From that night, Susan D. was Margaret's friend and true lover.

She followed her round in the hope of being able to do some little service of love. She brought her flowers, and hunted the fields for the largest and finest berries for her. At any hour of the day, Margaret might feel a little hot hand slide into hers and deposit a handful of warm, moist raspberries or blueberries. Sometimes this bred trouble, as when Merton waylaid his sister, and wrested the hard-won treasures from her for his own refreshment; with the result of shrieks and scuffling, and a final thrashing from his elder brother; or, as when Cousin Sophronia detected the child sidling along with closed palm, and demanded to see what she had. Susan D. resisted stoutly, till at length, yielding to superior strength, she threw the berries on the floor, and trampled them into the carpet. There was a good deal of this kind of thing; but still the change was a blessed one, and Margaret, when she met the beaming look of love in the child's face, and remembered the suspicious scowl that had greeted her only so few days ago, was most thankful, and felt it to be worth any amount of trouble, even to taking the spots out of the carpet, which was a hard thing to do.

"I told you!" said Basil, smiling superior. "I told you, once you got inside, you'd find the kid not at all so bad. I say, Cousin Margaret, you're not a fraidcat, are you?"

"A what, Basil?"

"A fraidcat! Don't you know what a fraidcat is, Cousin Margaret? Seems to me you didn't learn many modern expressions when you were a little girl, did you?"

"Really, Basil, I think I learned all that were necessary," said Margaret, laughing. "I did not learn slang, certainly, nor boy-jargon, and I don't care to take lessons, thank you. Don't you think good, plain English is good enough?"

"Oh, well, it sounds all right from you, 'cause you are you, and you wouldn't match yourself if you didn't talk that way, I suppose. But it would sound silly for a boy to go on so, don't you see?"

"I am afraid I don't see very well, Basil, but no matter. The things I am afraid of are spiders and caterpillars and cows! Is that what you wanted to know?"

"N—not exactly!" said the boy; "but no matter, Cousin Margaret. You haven't got a ball of twine, have you? Oh, yes, please! Thank you, that is just exactly what I wanted. You always know where things are, don't you? That's bully!"

The children had been very good for the last few days; singularly good, Margaret thought, as she sat on the verandah in the pleasant twilight, reviewing the day's doings, and wondering what happy day would bring Uncle John back to her. Certainly, he would find a good deal of improvement. Merton had not run away since his experience in the bog; Susan D. was won, and Basil grew more and more helpful and considerate. More than that, the children, all three of them, seemed to have quieted down of their own accord. At this hour, they were generally shouting and screaming, racing over the grass, or tumbling headlong from the trees, keeping Margaret in a constant state of terror, and Cousin Sophronia in one of peevish irritation and alarm. But now they had gone of their own will to the summer-house, saying that they were going to tell stories, and see how quiet they could be. They were quiet, indeed, for she could not even hear their voices. Cousin Sophronia, coming out with an inquiry, became instantly suspicious, and declared she must go and see what they were about; but Margaret begged her to wait a little. "They can do no harm in the summer-house!" she said. "And—Uncle John thought we would better let them alone a good deal, Cousin Sophronia."

"My love," said the lady, seating herself, and folding her hands for a good talk, "your Uncle John is a babe, simply a babe in these matters. Even if he knew anything about children,—which he does not,—it would be my duty, my positive duty, to shield him from all anxieties of this kind. Why else did I come here, my love, except for this very thing?"

"Did you, then, know that Cousin Anthony wished to send the children?" asked Margaret, perhaps not without a spice of gentle malice.

"Ahem! No, not precisely, my love! But—but it was my firm resolve to protect dearest John from every species of annoyance. Every species, my dear! John Montfort—good gracious! What is that?" She started to her feet, and Margaret followed her example. A sound seemed to pass them in the air; a strange sound, something between a sigh and a moan. It swelled for a moment, then died away among the trees beyond the verandah. Miss Sophronia clutched Margaret's arm. "You—you made that noise?" she whispered. "Say it was you, Margaret!"

"Indeed, it was not I, Cousin Sophronia!" said Margaret. "It must have been a sudden gust of wind. It is gone now; it must surely have been the wind. Shall I bring you a wrap? Do you feel chilly?"

Miss Sophronia still held her arm. "No, no! Don't go!" she said. "I—I feel rather nervous to-night, I think. Nerves! Yes, no one knows what I suffer. If you had any idea what my nights are— You may be right, my dear, about the wind. It is a misfortune, I always say, to have such exquisite sensibility. The expression is not my own, my love, it is Doctor Soper's. Shall we go into the house, and light the lamps? So much more cheerful, I always think, than this dreary twilight."

