n
forming in her mind during the last ten days.

Something was on foot; some mystery hung about; she had felt thus much,
and had felt, too, that it was connected with Rita; but all had been
vague, uncertain.

Rita had been receiving many letters with the New York postmark; but
what of that? It was not Margaret's business to take notice of her
cousin's letters. She had met Rita once or twice at the foot of the
garret stairs, evidently returning from a visit to that place of shadowy
delight. What of that? Rita had said each time that she had been looking
for such and such a costume; that she was planning a charade, a new
tableau, that would be sure to ravish her cousins; and in the evening
she would produce the charade or the tableau, and sure enough, it would
be enchanting, and they were delighted, and most grateful to her for the
pains she took to amuse them. And yet--and yet--had she been at these
pains until lately? Had not Margaret herself been the one who must think
of the evening's amusement, plan the game, the reading, or singing,
which should keep the three various natures in harmonious accord? So it
had surely been, until these last ten days; and now--

But how hateful to suspect, when it might be that Rita was merely
feeling that perhaps she had not done her share, and had realised that
with her great talent and her lovely voice and presence, she was the one
to plan and execute their little entertainments? And what should
Margaret suspect? It was not her nature to be anything but trustful of
those around her; and yet--and yet--

But now her suspicions had taken definite shape, and Rita herself had
confirmed them. There could no longer be any doubt that she was
planning to take advantage of their uncle's continued absence to aid her
brother,--who was in New York, as Margaret knew, in spite of Rita's
recent declaration that he was in the mountains,--and to conceal arms in
Fernley House, and have them shipped from there. It seemed impossible;
it seemed a thing out of a play or a novel, but she could not doubt the
fact. After all, Rita was a person for a play or a novel. This thing,
which to Margaret seemed unspeakable, was to Rita but a natural impulse
of patriotism, a piece of heroism.

Of course she would not be able to do it; no person in her senses would
attempt such a thing, on Long Island, only a few miles from New York;
but the hot-blooded young Cubans would not realise that, and they might
make some