“I’m troubled about Margaret,” she said. “You’ve seen her. I’d like to know exactly what you think. She seems to me to be on the edge of a nervous collapse, but she won’t see a doctor.” “She is very tired, evidently,” I responded, “but I thought she had herself well in hand. Perhaps it may be a good thing for her to put through her plan of going to Italy.” “Perhaps so. The poor child needs a rest, certainly. But I’m not at all sure that she ought to be allowed to go away by herself.” Helen Bradford eyed me significantly. “What worries me is her fixed idea that mother has somehow been unjust to her. It is almost insane, this idea, and it distresses me more than I can say. You see, I shouldn’t speak of it at all except that you have known her so long. You see how absurd the idea is. Margaret has had greater advantages from mother’s society than any one else, as you know. It was a great privilege.” “Undoubtedly.” I could not bring myself to say more than that, for I had a swift vision of what forty-two years of constant association with Mrs. Longbow must have been like. “But the strain on her these last two months must have been very great.” “Hardly greater than for me,” remarked Helen Bradford, stiffly. “I relieved her at every turn. I think I did my full duty to mother. Besides, mother never gave trouble; she was almost painfully anxious to avoid doing so.” “I am sure of it,” I hastened to say; “but I suspect that Margaret has not the strength of Mrs. Longbow. You are more like your mother in many respects.” I was not quite sure whether Helen would take this as a compliment, whether she might not detect a flavor of irony in the speech; but I was relieved when it brought to her lips an amiable smile. “That is very good of you,” she said. “Margaret--poor dear!--has always been perfectly well, but she has never had much vitality. That is very important for us who are busy with so many kinds of work. Charles doesn’t get tired in the same way, but he gets worried and anxious. Mother never did. Margaret and Charles are more like my father. You never knew him, I think?” All through her speech Helen Bradford had been pluming herself much as I have seen fat geese do. The comparison is inelegant, but it conveys the impression she gave me. At the end she sighed. “No,” I answered, “he died before I knew Charlie.” “I remember him vividly,” said Helen, “though I was a mere girl when he died, and I have often heard mother say that he fretted himself to death over non-essentials, quite selfishly. I am, I hope and believe, whatever my faults may be, not like that.” I could truthfully say that she was not, and I added some commonplace about Margaret’s restoration.