“Well, you ask mother. She was in such a rage one day when I told Mr. Lyon that he'd better look after Ireland than go pottering round among the neglected children. Not that I care anything about the Irish,” added this candid person. “I suppose you wanted to make it pleasant for Mr. Lyon?” “No; for mother. She can't get over the idea that she is still bringing me up. And Mr. Lyon! Goodness! there was no living with him after his visit to Brandon. Do you know, Margaret, that I think you are just a little bit sly?” “I don't know what you mean,” said Margaret, looking offended. “Dear, I don't blame you,” said the impulsive creature, wheeling short round and coming close to Margaret. “I'd kiss you this minute if we were not in the public road.” When Henderson came, Margaret's world was full; no desire was ungratified. He experienced a little relief when she did not bother him about his business nor inquire into his operations with Hollowell, and he fancied that she was getting to accept the world as Carmen accepted it. There had been moments since his marriage when he feared that Margaret's scruples would interfere with his career, but never a moment when he had doubted that her love for him would be superior to any solicitations from others. Carmen, who knew him like a book, would have said that the model wife for Henderson would be a woman devoted to him and to his interests, and not too scrupulous. A wife is a torment, if you can't feel at ease with her. “If there were only a French fleet in the harbor, dear,” said Margaret one day, “I should feel that I had quite taken up the life of my great-great-grandmother.” They were sailing in Hollowell's yacht, in which Uncle Jerry had brought his family round from New York. He hated the water, but Mrs. Hollowell and the children doted on the sea, he said. “Wouldn't the torpedo station make up for it?” Henderson asked. “Hardly. But it shows the change of a hundred years. Only, isn't it odd, this personal dropping back into an old situation? I wonder what she was like?” “The accounts say she was the belle of Newport. I suppose Newport has a belle once in a hundred years. The time has come round. But I confess I don't miss the French fleet,” replied Henderson, with a look of love that thrilled Margaret through and through. “But you would have been an officer on the fleet, and I should have fallen in love with you. Ah, well, it is better as it is.” And it was better. The days went by without a cloud. Even after Henderson had gone, the prosperity of life filled her heart more and more. “She might have been like me,” Carmen said to herself, “if she had only started right; but it is so hard to get rid of a New England conscience.”