attempt which, though futile, would bring disagreeable
consequences to Mr. Montfort and to all concerned. What was Margaret to
do? The absurdity of the whole thing presented itself to her keenly, and
she would have been glad enough to turn it all into a jest, and take it
as the "story" with which Rita had tried to rouse her cool-blooded
cousins; but that could not be. Rita had meant every word she said, and
more; that was evident. What was Margaret to do? Her first thought was
of Mrs. Cheriton; her second of John Strong, the gardener. Aunt Faith
ought not, she was sure, to be disturbed or made anxious; her hold on
life was too slender; her days must flow evenly and peacefully, as Uncle
John had arranged them for her; it would never do to tell her of this
threatened, fantastic danger. But John Strong! he was Mr. Montfort's
confidential servant, almost his friend. Nay, Aunt Faith had spoken of
him as "a good friend," simply and earnestly. He knew Uncle John's
address, no doubt; he would give it to her, or write himself, as seemed
best. It was dreadful to betray her cousin, but these were not the days
of melodrama, and it was quite clear that Fernley House could not be
made a deposit of arms for the Cuban insurgents during its master's
absence. So with a clear conscience, though a heavy heart, Margaret
sought the garden.

John Strong was there, as he always was in the morning, fondling his
roses, clipping, pruning, tying up, and setting out. In the afternoons
he was never visible. Margaret had heard his voice occasionally in Mrs.
Cheriton's rooms, but had never seen him there; he had evidently other
work, or other haunts of his own, which kept him out of the way. She
could not help knowing that he used her uncle's private sitting-room,
but she took it for granted that it was with Mr. Montfort's leave and
for his business. Rita might mistrust this man; but no one of Northern
blood could look on the strong, quiet face without feeling that it was
that of one of nature's noblemen, at least.

"John," said Margaret, after she had admired the roses and listened to a
brief but eloquent dissertation upon Catherine Mermet and Marechal Niel,
"how near are we to the sea?"

"To the sea, Miss Margaret? Call it a quarter of a mile. The rise of the
land hides it from Fernley, but you will notice that we are near, by the
sound of it; and you have been down to the shore a number of times, I
think."

"Yes; oh, yes! I know it is very near