ear. 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