Margaret Montfort. Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

if he were here—I said, 'I must go to John! He will need me now,' I said, 'and go I must.' I explained to William that I felt it as a solemn duty. He took it beautifully, poor, dear fellow. I don't know how they will get on without me, for his wife is sadly heedless, John, and the children need a steady hand, they do indeed. But he did not try to keep me back; indeed, he urged me to come, which showed such a beautiful spirit, didn't it? And so here I am, my dearest boy, come to take Aunt Faith's place, and make a home for you, my poor lonely cousin. You know I have always loved you as a sister, John, and you must consider me a real sister now; sister Sophronia, dear John!"

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

      "I shall be glad to have a visit from you, Sophronia," he said. "I have no doubt we can make you comfortable for a few weeks; I can hardly suppose that William can spare you longer than that. We have no children here to need your—your ministrations."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "This once, yes, dearest John!" said the lady. "This once you must go without me. I am tired—so thoughtful of you to notice it! There is no sofa in the Blue Room, but I shall do very well there for a few days. Don't have me on your mind in the least, my dear cousin; I shall soon be absolutely at home. Enjoy your walk, both of you! After to-day, I shall always be with you, I hope. I ordered tea an hour earlier, as I dined early, and I knew you would not mind. Good-bye!" and the lady nodded, and smiled herself into the house.

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

      "Margaret," said her uncle, at last.

      "Yes, Uncle John."

      "Not in the least, my dear!"

      "No, Uncle John."

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

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

      "What a curious question!" thought Margaret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "So!" said Mr. Montfort.

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

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

      Slowly, half frightened, and wholly relieved, Margaret went through the matter from beginning to end, making as light as she could of her own triumph, of which she really felt ashamed, pleased as she was to have achieved it. When she had finished, her uncle sat down under a tree, and laughed again; not so violently, but with a hearty enjoyment that took in every detail.

      "And Willis had a fit of coughing!" he exclaimed, when Margaret had come to the last word. "Poor Willis! Willis must