small
nephews. Mr Vane's note was short, and more an echo of her own last
letter than a record of his own doings.

"Glad to know that you like your surroundings--pleased to hear that the
weather keeps fine--hope you will enjoy your excursion," etcetera,
etcetera.

Just at the end came a few sentences which to the reader's quick wits
were full of hidden meaning.

"Agnes is taking the opportunity of your absence to organise a second
spring cleaning. It seems only the other day since we were upset
before. I dined at the club last night. It is difficult to know what
to do with oneself on these long light evenings.--I would run away over
Sunday, if I could think of any place I cared to go to... Town seems
very empty."

"Poor dear darling!" murmured Margot sympathetically, at which the
Chieftain lifted his eyes to flash upon her a glance of twinkling
amusement. He made no spoken comment, however, but returned to the
perusal of his own correspondence, while Margot broke open the envelope
of Agnes's letter.

Two sheets of handwriting, with immense spaces between both words and
lines--"My dear Margot," as a beginning--"Your affectionate sister,
Agnes Mary Vane," as a conclusion. Thrilling information to the effect
that the charwoman was coming on Friday. Complaints of the late arrival
of the sweep. Information requested concerning a missing mat which was
required to complete a set. Mild disapproval of the Nag's Head Inn. "I
cannot understand what you find to rave about in such quarters." A sigh
of impatience and resignation was the tribute paid to this letter, and
then Margot settled herself more comfortably on the stone, and prepared
to enjoy a treat--a real heart-to-heart talk with her beloved eldest
sister.

Edith had the gift of sympathy. Just as Agnes never understood, Edith
always seemed able to put herself in another's place, and enter into
that person's joys and griefs. She herself might be sad and downcast,
but in her darkest hour she could always rejoice in another's good
fortune, and forget her own woes in eager interest and sympathy. Now,
sitting alone in the dreary lodging-house sitting-room in Oxford
Terrace, she was able mentally to project herself into the far-off
Highland glen, and to feel an ungrudging joy in the pleasure of others.
Never a hint of "How I envy you! How I wish I were there!" Not a
mention of "I" in obtruding, shadow-like fashion from first to last, but
instead, tender