Peace reigned once more at Fernley House; peace and cheerfulness, and much joy. It was not the same peace as of old, when Margaret and her uncle lived their quiet tÊte-À-tÊte life, and nothing came to break the even calm of the days. Very different was the life of to-day. The peace was spiritual purely, for the lively and varied round of daily life gave little time for repose and meditation, at least for Margaret. She had begun to give the children short but regular lessons in the morning, finding that the day was not only more profitable but pleasanter for them and for all, if it began with a little study. And the lessons were a delight to her. Remembering her struggles with Peggy,—dear Peggy,—it was a joy to teach these young creatures the beginnings of her beloved English history, and to see how they leaped at it, even as she herself had leaped so few years ago. They carried it about with them all day. Margaret never knew whom to expect to dinner in these days. Now a scowling potentate would stalk in with folded arms and announce that he was William the Conqueror, and demand the whereabouts of Hereward the Wake (who was pretty sure to emerge from under the table, and engage in sanguinary combat, just after he had brushed his hair, and have to be sent up to the nursery to brush it over again); now a breathless pair would rush in, crying that they were the Princes in the Tower, and would she please save them, for that horrid old beast of a Gloster was coming after them just as fast as he could come. Indeed, Margaret had to make a rule that they should be their own selves, and no one else, in the evening when Uncle John came home, for fear of more confusion than he would like.

"But I get so used to being Richard," cried Basil, after a day of crusader-life. "You can't do a king well if you have to keep stopping and being a boy half the time. Don't you see that yourself, Cousin Margaret?"

Yes, Margaret saw that, but she submitted that she liked boys, and that it was trying for a person in private life, like herself, to live all day in royal society, especially when royalty was so excited as the Majesty of England was at this juncture.

"Oh, but why can't you be some one too, Cousin Margaret? I suppose Susan D. would hate to give up being Berengaria, after you gave her that lovely gold veil—I say, doesn't she look bul—doesn't she look pretty in it? I never thought Susan D. would come out pretty, but it's mostly the way you do her hair—what was I saying, Cousin Margaret? Oh, yes, but there are other people you could be, lots and lots of them. And—Merton doesn't half do Saladin. He keeps getting mad when I run him through the body, and I can't make him understand that I don't mean those nasty, fat, black things in ponds, when I call him 'learned leech,' and you know he has to be the leech, it says so in the 'Talisman.' And so perhaps you would be Saladin, and he can be Sir Kenneth, though he's too sneaky for him, too. Or else you could be the hermit, Cousin Margaret. Oh, do be the hermit! Theodoric of Engedi, you know, the Flail of the Desert, that's a splendid one to do. All you have to do is keep jumping about and waving something, and crying out, 'I am Theodoric of Engedi! I am the Flail of the Desert!' Come on, Cousin Margaret, oh, I say, do!" And Susan D., tugging at her cousin's gown, shouted in unison, "Oh, I say, do, Cousin Margaret!"

If any one had told Margaret Montfort, three months before this, that she would, before the end of the summer, be capering about the garden, waving her staff, and proclaiming herself aloud to be the highly theatrical personage described above, she would have opened her eyes in gentle and rather scornful amazement. But Margaret was learning many things in these days, and among them the art of being a child. Her life had been mostly spent with older people; she had never known till now the rapture of being a little girl, a little boy. Now, seeing it in these bright faces, that never failed to grow brighter at sight of her, she felt the joy reflected in her own face, in her own heart; and it was good to let all the quiet, contained maiden ways go, once in a while, and just be a child with the children, or a Flail of the Desert, as in the present instance.

John Montfort, leaning on the gate, watched the pretty play, well pleased. "They have done her all the good in the world," he said to himself. "It isn't only what she has done for them, bless her, but for her, too, it has been a great thing. I was selfish and stupid to think that a young creature could go on growing to fulness, without other young creatures about it. How will she feel, I wonder, about their going? How would she like—"

At this moment he was discovered by Basil, who charged him with a joyous shout. "Oh, here is Uncle John! Oh, Uncle John, don't you want to be Saladin, please? Here's Merton has hurt his leg and gone off in a sulk, and I'll get you a scimitar in a minute—it's the old sickle, and Willis says it's so rusty you can't really do much mischief with it; and here's the Hermit of Engedi, you know, and he can shout—"

But, alas, for the Lion-hearted! When he turned to summon his hermit, he saw no flying figure, brandishing a walking-stick and crying aloud, but a demure young lady, smoothing her hair hurriedly and shaking out the folds of her dress, as she hastened to meet her uncle.

