ain in the sixteenth century than Cuba in the
nineteenth. What should she do? How should she learn to curb and help
these two restless spirits, so different, yet both turning to her and
flying in detestation from each other?

Pondering thus, she made no reply for a moment; but Rita was in no mood
to endure silence.

"Statue!" she cried. "Thing of marble! I pour out my soul to you, and
you have no words for me! And we have been here a week, a mortal,
suffering week, and I know nothing of your life, your thought. Tell me,
you, how you have lived, before you came here. I frighten you, I see it;
try now if you can tame me."

She laughed again, and shook all her pretty ribbons and frills. Every
day she dressed as if for a _fete_, and took a mournful pleasure in
reflecting how her toilets were all wasted.

"How did I live?" said Margaret vaguely. "Oh, very quietly, Rita. So
quietly, I don't think you would care to hear about my days."

"I burn to hear!" cried Rita. "I perish! Continue, Marguerite."

"I lived with my dear father." Margaret spoke slowly and reluctantly.
Her memories were so precious, she could not bear to drag them out, and
expose them to curious, perhaps unloving, eyes.

"Our house was in Blankton, a tiny little house, just big enough for
Father and me; my mother died, you know, a good many years ago, and
Father and I have been always together. He wrote a great
deal,--historical work,--and I helped him, and wrote for him, and read
with him. Then--oh, I went to school, of course, and we walked every
afternoon, and in the evening Father read aloud while I worked, and I
played and sang for him. You see, Rita, there really is not much to
tell."

Not much! yet in the telling, the girl felt her heart beat high and
painfully, and the sobs rise in her throat, as the dear, happy, peaceful
days came back to her; the blessed home life, the love which hedged her
in so that no rough wind should blow on her, the wise, kindly, loving
companionship of him who had been father and mother both to her. The
tears came to her eyes, and she was silent, feeling that she could not
speak for the moment. Rita was thoughtful, too, and when she spoke
again, it was in a softened tone.

"I can picture it!" she said. "It is a picture without colour; I could
not have borne such a life; but for you, Marguerite, so tranquil,
demanding so little, with peace in your soul, it must have been sweet.
And now,--after this summer here, only