, "as you say so, it is the case. Only, I
ought to tell you that what really and truly happened was this"----

"Oh, I know quite well what really and truly happened," interrupted
Maggie. "Let me tell you. I know that there came a certain day when a
little girl who calls herself Merry Cardew was very discontented, and
I know also that kind Mr. Cardew discovered the discontent of his
child. Well, now, who put that discontent into your mind?"

"Why, I am afraid it was you," said Merry, turning pale and then red.

Maggie laughed. "Why, of course it was," she said; "and you suppose I
didn't do it on purpose?"

"But, Maggie, you didn't really mean--you couldn't for a minute
mean--that I was to be miserable at home if father didn't give his
consent?"

"Of course not," said Maggie lightly; "but, you see, I meant him to
give his consent--I meant it all the time. I own that there were
several favoring circumstances; but I want to tell you now, Merry, in
the strictest confidence of course, that from the moment I arrived at
the rectory I determined that you and Cicely were to come with Molly
and Isabel to Aylmer House."

"It was very kind of you, Maggie," said Merry; but she felt a certain
sense of distress which she could not quite account for as she spoke.

"Why do you look so melancholy?" said Maggie, turning and fixing her
queer, narrow eyes on the pretty face of her young companion.

"I am not really melancholy, only I would much rather you had told me
openly at the time that you wished me to come to school."

Maggie gave a faint sigh. "Had I done so, darling," she said, "you
would never have come. You must leave your poor friend Maggie to
manage things in her own way. But now I have something else to talk
about."

They had gone far down the glade, and were completely separated from
their companions.

"Sit down," said Maggie; "it's too hot to walk far even under the
shade of the trees."

They both sat down.

Maggie tossed off her hat. "To-morrow," she said, "you will perhaps be
having another picnic, or, at any rate, the best of good times with
your friends."

"I hope so," replied Merry.

"But I shall be in hot, stifling London, in a little house, in poky
lodgings; to-morrow, at this hour, I shall not be having what you call
a good time."

"But, Maggie, you will be with your mother."

"Yes, poor darling mother! of course."

"Don't you love her very much?" asked Merry.

Maggie flashed round an excited