should leave Mrs. Rutherford?" She had turned away, he could not see the
expression of face that accompanied the words.

"It would be impossible that I should prefer such a thing; I don't think
you can be sincere in saying it," responded Winthrop, with a tinge of
severity. "We both know perfectly well what you are to Aunt Katrina;
what is the use of pretending otherwise?" His voice softened. "Your
patience with her is admirable; as I said before, don't think I don't
see it. I spoke on your own account, I thought you might be tired."

"I am tired--sometimes. But I should be tired just the same in a house
of my own," answered Margaret Harold.

He left her, and rode down to East Angels.

But his visit was short; before three o'clock he was again at the eyrie.
"I think you had better go down," he said to Margaret, as soon as he
could speak to her unheard. "She is taking it most unreasonably; she is
crying almost convulsively, and listens to nothing. So far, Mrs. Carew
thinks it the old grief for her mother; a revival. But she won't think
so long; for Garda, you know, never conceals anything; as soon as she is
a little calmer she will be sure to say something that will let out the
whole."

"You do not want it known?"

"I thought we were agreed about that. How can any one who cares for the
girl want it known? It's so"--he hesitated for a word, and then fell
back upon the useful old one--"so childish," he repeated.

"I will go down, then," said Margaret.

"The sooner the better. I hope that you will be able to bring her to
reason."

"But if you didn't--"

"I didn't because I lost my temper a little. It seemed to me that the
time had come to speak to her plainly."

"Plainly generally means severely. I think severity will never have much
effect upon Garda; if you are severe, you will only lose your
influence."

"My influence!--I don't know that I have any. What is your idea of
Edgarda Thorne?" he said, suddenly. "I don't know that I have ever asked
you. Very likely you won't tell."

"I will tell exactly, so far as I know it myself--my idea," replied
Margaret. "One cannot have a very definite idea of a girl of sixteen."

"I beg your pardon; to me she seems a remarkably definite person."

"She is, in one way. I think she is very warm-hearted. I think she is
above petty things; I have never seen any girl who went so little into
details. Mentally, I think her very clever, though she is also indolent.
Her frankness