Margaret woke early the next morning, and lay wondering where she was. Her eyes were used to opening on rose-flowered walls and mahogany bed-posts. Here all was soft and white, no spot of colour anywhere. She came to herself with a start, and yesterday with its happenings came back to her. She sighed, and a little worried wrinkle came on her smooth forehead. What a change, in a few short hours! Was all their peaceful, dreamy life over, the life that suited both her and her uncle so absolutely? They had been so happy! Was it over indeed? It seemed at first as if she could not get up and face the cares of the day, under the new conditions. Indolent by nature, Margaret dreaded change, and above change unpleasantness; it seemed as if she might have plenty of both. She rose and dressed in a despondent mood; but when her hair was pinned up and her collar straight, she took herself to task. "I give you three minutes!" she said, looking at herself in the glass. "If you can't look cheerful by that time, you can go to bed again."

The threat, or something else, carried the point, for it was an entirely cheerful young woman who came into the library, with a rose for Uncle John's buttonhole. Miss Montfort was already there, and responded with sad sprightliness to Margaret's greeting. "Thank you, my dear! I was just telling your uncle, it is a mere matter of form to ask if I have slept. I seldom sleep, especially if I am up-stairs. The servants over my head, it may be,—or if not that, I have the feeling of insecurity,—stairs, you understand, in case of fire. Dear William had my rooms fitted up on the ground floor. 'Sophronia,' he said, 'you must sleep!' I suppose it is necessary, but I am so used to lying awake. Such frightful noises in the walls, my dear John! Rats, I suppose? Has the wainscoting been examined lately, in the room you have put me in? Not that it matters in the least; I am the person in the world most easily suited, I suppose. A cot, a corner, a crust, as William says, and I am satisfied."

It took several crusts to satisfy Miss Sophronia at breakfast. Afterwards she sallied out into the garden, where Mr. Montfort was enjoying his morning cigar, with Margaret at his side. "You dear child," said the sprightly lady, "run now and amuse yourself, or attend to any little duties you may have set yourself. So important, I always say, for the young to be regular in everything they do. I am sure you agree with me, dearest John. I will be your uncle's companion, my love; that is my duty and my pleasure now. I must see your roses, John! No one in the world loves roses as I do. What do you use for them? I have a recipe for an infallible wash; I must give it to you, I must indeed."

Margaret went into the house; there was no place for her, for the lady was leaning on Mr. Montfort's arm, chattering gaily in his ear. Margaret was conscious of an unpleasant sensation which was entirely new to her. She had always been with people she liked. Rita had often distressed her, but still she was most lovable, with all her faults. Cousin Sophronia was—not—lovable, the girl said to herself.

It was a relief to visit the kitchen, and find Frances beaming over her bread-pan. The good woman hailed Margaret with delight, and received her timid suggestions as to dinner with enthusiasm.

"Yes, Miss Margaret, I do think as a chicken-pie would be the very thing. I've a couple of fowl in the house now, and what would you think of putting in a bit of ham, miss?"

"Oh!" said Margaret. "Is that what you usually do, Frances? Then I am sure it will be just right. And about a pudding; what do you think, Frances? You know so many kinds of puddings, and they are all so good!"

Well, Frances had been thinking that if Miss Margaret should fancy apple-fritters, Mr. Montfort was fond of them, and they had not had them this month. And lemon-juice with them, or a little sugar and wine; which did Miss Margaret think would be best? This was a delightful way of keeping house; and after praising the bread, which was rising white and light in the great pan, and poking the bubbles with her little finger, and begging that she might be allowed to mix it some day soon, Margaret went back in a better humour to the White Rooms, and sat down resolutely to her buttonholes. There would be no walk this morning, evidently; well, when she had done her hour's stint, she would go for a little stroll by herself. After all, perhaps Uncle John would, when the strangeness had worn off a little, enjoy having some one of his own age to talk to; of course she was very young, too young to be much of a companion. Still,—

Well, she would be cheerful and patient, and try to make things pleasant so far as she could. And now she could only go and wish Uncle John good-bye when he started for town, and perhaps walk to the station with him, if he was going to walk.

While she sat sewing, glancing at the clock from time to time, Cousin Sophronia came in, work-bag in hand.

"He is gone!" she said, cheerfully. "I saw him off at the gate. Dearest John! Excellent, sterling John Montfort! Such a pleasure to be with him! Such a joy to feel that I can make a home for him!"

"Gone!" echoed Margaret, looking up in dismay. "Why, surely it is not train time!"

