There was one fact that bothered Cephas. He had been told that Francis Bethune was in love with Margaret Gaither, and he knew that the young man was a constant caller at Neighbour Tomlin's, where Margaret lived. Indeed, he had carried notes to her from the young man, and had faithfully delivered the replies. He judged, therefore, as well as a small boy can judge, that there was some sort of an understanding between the two, and he itched for the opportunity to pour the tale of his adventures into Margaret's ears. He loitered around the house, and threw himself in Margaret's way when she went out visiting or shopping. She greeted him very kindly on each particular occasion, but not once did she betray any interest in Francis Bethune or his fellow-prisoners. When Nan met Cephas, on the occasion of the interview which has just been reported, she was on her way to Neighbour Tomlin's to pay a visit to Margaret, and thither she went, after giving Cephas the benefit of her views as to his mental capacity. Margaret happened to be out at the moment, but Miss Fanny insisted that Nan should come in anyhow. "Margaret will be back directly," Miss Fanny said; "she has only gone to the stores to match a piece of ribbon. Besides, I want to talk to you a little while. But good gracious! what is the matter with you? I expected cheerfulness from you at least, but what do I find? Well, you and Margaret should live in the same house; they say misery loves company. Here I was about to ask you why Margaret is unhappy, and I find you looking out of Margaret's eyes. Are you unhappy, too?" "No, Aunt Fanny, I'm not unhappy; I'm angry. I don't see why girls should become grown. Why, I was always in a good humour until I put on long skirts, and then my troubles began. I can neither run nor play; I must be on my dignity all the time for fear some one will raise her hands and say, 'Do look at that Nan Dorrington! Isn't she a bold piece?' I never was so tired of anything in my life as I am of being grown. I never will get used to it." "Oh, you'll get in the habit of it after awhile, child," said Miss Fanny. "But I never would have believed that Nan Dorrington would care very much for what people said." "Oh, it isn't on my account that I care," remarked Nan, with a toss of her head, "but I don't want my friends to have their feelings hurt by what other people say. If there is anything in this world I detest it is dignity--I don't mean Margaret's kind, because she was born so and can't help it--but the kind that is put on and taken off like a summer bonnet. If I can't be myself, I'll do like Leese Clopton did, I'll go into a convent." "Well, you certainly would astonish the nuns when you began to cut some of your capers," Miss Fanny declared. "Am I as bad as all that? Tell me honestly, Aunt Fanny, now while I am in the humour to hear it, what do I do that is so terrible?" "Honestly, Nan, you do nothing terrible at all. Not even Miss Puella Gillum could criticise you."