“What does the girl think!” he cried when he had ended. “It’s extremely careless of her--she has carried off all of mother’s really important papers; says she hadn’t finished arranging them, and will return them when that’s done. She must be out of her head to think of trusting such invaluable documents to any carrier in the world. And how does she suppose I’m to go on with my book in the meantime? It’s mad.” “I don’t quite see, myself,” I responded, though in reality I was able to understand her motives: evidently she wished to spare Charles the full light of their mother’s self-revelation. “No one could see,” he returned, his lean cheeks flushed with anger. “It’s impossible. It’s going to be a great inconvenience, even if the things don’t get lost, and it may cost me a lot of money.” “Can’t you be working through what’s left?” I asked. “There seems to be a lot of material.” “That’s just the trouble,” he replied. “Margaret has sorted everything, and she’s left the rubbish--papers that couldn’t be of any use for the book I’m engaged to write.” I was sympathetic, and willing to give Margaret her due measure of blame. If she had been less worn and flurried, she might have found some more discreet way of protecting her brother’s happiness and her mother’s reputation. Yet I rather admired her courage. I wondered how she would manage to Bowdlerize the journal without exciting her brother’s suspicions. I awaited the outcome with curiosity and some misgivings. When I left Charles, he was writing a peremptory demand for the immediate return of the papers. My curiosity was amply satisfied, and my misgivings were realized, when I received a letter from Margaret three weeks after she sailed. It was post-marked Gibraltar, and it ran astoundingly: Dear Robert: I’m too ill to write, but I must. Try, if you can, to invent some plausible excuse for me, and tell Charlie about it. I can’t possibly write to him. I tried--I really tried--to arrange the papers so that he’d get only a favorable impression from them; but I couldn’t--and I couldn’t let him find mother out. If he had, he’d have been hurt, and he’d have filled his book with reservations. He’s terribly conscientious. I couldn’t bear to have poor mother’s name injured, even if she did treat me badly. She did a lot of good in her way, and she was rather magnificent. So one night I dropped the papers overboard, journal and all. It’s a great deal better so. I sha’n’t stop till I get to Assisi. Don’t let Charlie be angry with me. I trust you to understand. Ever sincerely yours, ~Margaret Longbow~.