e, lined
with shelves. These shelves were literally packed with silver, some in
boxes, much in bags, glimmering in the half-light like dwarfish ghosts;
but the greater part uncovered, glittering in tarnished splendor
wherever the lamplight fell. Rows upon rows of teapots, tall and squat,
round and oval, chased, hammered, and plain; behind them, coffee-pots
looking down, in every possible device. There were silver pitchers and
silver bowls; porringers and fruit-dishes, salvers and platters. Such an
array as might dazzle the eyes of any silversmith of moderate ambition.

"Well, Margaret," said Hugh, somewhat impressed, but more amused, at
sight of all this hoarded treasure, "what do you say? I shall leave the
expression of emotion to you."

But Margaret was in no jesting mood. With clasped hands she turned to
her cousin. "Oh, Hugh," she cried, "isn't it wonderful? to think of all
those beautiful things living here alone,--I don't mean alone, but all
by themselves--year after year, with no one to see them, or take them
out and polish them. Oh, I never saw such things! Look at this perfect
pitcher, will you? did you ever see anything so graceful? This must come
in, if nothing else does. The milk shall be poured from it from this day
forward, as long as I am the Mistress of Fernley. That is just a
play-name, of course," she hastened to explain, blushing as she did so.
"Uncle John gave it to me in sport, when I first began to try to keep
house."

"It seems to me a most appropriate name," said Hugh. "There has never
been another, has there? in this generation, I mean. Uncle John was
never married, was he?"

"No; isn't it a pity? I have so often wondered why. I asked Aunt Faith
once,--well, Hugh, of course she was Mistress of Fernley as long as she
lived, though she would always speak of herself as a visitor,--and she
only sighed and shook her head, and said, 'Poor John! poor dear lad!'
and then changed the subject. But--do you suppose any one can hear us
here, Hugh?"

"I do not, Margaret. I should say that you might safely tell me
anything, of however fearful a nature, in this iron-bound retreat."

"Oh, it really isn't anything--or perhaps it is not--but my own fancy. I
have built up a kind of air-castle of the past, that is all. You know
Uncle John's passion for roses? Well, and sometimes, when he is sitting
quietly and has forgotten that any one is near, he will say to himself,
'Rose! Rose!' softly, just like that, an