"Dear me!" said Mrs. Peyton. "Here is Patience, down off her monument, come all this way to smile at Grief! I am Grief, my dear; allow me to introduce myself. Well, Margaret, and how do you get on without your brats—I beg pardon! I mean your pets?"

"As well as could be expected," said Margaret, lightly, as she stooped to kiss the ivory forehead. Mrs. Peyton was charming, but one did not confide one's troubles to her. "We are behaving beautifully, Mrs. Peyton. Not only have we dried our tears and hung our pocket-handkerchiefs out to dry, but we have set up some new pets already."

"Not more children? Not another set of 'The Orphans of Fernley,' bound in blue denim? That would be unendurable."

"No; four-legged pets this time. We have two dogs, Mrs. Peyton; beautiful Gordon setters. I hope you are fond of dogs."

"Oh!—dogs? Yes, I like dogs. As a rule I like them better than two-legged torments. You are a two-legged torment, Margaret, when you move about the room in that exasperatingly light-footed manner. I don't suppose you actually do it to make me feel my helplessness, but it has that effect. Do sit down! you are not a bird. And don't, for pity's sake, look patient! If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is to see people look patient when I insult them. If I had only known—but John Montfort always did like to thwart me, it's his nature—if I had only known, I say, that those brats of yours were going away, I need not have set up a menagerie of my own. It's too late now, the creature's coming."

"What do you mean, Mrs. Peyton?" asked Margaret, always prepared for any whim of her whimsical neighbor. "Are you setting up a dog too?"

"No! nothing half so comfortable as a dog. A fox, or wolf, or hyena, or something of that kind. Don't be stupid, Margaret; I am not up to explanations to-day. A companion, simpleton! A Miss Fox or Miss Wolfe, I can't remember which. I don't think it was Miss Hyena, but it might be. It's an unusual name, but she is recommended as an unusual person."

"Mrs. Peyton! you said you never would try it again. And you know I am always ready to come and read to you."

"I know you are a little Fra Angelico angel, with your halo laid in your top bureau drawer among your collars, for fear people should see it; but I have a little scrap of conscience about me somewhere,—not much, only about a saltspoonful,—and if you came every day it would get up and worry me, and I can't be worried. Besides, the doctor ordered it, positively."

"Doctor Flower? has he been out again?"

"Yes, he came on Monday. I thought I was going to die, and wanted him to see how prettily I should do it. I'll never send for him again; he always tells me to get up and do things. Tiresome man! I told him I was perfectly exhausted by simply listening to him for half an hour. He replied by ordering this Miss Fox, or whoever she is. I am to try her for a month; I sha'n't probably keep her a week."

"A nurse?"

"No, not a trained nurse. She means to be one, goes to the hospital in the autumn. He thinks she has a gift, or something. I detest people with a gift. Probably she has a squint, too. You will have to receive her when she comes, Margaret, and take the edge off her. I fancy her unendurable, but I promised to try; I really must be going to die, I am growing so amiable. Which of my gems do you want? I am going to make my will this time. You needn't laugh, Margaret Montfort."

"I was laughing at your dying of amiability, Mrs. Peyton!" said Margaret. "When is this young lady—I suppose she is young, if she is going to study nursing—when is she coming?"

"To-morrow, I believe; or is it to-day? where is the note? Tuesday! Is this Tuesday? It cannot be."

"Yes, this is Tuesday, and the three o'clock train—I suppose that is the train she will come by—must be in by this time. Hark! there are wheels this moment. Can she be coming now, Mrs. Peyton?"

"My dear, it would be exactly like the conception I have formed of her. Go down and see her, will you, Margaret? Tell her I have a headache, or Asiatic cholera, or anything you like. I cannot possibly see her to-day. Her name is Fox—or Wolfe, I can't remember which. Bless you, child! you save my life. Show her the Calico Room. Hand me the amethyst rope before you go; I must compose my nerves."

With a smile and a sigh, Margaret ran down-stairs, and met the newcomer on the doorstep. A tall, pale, grave-looking girl, with deep-set blue eyes, and smooth bands of brown hair—a rather remarkable-looking person, Margaret thought.

"Miss Fox?" she said, hurriedly, holding out her hand. "Oh, how do you do? Pray come in. Mrs. Peyton asked me to receive you,—I am a friend and neighbor,—and show you your room and make you comfortable. She has a bad headache, and does not feel able to welcome you herself."

