ny news that did not concern himself. It was rather the
feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that,
however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become
important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other
subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs.
Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the
banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young
man--he has not been worthy of her."

"Yes, I know; thanks very much."

"I thought I did right to tell you."

"Ever so many thanks."

"What's that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the
dining-room, to eat plums.

That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet,
and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an
excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby,
who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret
sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and
finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows
what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her
of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did
act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily
as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she
wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale
cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath
that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away.

"DEAR MRS. WILCOX,

"I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did
not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your
family, and, in my sister's case, the grounds for displeasure might
recur. So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your
son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and
it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly,
should end.

"I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you
will not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only
an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister
would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge,
and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy.

"Believe me,

"Yours truly,

"M.