"An early train, my love," the lady explained. "Your dear uncle felt obliged to start an hour earlier than usual, he explained to me. These busy men! And how are you occupying yourself, my dear? Ah! buttonholes? Most necessary! But, my love, you are working these the wrong way!"

"No, I think not," said Margaret. "This is the way I have always made them, Cousin Sophronia."

"Wrong, my dear! Quite wrong, I assure you. Impossible to get a smooth edge if you work them that way. Let me—h'm! yes! that is fairly even, I confess; but the other way is the correct one, you must take my word for it; and I will show you how, with pleasure. So important, I always say, to do things just as they should be done!"

In vain Margaret protested that she understood the other way, but preferred this. She finally, for quiet's sake, yielded, and pricked her fingers, and made herself hot and cross, working the wrong way.

Miss Sophronia next began to cross-question her about Mrs. Cheriton's last days. Such a saintly woman! Austere, some thought; perhaps not always charitable—

"Oh!" cried Margaret, indignant. "Cousin Sophronia, you cannot have known Aunt Faith at all. She was the very soul of charity; and as for being austere—but it is evident you did not know her." She tried to keep down her rising temper, with thoughts of the sweet, serene eyes that had never met hers without a look of love.

"I knew her before you were born, my dear!" said Miss Sophronia, with a slightly acid smile. "Oh, yes, I was intimately acquainted with dear Aunt Faith. I have never thought it right to be blind to people's little failings, no matter how much we love them. I always tell my brother William, 'William, do not ask me to be blind! Ask me, expect me, to be indulgent, to be devoted, to be self-sacrificing,—but not blind; blindness is contrary to my nature, and you must not expect it.' Yes! And—what was done with the clothes, my dear?"

"The clothes?" echoed Margaret. "Aunt Faith's clothes, do you mean, Cousin Sophronia?"

"No. I meant the Montfort clothes; the heirlooms, my dear. But perhaps you never saw them?"

"Oh, yes, I have seen them often," said Margaret. "They are in the cedar chest, Cousin Sophronia, where they have always been. It is in the deep closet there," she nodded towards an alcove at the other end of the room.

Miss Sophronia rose with alacrity. "Ah! I think I will look them over. Very valuable, some of those clothes are; quite unsuitable, I have thought for some years, to have them under the charge of an aged person, who could not in the course of nature be expected to see to them properly. I fear I shall find them in a sad condition."

Her hand was already on the door, when Margaret was able to speak. "Excuse me, Cousin Sophronia; the chest is locked."

"Very proper! Entirely proper!" cried the lady. "And you have the key? That will not do, will it, my love? Too heavy for these dear young shoulders, such a weight of responsibility! I will take entire charge of this; not a word! It will be a pleasure! Where is the key, did you say, love?"

"Uncle John has the key!" said Margaret, quietly; and blamed herself severely for the pleasure she felt in saying it.

"Oh!" Miss Montfort paused, her hand on the door; for a moment she seemed at a loss; but she went on again.

"Right, Margaret! Very right, my love! You felt yourself, or your uncle felt for you, the unfitness of your having charge of such valuables. Ahem! I—no doubt dear John will give me the key, as soon as I mention it. I—I shall not speak of it at once; there is no hurry—except for the danger of moth. An old house like Fernley is always riddled with moth. I fear the clothes must be quite eaten away with them. Such a sad pity! The accumulation of generations!"

Margaret hastened to assure her that the clothes were looked over regularly once a month, and that no sign of moths had ever been found in them. Miss Sophronia sighed and shook her head, and crocheted for some minutes in silence; she was making a brown and yellow shoulder-shawl. Margaret thought she had never seen a shawl so ugly.

"Has Cousin William Montfort any daughters?" she asked, presently, thinking it her turn to bear some of the burden of entertainment.

"Four, my dear!" was the prompt reply. "Sweet girls! young, heedless, perhaps not always considerate; but the sweetest girls in the world. Amelia is just your age; what a companion she would be for you! Dear Margaret! I must write to William, I positively must, and suggest his asking you for a good long visit. Such a pleasure for you and for Amelia! Not a word, my dear! I shall consider it a duty, a positive duty! Amelia is thought to resemble me in many ways; she is the image of what I was at her age. I am forming her; her mother is something of an invalid, as I think I have told you. The older girls are away from home just now,—they make a good many visits; I am always there, and they feel that they can go. If they were at home, I should beg dear John Montfort to invite Amelia here; such a pleasure for him, to have young life in the house. But as it is, William must ask you. Consider it settled, my love. A—what was done with Aunt Faith's jewels, my dear? She had some fine pearls, I remember. Vanderdecken pearls they were originally; I should hardly suppose Aunt Faith would have felt that she had more than a life interest in them. And the great amethyst necklace; did she ever show you her jewels, my love?"