She led the way into the dining-room, and rang the bell. "You will have lunch?" she said, "or would you rather have tea?"

"Tea, please," said the stranger; and her voice had a deep, musical note, that fell pleasantly on Margaret's ear.

"I am sorry Mrs. Peyton is unable to see me. Is it a real headache, or doesn't she want to?"

Margaret colored and hesitated. The blue eyes looked straight into hers with a compelling gaze; a gleam of comprehension seemed to lurk in their depths. Margaret was absolutely truthful, and, consequently, was sometimes at a loss when speaking of her invalid friend.

"Doctor Flower told me somewhat about her," Miss Fox went on. "He thinks—he wants me to rouse her to effort."

She spoke so quietly, her whole air was one of such calm and repose, that Margaret looked at her wonderingly.

"If Doctor Flower has explained the case to you," she said, at last, "you probably know more about it than I do. Mrs. Peyton often seems to suffer a great deal. She is fanciful, too, no doubt, at times; I suppose most invalids are."

"I have just been staying with a woman who had had both feet cut off by a train," said Miss Fox, tranquilly. "She was not fanciful."

It was a relief when the tea came. Margaret did the honors, still feeling very shy, she could not tell why, before this grave person, who could not be more than a year or two older than herself.

"Have you come far to-day, Miss Fox?" she asked, for the sake of saying something. The stranger put her head on one side, and gave her a quaint look. "Any addition to one's personal menagerie is always interesting," she said; "but one has one's favorites in the Zoo. If it is not taking a liberty—why Fox?"

Margaret started, and blushed violently. "I beg your pardon," she said. "Mrs. Peyton was not sure—she could not remember—is it Miss Wolfe, then? I hope you will forgive me, Miss Wolfe!"

"Please don't," said Miss Wolfe. She smiled for the first time, and Margaret thought she had never seen so sweet a smile. "It is not your fault that I am philologically quadruped, surely. So long as I am not called Zebra, I really don't mind. I always associate Zebra with Zany, don't you know? they were in my Alphabet together. But you were saying something which I was rude enough to interrupt."

"I only asked if you had come far."

"Not very far, if you put it in miles; only from New York; if you mean by impressions, a thousand leagues. It is at least that from that maelstrom to this quiet green place. How should one have nerves in a place like this? To sit here in peace and turn slowly into a lettuce—that would be the natural thing; but life is not natural, if you have observed."

Margaret laughed. "Mrs. Peyton is certainly not in the least like a lettuce; I don't know whether you see any signs of the change in me; I have only been here two years, though."

Miss Wolfe surveyed her critically. "N—no!" she said, slowly. "I see nothing indicating lettuce—as yet. You are cool and green—no offence, I hope! I pay you one of the highest compliments I know of when I call you green; it is the color of rest and harmony; cool and green enough, and pleasantly wavy in your lines, but you have too much expression as yet, far too much. Placidity—absence of emotion—that is what superinduces the lettuce habit." She waved her hand gracefully, and seemed to fall into a reverie. Margaret surveyed her in growing wonder.

At this moment Mrs. Peyton's bell rang violently; and presently a maid appeared to say that her mistress was feeling better, and would see the lady now. Miss Wolfe rose and glanced significantly at Margaret. "Curiosity overcomes distaste!" she said. "Are you coming?"

"No," said Margaret. "I think I'd better not. I will slip away quietly. But I shall see you soon again. I will run over this evening, perhaps; and you must come over to Fernley whenever Mrs. Peyton can spare you. It is very near, just across the park."

"Fernley!" repeated Miss Wolfe, pausing and looking at Margaret with an altered expression.

"Fernley House, Mr. Montfort's place. That is where I live. Why—I have never introduced myself all this time, have I? I am Mr. Montfort's niece; my name is Montfort, too, Margaret Montfort."

"Oh, my prophetic soul! my aunt!" exclaimed Miss Wolfe. "I beg your pardon; nothing of the sort. I am somewhat mad at times. Good morning, Miss Montfort; I am glad to know you. To be continued in our next!"

She nodded, kissed her hand gravely to Margaret, and turning, followed the maid up-stairs.

Margaret looked after her for a moment in amazement. "What a very extraordinary girl!" she said. "She seemed to know my name. I wonder how."

She paused, shook her head, then went soberly home across the park, wondering how the new venture would turn out.