"Well, that's what he _said_, Cousin Margaret. I'm telling you just as it happened, truly I am. If he didn't carry me off in two shakes of a cat's tail, he'd pitch him over the parapet,--you know there's a splendid parapet in the summer-house,--and so he wouldn't, and so he did; but Mert held on, and they both went over into the meadow. I guess Lord Soulis got the worst of it down there, for when they climbed up again he did carry me off, though he pinched me hard all the way, and made my arm all black and blue; I didn't say anything, because I was Helen Mar, but I gave it to him good--I mean well--this morning, and served him out. And then Wallace had to rescue me, of course, and that was _great_, and we all fell over the parapet again, and that was the way I tore the gathers out of my frock. So you see, Cousin Margaret!" Susan D. paused for breath, and bent over her sewing with exemplary diligence. Margaret took the child's chin in her hand, and raised her face towards her. "Susan," she said, gently, "after you had that fine play--it must have been a great play, and I wish I had seen it--after that, what did you do?" "We--we--went to bed!" said Susan D. "Why did you go without coming to say good night? Answer me truly, dear child." The two pairs of gray eyes looked straight into each other. A shadow of fear--a suggestion of the old look of distrust and suspicion--crept into the child's eyes for a moment; but before Margaret's kind, firm, loving gaze it vanished and was gone. A wave of colour swept over her face; her eyes wavered, gave one imploring glance, and fell. "Aren't you going to tell me, Susan D.?" asked Margaret once more. "N--no!" said Susan D., in a whisper scarcely audible. "No? And why not, dear child?" "I promised!" whispered Susan D. "Susan D., do you know anything about that strange noise that frightened us so last night?" But not another word would Susan D. say. She looked loving, imploring, deprecating; she threw her arms around Margaret's neck, and hid her face and clung to her; but no word could she be brought to say. At last Margaret, displeased and puzzled, felt constrained to tell the child rather sternly to fold her work and go away, and not come back to her till she could answer questions properly. Susan went obediently; at the door she hesitated, and Margaret heard a little sigh, which made her heart go out in sympathy toward the little creature. Instantly she rose, and, going to the child, put her arms round her affectionately. "Darling, I think you are puzzled about something," she said, quickly. Susan D. nodded, and clung close to her cousin's side. "I will not ask you anything more," said Margaret. "I am going to trust you, Susan D., not to do anything wrong. Remember, dear, that the two most important things in the world are truth and kindness. Now kiss me, dear, and go."