Margaret hesitated a moment. The evening was very warm, and once in the house, her cousin would be sure to shut all the windows and draw the curtains. Still, she must not be selfish—

"If I join you in a few minutes, Cousin Sophronia?" she said. "The children—I suppose it is time for them to come in. I will just go down to the summer-house and see—"

The sentence remained unfinished; for at that moment, almost close beside them, arose the strange moaning sound once more. This time Miss Sophronia shrieked aloud. "Come!" she cried, dragging Margaret towards the house. "Come in this moment! It is the Voice! The Voice of Fernley. I will not stay here; I will not go in alone. Come with me, Margaret!"

She was trembling from head to foot, and even Margaret, who was not timid about such matters, felt slightly disturbed. Was this some trick of the children? She must go and hunt them up, naughty little things. Ah! What was that, moving in the dusk? It was almost entirely dark now, but something was certainly coming up the gravel walk, something that glimmered white against the black box-hedges. Miss Sophronia uttered another piercing shriek, and would have fled, but Margaret detained her. "Who is that?" said the girl. "Basil, is that you? Where are the other children?"

The white figure advanced; it was tall and slender, and seemed to have no head. Miss Sophronia moaned, and cowered down at Margaret's side.

"I beg pardon!" said a deep, cheerful voice. "I hope nothing is wrong. It is only I, Miss Montfort,—Gerald Merryweather."

Only a tall youth in white flannels; yet, at that moment, no one, save Uncle John himself, could have been more welcome, Margaret thought. "Oh, Mr. Merryweather," she said, "I am so glad to see you! No, nothing is wrong, I hope; that is—won't you come up on the verandah? My cousin—Cousin Sophronia, let me present Mr. Merryweather."

Mr. Merryweather advanced, bowing politely to the darkness; when, to his amazement, the person to whom he was to pay his respects sprang forward, and clutched him violently.

"You—you—you abominable young man!" cried Miss Sophronia, shrilly. "You made that noise; you know you made it, to annoy me! Don't tell me you did not! Get away from here this instant, you—you—impostor!"

Margaret was struck dumb for an instant, and before she could speak, Gerald Merryweather was replying, quietly, as if he had been throttled every day of his life:

"If choking is your object, madam, you can do it better by pulling the other way, I would suggest. By pulling in this direction, you see, you only injure the textile fabric, and leave the corpus delicti comparatively unharmed."

He stood perfectly still; Miss Sophronia still clutched and shook him, muttering inarticulately; but now Margaret seized and dragged her off by main force. "Cousin Sophronia!" she cried. "How can you—what can you be thinking of? This is Mr. Merryweather, I tell you, the son of Uncle John's old schoolmate. Uncle John asked him to call. I am sure you are not well, or have made some singular mistake."

"I don't believe a word of it!" said Miss Sophronia. "Not one single word! What was he making that noise for, I should like to know?"

Mr. Merryweather answered with a calm which he was far from feeling. His pet necktie was probably ruined, his collar crumpled, very likely his coat torn. He had taken pains with his toilet, and now he had been set upon and harried, by some one he had never seen, but whom he felt sure to be the Gorgon who had glared at him out the window several days before. This was a horrid old lady; he saw no reason why he should be attacked in the night by horrid old ladies, when he was behaving beautifully.

"I am sorry!" he said, rather stiffly. "I was not conscious of speaking loud. Miss Montfort asked who it was, and I told her. If I have offended her, I am ready to apologise—and withdraw."

This sounded theatrical, it occurred to him; but then, the whole scene was fit for the variety stage. Poor Margaret felt a moment of despair. What should she do?

"Mr. Merryweather," she said, aloud, "Miss Montfort has been much startled. Just before you came, we heard a noise; rather a strange noise, which we could not account for. I think her nerves are somewhat shaken. She will be better in a moment. And—and I was just going to the summer-house, to call the children. Would you come with me, I wonder?"

Miss Sophronia clamoured that she could not be left alone, but for once Margaret was deaf to her appeals. She was too angry; her guest—that is, her uncle's guest—to be set upon and shaken, as if he were a naughty child caught stealing apples,—it was too shameful! He would think they were all out of their senses.

"Oh, I am so sorry! So sorry!" she found herself saying aloud. "Mr. Merryweather, I am so mortified, so ashamed! What can I say to you?"

"Say!" said Gerald, his stiffness gone in an instant. "Don't say anything, Miss Montfort. I—I don't mean that; I mean, there's nothing to say, don't you know? Why, it wasn't your fault! Who ever thought of its being your fault?"

"I ought to have recognised you sooner!" said Margaret. "It was pretty dark, and we had really been startled, and my cousin is very nervous. If you would please overlook it this time I should be so grateful!"

