, who throws about her gewgaws at every whim. Her life will be
frittered away over dresses and frippery and fashion. Instead of a
worker, a real woman, with a woman's work and aims, you will have a
butterfly, pretty and useless, fluttering about in the sunshine, unable
to bear rough weather. A fine piece of work it will be, the ruining of a
girl like that."

Margaret stood aghast, and for a few moments found no words. Her
cousin's face showed that he was only too deeply in earnest; his eyes
glowed with sombre fire, and a dark red spot burned in his cheek. When
Margaret did speak at last, her eyes were tender, but her voice was
grave, almost stern. "Hugh," she said, "I hardly know you; and I see
that you do not know Grace in the least. I thought--I thought you
did--understand her, better perhaps than any one else did; but if you
can say such things as these, I see I was utterly mistaken. She, spoiled
by a little prosperity? Oh, how can you? For shame, Hugh!"

Hugh looked up at her suddenly. "Oh, Margaret!" he said. "Margaret, have
patience with me! I--I am not myself to-day. My head--there is something
wrong with me."

"Yes, dear," said Margaret, tenderly. "Go and lie down, Hugh, won't you?
And I'll bring you some cracked ice. That always helps a little."

"I don't want to lie down, and I don't want any cracked ice; thank
you all the same, good little sister-cousin! I'll go out into the
garden, I think. The trees will be the best thing for me to-day.
And--Margaret--forget what I said, will you? It is none of my business,
of course; only--good-by, little girl!"

CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE GARDEN

"But, Grace--"

"But-ter, Margaret!"

"My dear, please don't be absurd!"

"My angel, I am not half so absurd as you are. Why, in the name of all
that is incongruous, should I take this lady's money? Is thy servant a
dog, that she should do this thing?"

"Listen, Grace! You are wholly, utterly wrong. Listen to me! Let us sit
down here by the summer-house and have it out. No, you have said enough;
it is my turn now. You talk about yourself, and your independence and
freedom, and I don't know what. My dear, I want you to forget yourself,
and think of her."

"Of her? What difference does it make to her?"

"All the difference in the world, it may be. What is that noise?"

"It is I!" said Hugh, emerging from the summer-house. "I seem fated to
be an eavesdropper, and yet I am not one by nature. Pardon me, young
lad