“Now, then, tell me all about it, Marguerite,” she said, putting her friend into her easy-chair of state before the fire, and seating herself on a stool at her feet. “Where have you been?” “Gypsying,” answered Miss De Lancie. “Gypsying; oh, nonsense, that is no answer. What have you been about?” “Gypsying,” repeated Marguerite. “Gypsying!” exclaimed Cornelia, now in wonder. “Aye! Did you never--or have you too little life ever to feel like spreading your wings and flying away, away from all human ken--to feel the perfect liberty of loneliness, as only an irresponsible stranger in a strange place can feel it!” “No, no! I never did,” said Cornelia, amazed; “but, tell me then where did you go from Plover’s Point.” “To Tierra-del-Fuego, or the Land of Fire,” said Marguerite, with a deep flush. “Fiddlesticks! Where did you come from last to Winchester?” “From Iceland,” said Marguerite, with a shiver. “Oh, pshaw! you are making fun of me, Marguerite!” “My dear, if I felt obliged to give an account of my wanderings, their wild liberty would not seem half so sweet. Even my property agent shall not always know where to find me; it is enough that I know where to find him when he is wanted,” said Miss De Lancie, with such a dash of hauteur that Cornelia dropped the subject. And then Marguerite, to compensate for her passing severity, tenderly embraced Nellie. The Christmas party at Compton Lodge lasted until after New Year, and then the family and their friends returned to Richmond. Miss De Lancie, yielding to a pressing invitation, accompanied them. And in town, Marguerite had again to run the gantlet of questions from her acquaintances, such as: “Where have you been so long, Marguerite?” To which she would answer: “To Obdorskoi on the sea of Obe,” or some such absurdity, until at last all inquiry ceased. Miss De Lancie resumed her high position in society, and was once more the bright, particular star of every saloon. Those who envied, or disliked her, thought the dazzling Marguerite somewhat changed; that the fine, oval face was thinned and sharpened; the brilliant and changeful complexion fixed and deepened with a flush that looked like fever; and the ever-varying graceful, glowing vivacity rather fitful and eccentric. However, envious criticism did not prevent the most desirable _partis_ in the city becoming suitors for the hand of the belle, muse and heiress, as she was still called. But Marguerite, in her old spirit of sarcasm, laughed all these overtures to scorn, and remained faithful to her sole attachment, her inexplicable love for Cornelia. “I am twenty-four, I shall never marry, Nellie. I wish I were sure that you would never do so either, that we might be sisters for life, and that when your dear parents are gathered to their fathers, you might come and live with me, and we might be all in all to each other, forever,” said Marguerite, one day, to her friend.