laugh--the
possibility of being left. A day or two after Margaret's arrival she had
driven around to call in her dog-cart, looking as fresh as a daisy in her
sunhat. She held the reins, but her seat was shared by Mr. Fox
McNaughton, the most useful man in the village, indispensable indeed; a
bachelor, with no intentions, no occupation, no ambition (except to lead
the german), who could mix a salad, brew a punch, organize a picnic, and
chaperon anything in petticoats with entire propriety, without regard to
age. And he had a position of social authority. This eminence Mr. Fox
McNaughton had attained by always doing the correct thing. The obligation
of society to such men is never enough acknowledged. While they are
trusted and used, and worked to death, one is apt to hear them spoken of
in a deprecatory tone.

"You hold the reins a moment, please. No, I don't want any help," she
said, as she jumped down with an elastic spring, and introduced him to
Margaret. "I've got Mr. McNaughton in training, and am thinking of
bringing him out."

She walked in with Margaret, chatting about the view and the house and
the divine weather.

"And your husband has not come yet?"

"He may come any day. I think business might suspend in the summer."

"So do I. But then, what would become of Lenox? It is rather hard on the
men, only I dare say they like it. Don't you think Mr. Henderson would
like a place here?"

"He cannot help being pleased with Lenox."

"I'm sure he would if you are. I have hardly seen him since that evening
at the Stotts'. Can I tell you?--I almost had five minutes of envy that
evening. You won't mind it in such an old woman?"

"I should rather trust your heart than your age, Mrs. Laflamme," said
Margaret, with a laugh.

"Yes, my heart is as old as my face. But I had a feeling, seeing you walk
away that evening into the conservatory. I knew what was coming. I think
I have discovered a great secret, Mrs. Henderson to be able to live over
again in other people. By-the-way, what has become of that quiet
Englishman, Mr. Lyon?"

"He has come into his title. He is the Earl of Chisholm."

"Dear me, how stupid in us not to have taken a sense of that! And the
Eschelles--do you know anything of the Eschelles?"

"Yes; they are at their house in Newport."

"Do you think there was anything between Miss Eschelle and Mr. Lyon? I
saw her afterwards several times."

"Not that I ever heard. Miss Eschelle says that she is