"Cousin Sophronia," cried the girl, all softer thoughts now merged in a burning resentment. "You--you read my letter, the letter that was on my own desk, in my own room?" "Certainly, my love, I did. I hope I know something about young girls and their ways; I considered it my duty, my sacred duty, to see what you wrote." "You seem to know little about the ways of gentle people!" cried Margaret, unable for once to restrain herself. Her uncle laid his hand on her arm. "Steady, little woman!" he said. His quiet, warning voice brought the angry girl to herself, the more quickly that she knew his sympathy was all with her. "I--I should not have said that, Cousin Sophronia," she said. "I beg your pardon! Good-bye!" She could not say more; she stood still, with burning cheeks, while Mr. Montfort helped the lady into the carriage. "A pleasant journey to you, Sophronia," he said, as he closed the door. "Willis--" "Good-bye!" cried Miss Sophronia, out of the window. "Bless you, dearest John! Margaret, my love, I shall always think of you most tenderly, believe me, in spite of everything. It is impossible for me to harbour resentment. No, my child, I shall always love you as a sister. I have taken the old vinaigrette with me, as a little souvenir of you; I knew it would give you pleasure to have me use it. Bless you! And, John, if you want me to look up some good servants for you, I know of an excellent woman who would be the very thing--" "Willis!" said Mr. Montfort again. "You'll miss that train, Sophronia, if you don't,--_bon voyage!_" Mr. Montfort stood for some seconds looking after the carriage as it drove off; then he drew a long breath, and threw out his arms, opening his broad chest. "Ha!" said he. "So that is over. Here endeth the-- What, crying, May Margaret? Come and sit here beside me, child; or shall we come out and see the roses? Really astonishing to have this number of roses in August; but some of these late kinds are very fine, I think." Chatting quietly and cheerfully, he moved from one shrub to another, while Margaret wiped her eyes, and gradually quieted her troubled spirit. "Thank you, Uncle John!" she said, presently. "You know, don't you? You always know, just as papa did. But--but I never heard of any one's doing such a thing, did you?" "Didn't you, my dear? Well, you see, you didn't know your Cousin Sophronia when she was a girl. And--let us be just," he added. "You, belonging to the new order, have no idea of what many people thought and did forty years ago. I have no doubt, from my recollection of my Aunt Melissa, Sophronia's mother, that she read all her children's letters. I know she searched my pockets once, thinking I had stolen sugar; I hadn't, that time, and my white rat was in my pocket, and bit her, and I was glad." Seeing Margaret laugh again, Mr. Montfort added, in a different tone, "And now, I must see those boys."