Of Richard De Jarnette Margaret saw less and less as time went on. There was a feeling of constraint between them, natural enough, perhaps, under the circumstances, and for some reason growing. During those first weeks after her illness he had come often to the house,--had shown her unobtrusive kindnesses and done thoughtful things that added to her comfort, always in a self-effacing way, evading thanks whenever possible. Sometimes she only heard of them through Mammy Cely. At rare intervals he even held the boy when the old nurse, who stood in awe of no man and least of all of this one who had been her foster child, had put it into his arms. He did it very awkwardly, 'tis true, and in a fashion that gave Margaret nervous chills of fright lest he should drop him, or do some other dreadful thing, but manfully, as one who has a duty to perform and does it--with set teeth. One day when Mammy Cely had taken the child away he asked, abruptly, "You find her useful to you?" "Useful? Mammy Cely!" she said, "Oh, I think I could not live without her. I know so little about children." Then, in sudden alarm she faltered, "Were you thinking of taking her? I--I had almost forgotten you sent her to me." She looked so distressed that he hastened to assure her that the woman should stay as long as she was needed. He could get somebody else for Elmhurst. She felt so profoundly grateful that she sung the praises of the colored woman--how she could trust her as she could not trust herself, because Mammy Cely knew so much more, and how she was sure she loved baby Philip as if he were her own, these, and other words of confidence which afterwards, strangely enough, recoiled on her head. To all of which he had listened, bowing gravely, and looking at her with that close attention which always made her forget what it was that she had meant to say. Somehow he had a deadening effect upon her speech. She could not help feeling deep down in her heart, that he believed her responsible for his brother's defection. It was natural enough that he should try to excuse him; he had always done that, Mammy Cely said, even when he was a boy, and had often taken the punishment that belonged to Victor rather than tell. He had been very, very fond of Victor, she said. Yes, it was natural enough, Margaret thought, but still it did not conduce to conversation, and she was glad that day when he went away. Then she had gone to the nursery, another person, and taken little Philip and clucked to him, and touched his cheeks to make him smile and told him what she thought of his Uncle Richard--how cold he was, how silent, how he scared her, how he palsied her tongue or else made her say things she did not mean to say, how--greatest indignity of all--he had even looked askance at _him_, her "pe'cious lamb," and almost turned him upside down! but how he had left them Mammy Cely, and so they would forgive him, if only he would never come again.