chine in the West?" and she laughed again, a laugh so rippling
and musical that it was a pity it was not good-natured.

Margaret listened in troubled silence. What could she say that would not
at once alienate this foreign cousin, who seemed now inclined to
friendliness with her? And yet she could not let poor Peggy go
undefended. At last she said gently, yet with meaning, "Dear Rita, you
make me tremble for myself. If you are so very severe in your judgments,
who can hope to pass uncriticised?"

"You, _ma cousine_!" cried Rita. "But there is no question of you; you
are of one's own kind! You are altogether charming. Surely you must see
that this young person is simply impossible. Impossible!" she repeated
with decision. "There is no other word for it."

"No," said Margaret, bravely, "I do not see that, Rita! She is shy and
awkward, and I should think very young for her age. But she has an
honest, good face, and I like her. Besides," she added, unconsciously
repeating the argument she had used in defending Rita herself against
Peggy's animadversions, "it is absurd to judge a person on half an
hour's acquaintance."

"Oh, half an hour!" said Rita lightly; "half a lifetime! My judgments,
_chere cousine_, are made at the first glance, and remain fixed."

"And are they always right?" asked Margaret, half amused and half vexed.

"They are right for me!" said Rita, nodding her pretty head. "That is
enough."

She pushed her chair back, and coming to Margaret's side, laid her hand
lightly on her shoulder.

"_Chere cousine_," she said, in a caressing tone, "you are so charming,
I do hope you are not good. It is detestable to be good! Avoid it, _tres
chere_! believe me, it is impossible!"

"Are all the people in Havana bad?" asked Margaret, returning the
caress, and resisting the impulse to shake the pretty, foolish speaker.

"All!" replied Rita cheerfully; "enchanting, delightful people; all bad!
Oh, of course when one is old, that is another matter! Then one
begins--"

"Was your mother bad, Rita?" asked Margaret quietly.

"My mother was an angel, do you hear? a saint!" cried the girl. And
suddenly, without the slightest warning, she burst into a tropical
passion of tears, and sobbed and wept as if her heart would break.

Poor Margaret! Decidedly this was not a pleasant evening for her. By the
time she had soothed Rita, and tucked her up on the library sofa, with a
fan and a vinaigrette, Peggy had come down again,