"Bravo!" said Uncle John. "But why did you stop, Meg? It wouldn't have been the first time I had played Saladin, I assure you!"

"Oh, uncle! I am really too much out of breath to play any more. And besides, it is near tea-time, and the children must go and get ready. I will come in a moment, Susan dear, and do your hair. Are there any letters, Uncle John? Oh, two, from the girls; how perfectly delightful! Oh, I must run up, but we'll read them after tea, shall we, Uncle John?"

"With all my heart, my dear; and I have a letter, too, about which I shall want to consult you. Go now, or Susan D. will be trying to braid her own hair, a thing to be avoided, I have observed."

Tea over, and Mr. Montfort seated at ease with his cigar, the children engaged in an enchanting game of Bat (played with worn-out umbrellas, from which the sticks had been taken: this game is to be highly recommended where there is space for flapping and swooping), Margaret opened her letters; reopened them, rather, for it must be confessed that she had peeped into both while she was braiding her own hair and changing her dress for the pretty evening gown her uncle always liked to see.

"Peggy is actually off for school, Uncle John. It does not seem possible that we are in September, and the summer really gone. She seems in high spirits over it, dear child. Listen!

Margaret paused, laughing, to throw her arms around her uncle, and tell him that this was "Peggy's hug;" then she went on:

"I wonder how Peggy will get on at school?" said Margaret. "Very well, I should think. Certainly no one can help liking her, dear girl; and she will learn a great deal, I am sure."

"She'll never learn English history," said Mr. Montfort; "but after all, there are other things, May Margaret, though you are loth to acknowledge it."

"And now for Rita. I'll just run through it again, Uncle John, to see—oh! oh, yes! The first part is all just that she wants to see me, and so on,—her wild way. She has had the most wonderful summer,—'the Pyrenees, Margaret! Never before have I seen great mountains, that scale the heavens, you understand. The Titans are explained to me. I have seen, and my soul has arisen to their height. I could dwell with thee, Marguerite, on snow-peaks tinged with morning rose, peaks that touch the stars, that veil themselves in clouds of evening;' perhaps I'll skip a little here, Uncle John. Interlaken,—the Jungfrau,—oh, she is having a glorious time. Oh! oh, dear me, uncle!"

"Well, my dear? She has not fallen off the Jungfrau?"

"No, not that; but she—she is—or she thinks she is—going to be married."

Mr. Montfort whistled. "To the Matterhorn, or to some promising young avalanche? Pray enlighten me, my dear."

"Oh! don't laugh, Uncle John, I am afraid it may be serious. A young Cuban, she says, a soldier, of course." Margaret ran her eyes down the page, but found nothing sober enough to read aloud. "He seems to be a very wonderful person," she said, timidly. "Handsome, and a miracle of courage,—and a military genius; if war should come, Rita thinks he will be commander-in-chief of the Cuban army. You don't think it will really come to war, Uncle John?"

"I cannot tell, Margaret," said Mr. Montfort, gravely. "Things are looking rather serious, but no one can see just what is coming yet. And this seems to be a bona fide engagement? It isn't little Fernando, is it?"

"No! oh, no! She says—she is sorry for Fernando, but he will always be her brother. This one's name is—let me see. JosÉ Maria Salvador Santillo de Santayana. What a magnificent name! He had followed her from Cuba, and he has Uncle Richard's permission to pay his addresses to Rita, and she says—she says he is the dream of her life, embodied in the form of a Greek hero, with the soul of a poet, and the intellect of a Shakespeare. So I suppose it is all right, uncle; only, she is very young."

"Young! My dear child, she was grown up while you were still in the nursery," said Mr. Montfort. "According to Spanish ideas, it is high time for her to be married, and I am sure I wish the dear girl all happiness. We must look over the family trinkets, Margaret, and find something for our bird of Paradise. There are some pretty bits of jewelry; but that will keep. Now, if you can stop wondering and romancing for a moment, May Margaret, I, too, have a letter, about which I wish to consult you."

"Yes, uncle, oh, yes! I hope he is good as well as handsome, don't you? She says the Santillo nose is the marvel of all Cuba."

"The Santillo nose may be pickled in brine, my dear, for ought I care; I really want your attention, Margaret, and you must come down from the clouds. Here is Anthony Montfort writing for his children."

"What!" cried Margaret, waking suddenly from her dream. "What did you say about the children, Uncle John? Cousin Anthony writing for them? What can you mean?"

