“The fact is that Maggie doesn't know what she is saying, so I suppose I oughtn't to blame her. She is a little off her head, that's the truth of it; but you mustn't say I said so, it will get me into worse trouble than I am already in. She was like that once before, and had to be put in the charge of a lady who was in the habit of dealing with excitable people. I don't mean lunatics, don't run away with that notion. I don't know what would happen if it got about that I was putting that about. Maggie is very excitable, and she has been exciting herself a great deal lately--you were the principal cause. She did all she could to get you to make it up when you met her here at dinner--the dinner was given for that--but you said nothing about it, and she came home in an awful state, accusing every one of combining to ruin her. She said I was jealous of her, that I was wild with fear that she would one day be Lady Mount Rorke. She said father had done everything to break off her marriage, because he did not like parting with his money. She had set her heart on being married, and it was a terrible disappointment. She has been disappointed two or three times. Father doesn't know what to do. Her thoughts seem to run on that one subject. She walks about the garden saying the most extraordinary things.” “But tell me about the illness.” “I don't know if I ought to tell you.” “Oh, do!” “I don't know how to say it. She used to say she longed to become a mother.” “Longed to become a mother? Well, that is the last thing--” “You know what I mean.” “But tell me about the illness.” “I should call it more than being a little excited, but of course she isn't mad. She has, however, the most curious notions. She is always a little too imaginative at the best of times; at least, I find her so, but now her delusions are really too absurd, and, as I have said, the worst of it is that her thoughts run on that one thing; it really is most unfortunate. Poor father.” “But what are her delusions?” “Well, I scarcely know how to tell you.” “Try; anything can be told. It depends how it is told.” “She thinks that the coachman has spread it all over Southwick--how shall I say it? I don't know that I ought to tell you. Well, that she has gone wrong with you and Berkins. I thought I should die of laughing--the idea of Berkins was too funny for words.” “But your father doesn't believe it?” “Of course not.” “He doesn't suspect me, I hope?” “No; I am sure he doesn't. He knows Maggie doesn't know what she is saying. But he was dreadfully put out about Berkins; he is frightened out of his wits lest he should hear of it. But for goodness' sake don't mention that I said anything to you about it; I am in trouble enough as it is. Father says he can stand it no longer. I am very much afraid that he will leave Southwick. It depends on what Aunt Mary says. He has sent for her; she will be here to-morrow.”