The way in which she lingered upon the “very,” seemed sweetness itself to Harry Thornleigh. Had a prejudiced Englishman written down the word, probably he would, after Margaret’s pronunciation, have spelt it “varry;” but that would be because he knew no better, and would not really represent the sound, which had a caressing, lingering superlativeness in it to the listener. She smiled as she spoke, then opened her letter, and read it over slowly. Then she raised her eyes to his again with still more brightness in them. “Lady Mary is very kind, too,” she said, with a brightening of pleasure all over her face. “She’s waiting for your cousin to come back--I suppose she says so--before asking you to the house; and I hope it will not be long first, for I am only a visitor here,” said Harry impulsively. Margaret gave him another soft smile, as if she understood exactly what he meant. “You are not staying very long, perhaps?” she said. “Oh, for some weeks, I hope; I hope long enough to improve my acquaintance with--with Dr. Murray and yourself.” “I hope so too,” said Margaret, with another smile. “Charlie is troubled with an anxious mind. To see you so friendly will be very good for him, very good.” “Oh, I hope you will let me be friendly!” cried Harry, with a glow of delight. “When does he go out? I suppose he is busy with the old doctor, visiting the sick people. You were with him yesterday--” “He thinks it is good for my health to go with him; and then he thinks I am dull when he’s away,” said Margaret. “He is a real good brother; there are not many like him. Yes, he is going about with Dr. Franks nearly all the day.” “And you are quite alone, and dull? I am so sorry. I wish you would let me show you the neighbourhood; or if you would come and walk in the park or the wood--my aunt, I am sure, would be too glad.” “Oh, I’m not dull,” said Margaret. “I have my little girl. She is all I have in the world, except Charles; and we are great companions, are we no, Sibby?” This was said with a change in the voice, which Harry thought, made it still more like a wood-pigeon’s note. “Ay are we,” said the little thing, putting down her knitting, and laying back her little head, like a kitten, rubbing against her mother’s knee. Nothing could be prettier as a picture, more natural, more simple; and though the child’s jargon was scarcely comprehensible to Harry, his heart answered to this renewed appeal upon it. “But sometimes,” he said, “you must want other companionship than that of a child.” “Do I?” said Margaret, pressing the little head against her. “I am not sure. After all, I think I’m happiest with her, thinking of nothing else; but you, a young man, will scarcely understand that.”