goodness, and thee, the spirit of it. Don't shake your head, for I
will not submit to it. You are good, I tell you,--good like my mother,
my angel. You will think of me, _cherie_?--you will think of your
Spanish Rita, and warm your kind, cool heart with the thought? Yes, I
know you will. You will be happy here with the uncle. Yes! he's like
you,--you will suit each other! For me, it would be death in two weeks;
yet he is noble, he has the grand air. _Tres chere_, I have left for you
the bracelet with the rubies; it is on your toilet-table. You admired
it,--it was yours from that moment, but I waited, for I knew that one
day we must part. They are drops of blood, Marguerite, from my
heart,--Rita's heart,--which beats ever for you. _Adios, mi alma!_"

All this was poured into Margaret's ear with such rapidity and fire that
she could make no reply; could only embrace her cousin warmly, and
promise constant thought and frequent letters.

And now Carlos was bending to kiss her hand, rather to her confusion. He
regarded her with awe and veneration, and murmured that she was a lily
of goodness. Fernando was saluting her with three bows, each more
magnificent than the other. Mr. Montfort kissed the girls warmly, shook
hands cordially with the young men.

Hands were kissed, handkerchiefs waved. Peggy, drowned in tears, looked
back to utter a last farewell.

"Good-bye, Margaret! Good-bye, darling Margaret! Don't forget us!"

They were gone, and Margaret stood on the veranda and wept, her heart
longing for her mates; but presently she dried her eyes, and looked up
to greet her uncle with a smile.

"Dear girls!" she said; "it has been so good, so good, to have them and
know them. You have given us all a great happiness, Uncle John. And now
they are going home to their own people, and that is well, too."

"And you are staying at home," said John Montfort, "with your own
people. This is your home, Margaret, as long as it is mine. I cannot be
your father, dear, but you must let me come as near as you can, for we
have only one another,--you and Aunt Faith and I. You will stay, always,
will you not, to be our light and comfort? I don't feel as if I could
ever let you go again."

"Oh," said Margaret, and her eyes ran over again with happy tears, "Oh,
if I can really be a comfort, Uncle, I shall be so glad--so glad! but I
know so little! I am--"

But Uncle John had only one word to say, and that was the one word of an
old song