t want to be; but I
admire you more than any one I have ever known, and I hope you will let
me be with you as often as I can while you stay here; I don't know what
I shall do when you go away!"

Margaret smiled a second time; the young girl seemed to her very young
indeed as she uttered these candid beliefs.

"Mamma too admires you so much," continued Garda; "I have never known
mamma to admire any one (outside of our own family) so completely as she
admires you; for generally mamma has her reservations, you know. But it
is your intellect which mamma admires, and _I_ do not care so much for
intellect; of course it's all very well for a foundation, but one
doesn't want to be all foundation."

"Mrs. Rutherford would like to see you for a moment, Miss Margaret, if
you please," said a voice which seemed startlingly near them, though no
one was in sight.

It was Celestine; she had opened the door noiselessly the sixteenth part
of an inch, delivered her message with her lips close to the crack, and
then closed it again with the soundless abruptness which characterized
all her actions.

"That is the fourth time Mrs. Rutherford has sent a message since I
came, an hour ago," remarked Garda. "She depends upon you for
everything."

"Oh no; upon Celestine," said Margaret, as she left the room.

When she came back, fifteen minutes later, "You are mistaken," Garda
answered, as though there had been no interruption; "she depends upon
Celestine for her clothes, her hair, her medicine, and her shawls; but
she depends upon you for everything else."

"Have you been thinking about it all this time?" Margaret asked.

* * * * *

"How good you are! Why didn't you say, '_Is_ there anything else?' But I
have noticed that you never say those things. Have I been thinking about
it all this time? No, it doesn't require thinking about, any one can see
it; what I have been thinking about is you." She had taken her former
place, her arms crossed on Margaret's knee. "You have such beautiful
hands," she said, lifting one and spreading it out to look at it.

"My dear Miss Thorne, your own are much more beautiful."

"Oh, I do very well, I know what I am; but I am not you. I don't believe
there is any one like you; it would be too much."

"Too much perfection?" said Margaret, laughing.

"Yes," answered Garda, her seriousness unbroken. "For you take
quantities of trouble for other people--I can see that. And th