"suppose now, Margaret,
that these memories were other than they are! Suppose that instead of
the blessed golden days, you had days of storm and anger and
disagreement to look back on; that there had been unkindness on one
side, unfaithfulness on the other; suppose it had been with you and your
father as it has been with some parents and children that I have
known,--how then?"

"Oh!" murmured Margaret, her eyes filling with tears, that yet had no
bitterness in them; "but it could not have been so, Aunt Faith. Papa
was an angel, you know; an angel of goodness and love."

"Now you see what I mean by storing up light against the dark days,"
said Mrs. Cheriton. "If he had not been loving and good,--and if you,
too, had not been a good and dear daughter,--think what your possessions
would be to-day. As it is, you have what can never be taken from you;
and so if we go on steadfastly, as I said, content not to see before us,
but cherishing and making the best of what we have to-day, the best of
what to-day holds will be ours forever, till death comes to end all the
partings and all the sorrow."

The last words were spoken rather to herself than to Margaret. The
latter sat still, not daring to speak; for it seemed as if some
beautiful vision were passing before the eyes of the old woman. She sat
looking a little upward, with her lips slightly parted, the breath
coming and going so softly that one could not perceive it, her hands
clasped in her lap. Now the lips moved, and Margaret heard the low words
of a prayer, rather breathed than whispered. Another moment, and the
brown eyes grew bright and smiling once more, and the kindly gaze fell
on the girl, who sat awestruck, half afraid to breathe.

"My poor Margaret!" said Mrs. Cheriton quickly. "My poor little girl, I
have frightened you. Dear, when one is so old as I am the veil seems
very thin, and I often look half through it and feel the air from the
other side. But you--you must not stay here too long, you must not be
saddened by an old woman's moods. You love to stay, and I love to have
you, but it must not be too long. I will just tell you about the change
in the rooms, and then--well, the Black Rooms remained shut up for many,
many years after Aunt Phoebe's death. Indeed, I fancy they were never
used until after your grandfather's death, when the property was
divided, and your Uncle John took Fernley as his share. Then one of the
first things he did was to throw open th