"Oh, I say!" cried the young man. "Miss Montfort, if you go on in this way, I shall go back and ask the old—and ask the lady to choke me some more. I—I like being choked! I like anything; only don't go on so! Why, it isn't any matter in the world. Perhaps it relieved her feelings a bit; and it didn't do me any harm." He felt of his necktie, and settled his collar as well as he could, thankful for the friendly darkness. "Indeed, I am all right!" he assured her, earnestly. "Trivets aren't a circumstance to me, as far as rightness is concerned. Now if you'll forget all about it, Miss Montfort, please, I shall be as happy as the bounding roe,—or the circumflittergating cockchafer!" he added, as a large June-bug buzzed past him.

"You are very good!" murmured Margaret. "I am sure—but here is the summer-house. Children, are you here? Basil! Susan D.!"

No answer came. The frogs chirped peacefully, the brook at the foot of the garden sent up its soft, bubbling murmur; there was no other sound. It was very dark, for the trees were thick overhead. The fireflies flitted hither and thither, gleaming amid the thickets of honeysuckle and lilac; the young man's figure beside her glimmered faintly in the darkness, but there was no glimpse of Susan D.'s white frock, or Basil's white head.

"Children!" cried Margaret again. "Don't play any tricks, dears! It is bedtime, and after, and you must come in. Susan, Cousin wants you, dear!"

Silence; not a rustle, not a whisper.

"I should suppose they had gone," said Gerald. "Or do you think they are playing hookey? Wait a minute, and I'll hunt around."

But search availed nothing; the children were not in the summer-house, nor near it. "They must have gone back to the house," said Margaret. "Thank you so much, Mr. Merryweather. I am sorry to have given you all this trouble for nothing."

"Oh, trouble!" said Gerald. "This isn't my idea of trouble, Miss Montfort. What a pretty place this is! Awfully—I mean, extremely pretty."

"It is pretty in the daytime. I should hardly think you could see anything now, it is so dark."

"Well, yes, it is dark; but I mean it seems such a pleasant place to sit and rest in a little. Hadn't you better sit and rest a minute, Miss Montfort? The children are all right, you may be sure. Gone to bed, most likely, like good little kids. I—I often went to bed, when I was a kid."

Margaret could not help laughing; nevertheless, she turned decidedly towards the house. "I am afraid I cannot be sure of their having gone to bed," she said. "I think I must find them, Mr. Merryweather, but if you are tired, you shall rest on the verandah while I hunt."

Gerald did not want to rest on the verandah, particularly if his recent assailant were still there. He wanted to stay here in the garden. He liked the fireflies, and the frogs; the murmur of the brook, and the soft voice speaking out of the darkness. He thought this was a very nice girl; he wished she would not be so uneasy about those tiresome youngsters. However, as there seemed to be no help for it, he followed Margaret in silence up the gravel walk. She need not hurry so, he thought; it was very early, not half past eight yet. He wanted to make his call; he couldn't dress up like this every night; and, besides, it was a question whether he could ever wear this shirt again by daylight.

Miss Sophronia was not on the verandah.

"Will you not come in?" asked Margaret at the door; but Gerald felt, rather than heard, the uneasiness in her voice, and decided, much against his inclination, that it would be better manners to say good night and take himself off.

"I think I must be going," he had begun already, when, from the open door behind them, burst a long, low, melancholy wail. The girl started violently. The young man bent his ear in swift attention. The voice—the cry—trembled on the air, swelled to a shriek; then died slowly away into a dreary whisper, and was gone.

Before either of the young people could speak, the library door was flung open, and a wild figure came flying out. Miss Sophronia threw herself once more upon Gerald, and clung to him with the energy of desperation. "My dear young man!" cried the distracted lady. "Save me! Protect me! I knew your father! I was at school with your mother,—Miranda Cheerley. Save me,—hold me! Do not desert me! You are my only hope!"

It was past nine o'clock when Gerald Merryweather finally took his departure. The children had been discovered,—in bed, and apparently asleep. Three neatly folded piles of clothes showed at least that they had gone to bed in a proper and reasonable manner. Miss Sophronia Montfort had finally been quieted, by soothing words and promises, followed up by hot malted milk and checkerberry cordial, the latter grimly administered by Frances, and so strong that it made the poor lady sneeze. Margaret was to sleep with her; Gerald was to come the next morning to see how she was; meanwhile, Frances and Elizabeth, the latter badly frightened, the former entirely cool and self-possessed, were to sleep in the front chamber, and be at hand in case of any untoward event.

There was nothing further to be done save to shake hands warmly with Margaret, submit to an embrace from Miss Sophronia, and go. Mr. Merryweather strode slowly down the garden path, looking back now and then at the house, where already the lights on the lower floor were being extinguished one by one.

"That's a very nice girl!" he murmured. "Hildegarde would approve of that girl, I know. But on the other hand, my son, that is a horrid old lady. I should like—Jerry, my blessed infant, I should like—to make that old lady run!" He turned for a final glance at the house; considered the advisability of turning a handspring; remembered his white flannels, and, with a bow to the corner window, was gone in the darkness.