When Margaret went to bed that night, she felt as if she had been whipped with rods. Head, heart, and back, all ached in sympathy. The children were in bed; that is, she had left them in bed; their staying there was another matter; however, all three were tired after their journey, and Uncle John thought the chances were that they would fall asleep before they had time to think of doing anything else. Among the three, the little girl was the one who oppressed Margaret with a sense of defeat, a sense of her own incompetence. She had not expected to understand the boys; she had never had any experience of boys; but she had expected to win the little girl to her, and make her a little friend, perhaps almost a sister. Susan D. received her advances with an elfish coldness that had something not human in it, Margaret thought. The child was like a changeling, in the old fairy stories. That evening, when bedtime came, Margaret went up with her to the pretty room, hoping for a pleasant time. She sat down and took the little girl on her knee. "Let us have a cuddle, dear!" she said; "put your head down on my shoulder, and I will sing you one of my own bedtime songs, that my nurse used to sing to me."

Susan D. sat bold upright, not a yielding joint in all her body.

"Don't you like songs?" asked Margaret, stroking the tow-coloured hair gently.

"No!" said the child; and with the word she wriggled off Margaret's lap, and stood twisting her fingers awkwardly, and frowning at the floor. Margaret sighed.

"Then we will undress and get to bed," she said, trying to speak lightly. "You must be very tired, little girl. Isn't that a pretty bed? Is your bed at home like this? Tell me about your room, won't you, Susie?"

But Susan D. still twisted her fingers and frowned, and would not say a single word. She made no resistance, however, when Margaret helped her off with her clothes. "You are big enough to undress yourself, of course," the girl said, "but I will help you to-night, because you are tired, and you must feel strange, coming so far away from home. Poor little mite!" The child looked so small and slight, standing with her dress off, and her thin shoulders sticking out like wings, that Margaret felt a sudden thrill of compassion, and stooping, kissed the freckled cheek warmly. The colour came into the child's face, but she stood like a stock, never moving a muscle, never raising her eyes to take note of the pretty, tasteful arrangements to which Margaret had given such thought and pains. But the undressing went on, and presently she was in her little nightgown, with her hair unbraided and smoothly brushed. She might be pretty, Margaret decided, when she filled out a little, and had a pleasanter expression. She was so little! Surely there must be one more effort, this first night.

"Shall I hear you say your prayers, dear?" asked Margaret, taking the child's two hands in hers. Susan D. shook her head resolutely.

"No? You like better to say them by yourself? Then I will come back in a few minutes, and tuck you up in your little nest."

The child gave no sign; and when Margaret came back, she was standing in the same spot, in the same position. She got into bed obediently, and made no resistance when Margaret tucked the bedclothes in, patted her shoulder, and gave her a last good-night kiss. She might as well have kissed the pillow for any response there was, but at least there had been no shrinking this time. "Good night, Susan D.," said Margaret, cheerfully, pausing at the door. "Good night, dear! Susan, I think you must answer when you are spoken to."

"Good night!" said Susan D. Margaret shut the door softly and went away. As she passed along the corridor that ran round the hall, something struck her forehead lightly. She looked up, and narrowly escaped getting a fish-hook in her eye. Merton looked over the banisters, and smiled appealingly. "I was fishin'," he said. "There's fish-lines in the drawers of the sofa. I guess I 'most caught a whale, didn't I?"

"Merton, you must go to bed at once!" said Margaret. "How long have you been standing there in your nightgown? You might catch your death." (It had been one of old Katy's maxims that if you stood about in your nightgown for however short a time, you inevitably got your death. Margaret had never doubted it till this moment.) "I am coming up now to tuck you both up!" she added, with a happy inspiration.

There was a hasty scuffle, then a rush, accompanied by smothered squeals. When Margaret reached the nursery, both boys were in bed. Merton's blue eyes were wide open, and fixed on her with mournful earnestness; Basil was asleep, the clothes tucked in well under his chin. He lay on his back, his mouth slightly opened; he was snoring gently, but unobtrusively. Poor child! no doubt he was tired enough. But how had Merton managed to make so much noise?

