sked. Peggy had said that her mother had no
education, and had got along very well without it; this was all that
Margaret wanted to know. A shallow, ignorant woman, who had let her
child grow up in such ignorance as Peggy's; and now she learned, all in
a moment, of a strong, brave woman, helping her husband to clear the
waste where their home was to be, making that home, bringing up her
great family in love and rude plenty, and killing wild beasts with her
own hard, honest hand. Margaret was learning a good deal this summer,
and this was one of the most salutary lessons. She bowed her head and
accepted it, but she only said aloud:

"Aunt Susan! I hope I shall know her some day. I shall put her in my
heroine book, Peggy, from this minute." And the tone was so warm and
hearty that Peggy's eyes filled with tears, and she felt dimly that she,
too, had been neglectful of "Ma" of late, and resolved to write a good
long letter that very afternoon.

"And now it is your turn, Rita!" said Margaret. "I give you till I knit
to the end of this row to find a hero or heroine in your family. You
must have plenty of them."

Rita laughed, and curled herself into another graceful, sinuous
attitude. Her eyes shone. "My brother Carlos is in the mountains," she
said; "my cousin Fernando with him. Pouf! if I were with them!"

She was silent a moment, and then went on, speaking slowly, and pausing
every few minutes to blow little holes in her chinchilla robe, a
favourite amusement of hers.

"The San Reals have plenty of heroes, heroines too; my mother was a San
Real, you remember. What will you have, Marguerite? Far back, an
ancestor of mine was the most beautiful woman in Spain. Her lover was
seized by the Inquisition; she went to the Tribunal, accused herself,
and died in his place. Will you have her for a heroine? My
great-grandfather--he was a Grandee of Spain. The nephew of the king
insulted him to the death, and thought his rank made him safe. He was
found dead the next morning, and my great-grandfather lay dead beside
him, with the dagger in his heart that had first slain the prince. Is he
a hero such as you love, Marguerite?"

"No, not at all!" cried Margaret, "Rita, what dreadful tales! Those were
the dark days, when people did not know better; but surely you must
have some ancestors who were not murd--who did not die violent deaths."

"They are San Reals!" said Rita. "They had royal blood of Spain in their
veins. Cold, thin,