When Mr. Montfort came home that afternoon, Margaret was waiting for him, as usual, on the verandah; as usual, for she was determined to keep the worry out of her face and out of her voice. But as her uncle came up the steps, with his cheery "Well! and how's my lassie?" he was confronted by Miss Sophronia Montfort, who, passing Margaret swiftly, advanced with both hands held out, and a beaming smile.

"My dearest John! my poor, dear fellow! Confess that I have surprised you. Confess it, John!—you did not expect to see me."

"Sophronia!" exclaimed Mr. Montfort. He stood still and contemplated the visitor for a moment; then he shook hands with her, rather formally.

"You certainly have surprised me, Sophronia!" he said, kindly enough. "What wind has blown you in this direction?"

"The wind of affection, my dear boy!" cried the strange lady. "I have been planning it, ever since I heard of Aunt Faith's death. Dearest Aunt Faith! What a loss, John! what an irreparable loss! I shall never recover from the shock. The moment I heard of it, I said—William would tell you, 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 see a doctor at once. Consumptive, no doubt; and concealed under such a deceptive appearance of brawn! Ho! Margaret, my dear, I feel better, much better. You have cleared the air for me, my child."

"You—are not angry, then, Uncle John? You don't think I ought to have put Cousin Sophronia in the rooms?"

"My love, they should have been burned to the ground sooner. There was only one person in the world whom your Aunt Faith could not endure, and that person was Sophronia Montfort. You did perfectly right, Margaret; more right than you knew. If she had got into the White Rooms, I should have been under the necessity of taking her forcibly out of them (nothing short of force could have done it), and that would have created an unpleasantness, you see. Yes! Thank you, my dear little girl! I feel quite myself again. We shall worry through, somehow; but remember, Margaret, that you are the mistress of Fernley, and, if you have any trouble, come to me. And now, my love, we must go home to tea!"

When the gong rang for tea, Margaret and her uncle entered the dining-room together—to find Cousin Sophronia already seated at the head of the table, rattling the teacups with intention.

"Well, my dears!" she cried, in sprightly tones. "You walked further than you intended, did you not? I should not have sat down without you, but I was simply famished. I always think punctuality such an important factor in the economy of life. It is high time you had some steady head to look after you, John!" and she shook her head in affectionate playfulness. "Sit down, John!"

Mr. Montfort did not sit down.

"I am sorry you were hungry, Sophronia," he said, kindly. "I cannot think of letting you wait to pour tea for me, my dear cousin. Margaret does that always; you are to sit here by me, and begin at once upon your own supper. Allow me!"

Margaret hardly knew how it was done. There was a bow, a courtly wave of the hand, a movement of chairs; and her own place was vacant, and Cousin Sophronia was sitting at the side place, very red in the face, her eyes snapping out little green lights; and Uncle John was bending over her with cordial kindness, pushing her chair in a little further, and lifting the train of her dress out of the way. With downcast eyes, Margaret took her place, and poured the tea in silence. She felt as if a weight were on her eyelids; she could not lift her eyes; she could not speak, and yet she must. She shook herself, and made a great effort.

"How do you like your tea, Cousin Sophronia?" she asked, in a voice that tried to sound cheerful and unconcerned. And, when she had spoken, she managed, with another effort, to look up. Cousin Sophronia was smiling and composed, and met her timid glance with an affectionate nod.

"Weak, my dear, if you please,—weak, with cream and sugar. Yes,—that will be excellent, I have no doubt. I have to be a little exact about my tea, my nerves being what they are. The nights I have, if my tea is not precisely the right shade! It seems absurd, but life is made up of little things, my dear John. And very right and wise, to have the dear child learn to do these things, and practise on us, even if it is a little trying at first. Is that the beef tea, Elizabeth? Thank you. I told Frances to make me some beef tea, John; I knew hers could be depended on, though I suppose she has grown rusty in a good many ways, with this hermit life of yours,—so bad for a cook, I always think. Yes, this is fair, but not quite what I should have expected from Frances. I must see her in the morning, and give her a good rousing; we all need a good rousing once in awhile. Frances and I have always been the best of friends; we shall get on perfectly, I have no doubt. Ah! The old silver looks well, John. Where did that sugar-bowl come from? Is it Montfort, or Paston? Paston, I fancy! The Montfort silver is heavier, eh?"

"Possibly!" said Mr. Montfort. "That sugar-bowl is neither one nor the other, however. It is Dutch."

"Really! Vanderdecken? I didn't know you had any Vanderdecken silver, John. Grandmother Vanderdecken left all her silver, I thought, to our branch. Such a mistake, I always think, to scatter family silver. Let each branch have all that belongs to it, I always say. I feel very strongly about it."

"This is not Vanderdecken," said Mr. Montfort, patiently. "I bought it in Amsterdam."

"Oh! in Amsterdam! indeed! boughten silver never appeals to me. And speaking of silver, I have wished for years that I could find a trace of the old Vanderdecken porringer. You remember it, surely, John, at Grandmother Vanderdecken's? She had her plum porridge in it every night, and I used to play with the cow on the cover. I have tried and tried to trace it, but have never succeeded. Stolen, I fear, by some dishonest servant."

"I beg your pardon, Cousin Sophronia," said Margaret, blushing. "I have the old Vanderdecken porringer, if it is the one with the cow on the cover."

"You!" cried Miss Sophronia, opening her eyes to their fullest extent.

"Yes," Margaret replied. "There it is, on the sideboard. I have eaten bread and milk out of it ever since I can remember, and I still use it at breakfast."

Speechless for the moment, Miss Sophronia made an imperious sign to Elizabeth, who brought her the beautiful old dish, not without a glance of conscious pride at the wonderful blue polish on it. There was no piece of plate in the house that took so perfect a polish as this.

Miss Sophronia turned it over and over. Her eyes were very green. "Margaret Bleecker. On the occasion of her christening, from her godmother," she read. "Yes, this is certainly the Vanderdecken porringer. And may I ask how you came by it, my dear?"

"Certainly, Cousin Sophronia. Aunt Eliza Vanderdecken gave it to me at my christening; she was my godmother, you see."

"A most extraordinary thing for Eliza Vanderdecken to do!" cried the lady. "Eliza Vanderdecken knew, of course, that she was meant to have but a life-interest in the personal property, as she never married. I cannot understand Eliza's doing such a thing. I have longed all my life for this porringer; I have associations with it, you see, lifelong associations. I remember my Grandmother Vanderdecken distinctly; you never saw her, of course, as she died years before you were born."

"Yes," said Margaret, gently, but not without intention. "And I, Cousin Sophronia, associate it with Aunt Eliza, whom I remember distinctly, and who was my godmother, and very kind to me. I value this porringer more than almost any of my possessions. Thank you, Elizabeth; if you would put it back, please. Will you have some more tea, Cousin Sophronia?"

"Let me give you another bit of chicken, Sophronia!" said Mr. Montfort, heartily. "I think we have had enough about porringers, haven't we? There are six or seven, I believe, in the strong closet. One of 'em was Adam's, I've always been told. A little gravy, Sophronia? You're eating nothing."

"I have no appetite!" said Miss Sophronia. "You know I only eat to support life, John. A side-bone, then, if you insist, and a tiny bit of the breast. William always says, 'You must live,' and I suppose I must. Cranberry sauce! Thank you! I am really too exhausted to enjoy a morsel, but I will make an effort. We can do what we try to do, I always say. Thank you, dearest John. I dare say I shall be better to-morrow."