Margaret looked around her, and Merton's gaze grew more intense. His own clothes lay in a heap on the floor, but where were his brother's? And—and what was that, smoothly folded over the back of a chair? A clean nightgown?

But when Merton saw his cousin's eyes fix on the nightgown, he exploded in a bubbling laugh. "He—he ain't undressed at all!" he cried, gleefully. "He never! he's got his boots on, and every single—" The speech got no further. There was a flying whirl of blankets, a leap, and Basil was on his brother's chest, pounding him with right good will. "You sneak!" he cried. "I'll teach you—"

There was no time to think; the child would be killed before her eyes. Margaret took a firm hold on Basil's collar, and dragged him off by main strength, he still clawing the air. Unconsciously, she gave him a hearty shake before she let go; the boy staggered back a few paces; who would have thought that Margaret had such strength in her slender wrists? The crisis over, she panted, and felt faint for an instant; Basil, after a moment of bewilderment, looked at her, and the smile broke all over his face, a moment before black with rage.

"Got me that time, didn't you?" he said, simply. "He's a mean sneak, Mert is. I'll serve him out to-morrow, don't you be afraid!"

"Basil, what does this mean?" asked Margaret, severely. "Why are you not in bed?" Then as Basil sent an eloquent glance at the pillow where his head had been lying so quietly, she added, "Why are you not undressed, I mean? I am afraid you have been very naughty, both of you, boys."

"Well, you see," said Basil, apologetically, "there was all kinds of things in the drawers, and then I got on the rocking-horse, and it wasn't but just a minute before you came up. I say, isn't this a bully room, Cousin Margaret? I think Uncle John was awfully good to give us such a room as this. Why doesn't he sleep here himself? Bet I would, if I owned the house. I say, do those marbles belong to him?"

"I suppose so," said Margaret, smiling in spite of herself; "yes, I am sure they were his. But now, Basil,—"

"Well, see here!" cried the boy, excitedly. "Because, you see, they're worth a lot, some of 'em. Why, there's agates,—why, they are perfect beauties! Just look!" He ran towards the sofa, but Margaret stopped him resolutely.

"To-morrow, Basil!" she said. "To-morrow you shall show me everything you like; but now you must go to bed, this very moment. I am pretty tired, but I shall sit outside on the landing, till you tell me that you are in bed; then I shall come in and make sure for myself, and tuck you in."

Basil illuminated the room again. "Will you?" he cried. "Honest, will you tuck us in?"

Margaret nodded, wondering, and withdrew to the landing, where she sat with her head in her hands, saying to herself, "Let nothing disturb thee, nothing affright thee—"

Basil spoke through the keyhole. "Cousin Margaret!"

"Yes, Basil; are you ready so soon?"

"No, not quite. I wanted to say,—do you think you ought to spank me?"

"No, certainly not, my dear!"

"'Cause you can, if you think you'd better."

"No, no, Basil; only do get to bed, like a good boy!"

"Yes, ma'am."

A sudden plunge was heard, a thump, and the agonised shriek of a suffering bedstead. "Now I'm in bed!" said Basil. Margaret picked up the two heaps of clothing, and laid them neatly on two chairs. "I want you to do this yourselves after this," she explained. "It isn't nice to leave your things on the floor."

"All right!" "We will!" said both boys; and then they joined in a fervent appeal to her not to turn their knickerbockers upside down. "'Cause all the things in your pockets spill out," said Merton.

"And then you get 'em mixed, and can't tell what belongs where," cried Basil. "Thank you, Cousin Margaret; that's bully!"

Margaret tucked Merton in first; he looked so dimpled and pretty, she was tempted to offer a caress, but the recollection of Susan D. kept her from it. Turning away, she came to Basil's bed. The boy watched her intently as she smoothed the bedclothes with practised hand, and tucked them in exactly right, not too tight and not too loose. There are several ways of tucking a person into bed. With a pleasant "Good night!" she was about to leave him, but something in the boy's face held her. "Is there anything you want, my dear?" she asked, gently. Basil looked at her; then turned his head away. "Mother used to put me to bed!" he muttered, so low that Margaret could hardly hear. She did hear, however; and instantly stooping over the boy, she kissed him warmly. Thank Heaven, here was one who did want to be loved. "Dear Basil," she said, tenderly. "Dear boy, you shall tell me all about her some day. Will you?" The boy nodded; his eyes were eloquent, but he did not speak. Her heart still warm, Margaret looked across at Merton; but Basil plucked her gown and whispered, "He—doesn't know. He can't remember her. Perhaps you can teach him—"

