"Margaret," said Mrs. Linwood, in a tone of serious displeasure, "what have you been doing? I left her in a sweet sleep, and now I find her wan, tearful, and agitated. You will worry her into a relapse." "All she needs now is cheerful company, I am sure," she answered demurely; "you all make her so tender and baby-like, she never will have any strength again. I've been as soft as a cooing dove. Dr. Harlowe would have been delighted with me." "You _must_ go, Margaret, indeed you must. _You_ may think yourself a dove, but others have a different opinion." "Going, going, gone!" she cried, giving me a vehement kiss and vanishing. The consequence of this energetic visit was a relapse; and Dr. Harlowe was as angry as his nature admitted when he learned the cause. "That wild-cat must not remain here," said he, shaking his head. "She will kill my gentle patient. Where did you find her, Mrs. Linwood? From what menagerie has she broken loose?" "She is the daughter of an early and very dear friend of mine," replied Mrs. Linwood, smiling; "a very original and independent young lady, I grant she is." "What in the world did you bring her here for?" asked the doctor bluntly; "I intend to chain her, while my child is sick." "She wished to make a visit in the country, and I thought her wild good-humor would be a counterpoise to the poetry and romance of Grandison Place." "You have other more attractive and tractable guests. You will not object to my depriving you for a short time of her. May I invite her home with me?" "Certainly,--but she will not accept the invitation. She is not acquainted with Mrs. Harlowe." "That makes no difference,--she will go with me, I am positive." They conversed in a low tone in one of the window recesses, but I heard what they said; and when Mrs. Linwood afterwards told me that Meg the Dauntless had gone off with the doctor in high glee, I was inexpressibly relieved, for I had conceived an unconquerable terror of her. There was other company in the house, as Edith had prophesied, but in a mansion so large and so admirably arranged, an invalid might be kept perfectly quiet without interfering with the social enjoyment of others. I was slowly but surely recovering. At night Edith had her harp placed in the upper piazza, and sang and played some of her sweetest and most soothing strains. Another voice, too, mingled at times with the breeze-like swelling of the thrilling chords, and a hand whose master-touch my spirit recognized, swept the trembling strings. How long it seemed since I had stood with _him_ under the shade of the broad elm-tree! With what fluctuating emotions I looked forward to meeting him again! At length the doctor pronounced me able to go down stairs.