"Why, my love, I mean writing for them," said Mr. Montfort, calmly. "He is, you may remember, a relation of theirs, a father in point of fact. He has found an excellent opening in California, and means to stay there. He says—I'll read you his letter, or the part of it that relates to the children. Hum—'grateful to you'—ha! yes, here it is. 'Of course I must make some arrangement about the children. One of the boys can come to me, but I cannot take care of both, so Basil will have to go to boarding-school, and Susan D., too. If you would be so good as to look up a good school or two, I should be ever so much obliged. Basil can take care of himself, you'll only have to consign and ship him; perhaps you can get some one to go with the little girl, and see to her things and all that. It's a shame to call upon you,'—h'm! so forth! Well, Meg, what do you say?"

But Margaret said nothing. She was sitting with her hands fallen on her lap, gazing at her uncle with a face of such piteous consternation that he had much ado to keep his countenance.

"Take them away!" she faltered, presently. "Take away—my children? Oh, Uncle John!"

Mr. Montfort looked away, and smoked awhile in silence, giving the girl time to collect herself. Margaret struggled with the tears that wanted to rush to her eyes. She forced herself to take up the letters that lay in her lap and fold them methodically. When he saw that her hands trembled less, Mr. Montfort said, quietly, "The children have been a great deal of care to you, Margaret; but you have grown fond of them, I know, and so have I. I think a good deal of your judgment, my dear, young as you are. What would you like best to have done about the little people? Take time; take time! Anthony practically leaves the whole matter in my hands. In fact, I think he is puzzled, and feels perhaps that he has not done as well as he might for them always. Take time, my child."

"Oh, I don't need any time, Uncle John!" cried Margaret, trying to speak steadily. "I—I didn't realise, I suppose—it has all come about so gradually—I didn't realise all that they were to me. To lose Basil and Susan D.,—I don't see how I can let them go, uncle; I don't indeed. You won't think me ungrateful, will you, dear? I was, oh, so happy, before they came; but now—they are so dear, so dear! and—and Susan D. is used to me, and to have her go to a stranger who might not understand the poor little shut-up nature—oh, how can I bear it? how can I bear it?"

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Montfort, comfortably. "How if you did not have to bear it?"

Then, as Margaret raised her startled eyes to his, he went on, in the kind, steady tone that always brought quiet and peace with it.

"How if we made the present arrangement—part of it, at least—permanent? Let Merton go to his father; I should not care to have the bringing up of Merton. But there is an excellent school near here, on the island, to which Basil could go, staying the week and coming home here for Sunday; and if little Susan would not be too much care for you,—she's a dear little girl, once you get through the prickles,—why, May Margaret, it seems to me—"

But Mr. Montfort got no further; for here was Margaret sobbing on his breast as if she were Rita herself, and calling him the best and dearest and kindest, and telling him that she was so happy, so happy; and that was why she was crying, only she could not stop; and so on and so on, till Uncle John really thought he should have to send for Frances. At his suggesting this, however, Margaret laughed through her tears, and presently struggled into something like composure.

"And, after all," said Mr. Montfort, "how do you know the children will want to stay with you, you conceited young woman?"

"Oh, Uncle John! I will teach Susan D. all I know, and a great deal more, I hope, for I shall be learning all the time now, if I have another coming after me. And we will keep house together, and it will be like the little sister, like little Penelope, Uncle John. And then to have Basil coming home every week, all full of school, and fun, and noise,—why, how perfectly delightful it will be! And I will not let them overrun you, dear uncle; they have been good lately, haven't they?"

"They have been extremely good, my dear. All the same, I think you would do well to interview them on the subject, before you prepare all your chickens for the market. See, there are your two coming up the walk this moment. You might go—"

But Margaret was already gone. Mr. Montfort watched her light figure flying down the walk, and thought she had grown almost back into a child again, since the children came. "And yet all a woman," he said; "all a sweet, wholesome, gentle woman. See her now with her arms around the child; the little creature clings to her as if she were the mother it never knew. Ah! she is telling them. No need to smother her, children. I never really meant to separate you; no, indeed. I only wanted you to find out for yourselves, as I have found out for myself. No more solitude at Fernley, please God; from now on, young faces and hearts, and sunshine, and a home; the future instead of the past."

The good man laid down his cigar, quietly and carefully, as he did everything, and opened his arms as the three, Margaret and her children, came flying towards him; and they ran into those kind strong arms and nestled there, and looked into his eyes and knew that they were at home.