"It shall be exactly as you please, my dear!" said Mr. Montfort. "I have no wish in the matter, save to fulfil yours. I had thought it would be pleasanter, perhaps, to have the rooms occupied; but your feeling is most natural, and there is no reason why 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:

"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!—

Mr. Montfort curled his moustaches in silence for some minutes, when the reading was over.

"Dear little girl!" he said at last. "Good little Peggy! So she will 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.

"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."

"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!

"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."