She held out her slender hand; Margaret took it, and bent over it affectionately. "Oh, what a beautiful ring!" she cried. "I never saw a pink pearl like this before, Mrs. Peyton, so brilliant, and such a deep rose colour. Isn't it very wonderful?" "The jeweller thought so," said Mrs. Peyton. "He asked enough for it; it might have been the companion to Cleopatra's. The opal setting is pretty, too, don't you think? And I have some new stones. You will like to see those." She took up a small bag of chamois leather, that lay on the bed beside her, opened it, and a handful of precious stones rolled out on the lace spread. Margaret caught after one and another in alarm. "Oh! Oh, Mrs. Peyton, they frighten me! Why, this diamond--I never saw such a diamond. It's as big as a pea." "Imperfect!" said the lady. "A flaw in it, you see; but the colour is good, and it does just as well for a plaything, though I don't like flawed things, as a rule. This sapphire is a good one,--deep, you see; I like a deep sapphire." "This light one is nearer your eyes," said Margaret, taking up a lovely clear blue stone. "Flatterer! People used to say that once; a long time ago. Heigh ho, Margaret, don't ever grow old! Take poison, or throw yourself out of the window, but don't grow old. It's a shocking thing to do." Margaret looked at her friend with troubled, affectionate eyes, and laid her hand on the jewelled fingers. "Oh, I mean it!" said the lady, with a pretty little grimace. "I mean it, Miss Puritan. See! Here's a pretty emerald. But you haven't told me the news. Mr. Montfort is well always?" "Always!" said Margaret. "We--we have a visitor just now, Mrs. Peyton,--some one you know." "Some one I know?" cried Mrs. Peyton. "I thought every one I knew was dead and buried. Who is it, child? Don't keep me in suspense. Can't you see that I am palpitating?" She laughed, and looked so pretty, and so malicious, that Margaret wanted to kiss and to shake her at the same moment. "It is a cousin of Uncle John's and of mine," she said; "Miss Sophronia Montfort." "_What!_" cried Mrs. Peyton, sitting up in bed. "Sophronia Montfort? You are joking, Margaret." Assured that Margaret was not joking, she fell back again on her pillows. "Sophronia Montfort!" she said, laughing softly. "I have not heard of her since the flood. How does John--how does Mr. Montfort endure it, Pussy? He was not always a patient man." Margaret thought her uncle one of the most patient men she had ever seen. "And how many men have you seen, little girl? Never mind! I will allow him all the qualities of the Patient Patriarch. He will need them all, if he is to have Sophronia long. I am sorry for you, Pussy! Come over as often as you can to see me. I am dull, but there are worse things than dullness." This was not very encouraging.