Margaret blushed, and braced herself to meet the shock. "I have them, Cousin Sophronia!" she said, meekly. "Aunt Faith wanted me to have all her jewels, and she gave them to me before—before she died." Her voice failed, and the tears rushed to her eyes. She was thinking of the frail, white-clad figure bending over the ancient jewel-box, and taking out the pearls. She heard the soft voice saying, "Your great-grandmother's pearls, my Margaret; they are yours now. Wear them for me, and let me have the pleasure of seeing them on your neck. You are my pearl, Margaret; the only pearl I care for now." Dear, dearest Aunt Faith. Why was she not here?

Before Miss Sophronia could recover her power of speech, a knock came at the door.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Margaret!" said Elizabeth, putting her head in, in answer to Margaret's "Come in!" "The butcher is here, miss, and Frances thought perhaps, would you come out and see him, miss?"

"Certainly!" said Margaret, rising; but Miss Sophronia was too quick for her.

"In a moment!" she cried, cheerfully. "Tell Frances I will be there in a moment, Elizabeth! Altogether too much for you, dear Margaret, to have so much care. I cannot have too much care! It is what I live for; give the household matters no further thought, I beg of you. You might be setting your bureau drawers in order, if you like, while I am seeing the butcher; I always look over Amelia's drawers once a week—"

She glided away, leaving Margaret white with anger. How was she to endure this? She was nearly eighteen; she had taken care of herself ever since she was seven, and had attained, or so she fancied, perfection, in the matter of bureau-drawers, at the age of twelve. To have her precious arrangements looked over, her boxes opened, her—oh, there could be, there was no reason why she should submit to this! She locked the drawers quietly, one after the other, and put the key in her pocket. She would be respectful; she would be civil always, and cordial when she could, but she would not be imposed upon.

By the time Miss Sophronia came back, Margaret was composed, and greeted her cousin with a pleasant smile; but this time it was the lady who was agitated. She came hurrying in, her face red, her air perturbed. "Insufferable!" she cried, as soon as the door was closed. "Margaret, that woman is insufferable! She must leave at once."

"Woman! what woman, Cousin Sophronia?" asked Margaret, looking up in amazement.

"That Frances! She—why, she is impertinent, Margaret. She insulted me; insulted me grossly. I shall speak to John Montfort directly he returns. She must go; I cannot stay in the house with her."

Go! Frances, who had been at Fernley twenty years; for whom the new kitchen, now only fifteen years old, had been planned and arranged! Margaret was struck dumb for a moment; but recovering herself, she tried to soothe the angry lady, assuring her that Frances could not have meant to be disrespectful; that she had a quick temper, but was so good and faithful, and so attached to Uncle John; and so on. In another moment, to her great discomfiture, Miss Sophronia burst into tears, declared that she was alone in the world, that no one loved her or wanted her, and that she was the most unhappy of women. Filled with remorseful pity, Margaret bent over her, begging her not to cry. She brought a smelling-bottle, and Miss Sophronia clutched it, sobbing, and told Margaret she was an angelic child. "This—this is—a Vanderdecken vinaigrette!" she said, between her sobs. "Did Eliza Vanderdecken give you this, too? Very singular of Eliza! But she never had any sense of fitness. Thank you my dear! I suffer—no living creature knows what I suffer with my nerves. I—shall be better soon. Don't mind anything I said; I must suffer, but it shall always be in silence, I always maintain that. No one shall know; I never speak of it; I am the grave, for silence. Do not—do not tell your uncle, Margaret, how you have seen me suffer. Do not betray my momentary weakness!"

"Certainly not!" said Margaret, heartily. "I will not say a word, Cousin Sophronia, of course!"

"He would wish to know!" said Miss Sophronia, smothering a sob into a sigh. "John Montfort would be furious if he thought I was ill-treated, and we were concealing it from him. He is a lion when once roused. Ah! I should be sorry for that woman. But forgiveness is a duty, my dear, and I forgive. See! I am myself again. Quite—" with a hysterical giggle—"quite myself! I—I will take the vinaigrette to my room with me, I think, my dear. Thank you! Dear Margaret! cherub child! how you have comforted me!" She went, and Margaret heard her sniffing along the entry; heard, and told herself she had no business to notice such things; and went back rather ruefully to her buttonholes.