Margaret nodded, kissed the boy's white forehead once more, and went away with a lighter heart than she had brought with her. On the floor below she paused to listen at Susan's door; all was quiet there. Cousin Sophronia was asleep, too, no doubt; Margaret had spent part of the evening with her, reading, and listening to her doleful prophecies of the miseries entailed by the coming of "these dreadful children!" It was nearly her own bedtime, too, for between Cousin Sophronia and the children the evening had slipped away all too fast. But surely she might have a few minutes of peace and joy? The library door stood open; from it there came a stream of cheerful light, and the perfume of a Manila cigar. Oh, good! Uncle John had not gone to his study; he was waiting for her. As she passed Miss Sophronia's door, Margaret fancied she heard a call; but she was not sure, and for once she was rebellious. She flew down-stairs, and ran into the library.

The pleasant room lay in shade, save for the bright gleam of the reading-lamp. Among the books which lined the walls from floor to ceiling, the gilded backs of the smaller volumes caught the light and sent it back in soft, broken twinklings; but the great brown folios on the lower shelves were half lost in a comfortable duskiness. The crimson curtains were drawn before the open windows, and the evening wind waved them lightly now and then, sending new shadows to chase the old ones along the walls and ceiling. The thick old Turkey carpet held every possible shade of soft, faded richness, and the brown leather armchairs looked as if they had been sat in by generations of book-loving Montforts, as indeed they had. And amid all this sober comfort, by the great library table with its orderly litter of magazines and new books, sat Mr. John Montfort, book in hand and cigar in mouth, a breathing statue of Ease, in a brown velvet smoking-jacket. He looked up, and, seeing Margaret in the doorway, laid down his book, and held out his hand with a gesture of welcome. "Well, my girl," he said, "come and tell me all about it!"

With a great sigh of relief, Margaret dropped on the rug at her uncle's feet, and laid her tired head on his knee. "Uncle John!" she said. "Oh, Uncle John!" That seemed to be all she wanted to say; she shut her eyes, and gave herself up to the comfort which only comes with rest after fatigue.

Mr. Montfort stroked her hair gently, with a touch as light as a woman's. Then he took up his book again, and began to read aloud. It was a curious old book, bound in black leather, with great silver clasps.

The words flowed on and on; Margaret felt her troubles smoothing themselves out, melting away. "Who is this pleasant person?" she asked, without raising her head.

"Sir John Mandeville," said her uncle. "Rest a bit still, and we'll go and see the Chan of Cathay with him. Here we are!" He turned a page or two, and read again:

"Oh, but I shouldn't like that, Uncle John!" cried Margaret. "I shouldn't like that at all! Should you?"

"I don't think it would be agreeable," Mr. Montfort admitted. "But when we come to anything we don't like, we can suppose that Sir John was—shall we call it embroidering? And how does my girl feel now? Are the wrinkles smoothing out at all?"

"All smooth!" replied the girl. "All gone, Uncle John. I was only a little tired; and—Uncle John—"

"Yes, dear child."

"You must expect that I shall do a great many wrong things, at first. I am very ignorant, and—well, not very old, perhaps. If only I can make the children love me!"

"They'd better love you," said Uncle John. "If they don't, they'll get the stick. But don't fret, Margaret; I am not going to fret, and I shall not let you do it. The little girl seems slightly abnormal, at first sight; but the boys—"

"Yes, Uncle John?" and Margaret raised her head and looked eagerly at her uncle, hoping for some light that would make all clear to her. "The boys?"

"Why, the boys are just boys, my dear; nothing in the world but plain boys. Two of 'em instead of four,—thank your stars that you are in this generation instead of the last, my love; and now take this little head off to bed, and don't let another anxious thought come into it. Good night, my child."