The children had been very good for the last few days; singularly good, Margaret thought, as she sat on the verandah in the pleasant twilight, reviewing the day's doings, and wondering what happy day would bring Uncle John back to her. Certainly, he would find a good deal of improvement. Merton had not run away since his experience in the bog; Susan D. was won, and Basil grew more and more helpful and considerate. More than that, the children, all three of them, seemed to have quieted down of their own accord. At this hour, they were generally shouting and screaming, racing over the grass, or tumbling headlong from the trees, keeping Margaret in a constant state of terror, and Cousin Sophronia in one of peevish irritation and alarm. But now they had gone of their own will to the summer-house, saying that they were going to tell stories, and see how quiet they could be. They were quiet, indeed, for she could not even hear their voices. Cousin Sophronia, coming out with an inquiry, became instantly suspicious, and declared she must go and see what they were about; but Margaret begged her to wait a little. "They can do no harm in the summer-house!" she said. "And--Uncle John thought we would better let them alone a good deal, Cousin Sophronia." "My love," said the lady, seating herself, and folding her hands for a good talk, "your Uncle John is a babe, simply a babe in these matters. Even if he knew anything about children,--which he does not,--it would be my duty, my positive duty, to shield him from all anxieties of this kind. Why else did I come here, my love, except for this very thing?" "Did you, then, know that Cousin Anthony wished to send the children?" asked Margaret, perhaps not without a spice of gentle malice. "Ahem! No, not precisely, my love! But--but it was my firm resolve to protect dearest John from every species of annoyance. Every species, my dear! John Montfort--good gracious! What is that?" She started to her feet, and Margaret followed her example. A sound seemed to pass them in the air; a strange sound, something between a sigh and a moan. It swelled for a moment, then died away among the trees beyond the verandah. Miss Sophronia clutched Margaret's arm. "You--you made that noise?" she whispered. "Say it was you, Margaret!" "Indeed, it was not I, Cousin Sophronia!" said Margaret. "It must have been a sudden gust of wind. It is gone now; it must surely have been the wind. Shall I bring you a wrap? Do you feel chilly?" Miss Sophronia still held her arm. "No, no! Don't go!" she said. "I--I feel rather nervous to-night, I think. Nerves! Yes, no one knows what I suffer. If you had any idea what my nights are-- You may be right, my dear, about the wind. It is a misfortune, I always say, to have such exquisite sensibility. The expression is not my own, my love, it is Doctor Soper's. Shall we go into the house, and light the lamps? So much more cheerful, I always think, than this dreary twilight."