for an hour in the garden with Mr. Montfort, tending the rose-bushes that were his special care and pride, listening to his wise and kindly talk, and learning, she always thought, something new each day. It is wonderful how much philosophy, poetry, even history, can be brought into the care of roses, if the right person has charge of them. At ten o'clock he generally went to town, and the rest of the morning was spent in practising, sewing, and studying; the hours flew by so fast, Margaret often suspected the clock of being something of a dishonest character. She was studying German, with the delightful result of reading "Der Trompeter von Säkkingen" with her uncle in the evening, when it was not too beautiful out-of-doors. Then, in the afternoon, she could with a clear conscience take up some beloved romance, and be "just happy," as she called it, till Mr. Montfort returned in time for the walk or ride which was the crowning pleasure of the day. And so the days went by, in a golden peace which seemed too pleasant to last; and yet there seemed no reason why it should ever change.

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

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

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

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

      "Ah!" said Frances, "she's a sweet young lady, but she'll never make no housekeeper. She hasn't so much as looked inside