has nothing further to do with this story, so
it may be dismissed with the remark that it did not amount to much, in
spite of Margaret's tragical attitude, and was dissipated at once and
forever by the arrival of a certain missent letter the next day.

Aunt Beatrice was alone. Her brother and his wife had gone to the "at
home" which Mrs. Cunningham was giving that night in honour of the
Honourable John Reynolds, M.P. The children were upstairs in bed, and
Aunt Beatrice was darning their stockings, a big basketful of which
loomed up aggressively on the table beside her. Or, to speak more
correctly, she had been darning them. Just when Margaret was sliding
across the icy street Aunt Beatrice was bent forward in her chair, her
hands over her face, while soft, shrinking little sobs shook her from
head to foot.

When Margaret's imperative knock came at the front door, Aunt Beatrice
started guiltily and wished earnestly that she had waited until she
went to bed before crying, if cry she must. She knew Margaret's knock,
and she did not want her gay young niece, of all people in the world,
to suspect the fact or the cause of her tears.

"I hope she won't notice my eyes," she thought, as she hastily plumped
a big ugly dark-green shade, with an almond-eyed oriental leering from
it, over the lamp, before going out to let Margaret in.

Margaret did not notice at first. She was too deeply absorbed in her
own troubles to think that anyone else in the world could be miserable
too. She curled up in the deep easy-chair by the fire, and clasped her
hands behind her curly head with a sigh of physical comfort and mental
unhappiness, while Aunt Beatrice, warily sitting with her back to the
light, took up her work again.

"You didn't go to Mrs. Cunningham's 'at home,' Auntie," said Margaret
lazily, feeling that she must make some conversation to justify her
appearance. "You were invited, weren't you?"

Aunt Beatrice nodded. The hole she was darning in the knee of Willie
Hayden's stocking must be done very carefully. Mrs. George Hayden was
particular about such matters. Perhaps this was why Aunt Beatrice did
not speak.

"Why didn't you go?" asked Margaret absently, wondering why there had
been no letter for her that morning--and this was the third day too!
Could Gilbert be ill? Or was he flirting with some other girl and
forgetting her? Margaret swallowed a big lump in her throat, and
resolved that she would go home next week--no, she