Mrs. Spenser rested her hands upon her arms with a firm pressure, the right hand on the top of the left arm, the left hand under the right arm as a support. In this pose (which gave her a majestic appearance) she left the shade, and walked towards the path. "I'm afraid you will suffer from the heat," said Garda, guilelessly. It really was guileless--a guileless indifference; but to a large, dark, easily flushed woman it sounded much like malice. They had gone but a short distance when Garda's prophecy came true; the deep red hue re-appeared, it was even darker than before. Margaret was alarmed. "Do go back to the shade," she urged. Mrs. Spenser, who had stopped for a moment, glanced at her strangely. "I am perfectly well," she answered, in a husky whisper. Margaret looked at Garda, who was standing at a little distance, waiting. The girl, who was much amused by this scene, mutely laughed and shook her head; evidently she would not yield. "I will go on with Garda," Margaret said; "but I beg you not to attempt it, Mrs. Spenser." "Oh, if _you_ are going," murmured Rosalie, her eyes still shining strangely from her copper-colored face. "Yes, I am going," answered Margaret, with decision. Rosalie said something about its being "much better," as the road was "so lonely;" and then, turning, she made her way back to the tree. "It's not like you, Garda, to be so wilful," said Margaret, when was out of hearing. "Why, yes, it is. _Your_ will is nice and beautiful, so I don't come into conflict with it; hers isn't, so I do. _I_ don't weigh one hundred and eighty pounds, and _I_ don't mind the heat; why, then, should I sit under a tree forever because she has to?" "I wish you would sit under it to oblige me." "It isn't to oblige you, it's to oblige Mrs. Rosalie; I can't possibly take the trouble to oblige Mrs. Rosalie. You don't really mind the sun any more than I do, you slim fair thing! it's all pretence. Let red people sit under trees; you and I will go on." She put her arm round Margaret and drew her forward. "Don't be vexed with me; you know I love you better than anything else on earth." "Yet never wish to please me." "Yes, I do. But I please you as I am. Is that impertinent?" "Yes," said Margaret, gravely. "It's your fault, then; you've spoiled me. When have you done one thing or said one thing through all this long summer which was not extraordinarily kind? Nobody in the world, Margaret, has ever dreamed of being as devoted to me as you have been. And if that's impertinent too--the saying so--I can't help it; it's true." Margaret made no reply to this statement, which had been made without the least vanity; it had been made, indeed, with a detached impartiality which was remarkable, as though the girl had been speaking of some one else.