letter can wait, or from
the fancy that some have of keeping the letter likely to be most
interesting till the last. But almost the first line enchained her
attention, and as she read, her heart beat faster, and her face became
scarlet. It was very short, and I am able to print it, because all
Margaret's correspondence ultimately came into possession of her aunt:

"BRANDON, December 17th.

"DEAREST MARGARET,--You do not say whether you will come for
Christmas, but we infer from your silence that you will. You know
how pained we shall all be if you do not. Yet I fear the day will
not be as pleasant as we could wish. In fact, we are in a good deal
of trouble. You know, dear, that poor Mrs. Fletcher had nearly
every dollar of her little fortune invested in the A. and B. bonds,
and for ten months she has not had a cent of income, and no prospect
of any. Indeed, Morgan says that she will be lucky if she
ultimately saves half her principal. We try to cheer her up, but
she is so cast down and mortified to have to live, as she says, on
charity. And it does make rather close house-keeping, though I'm
sure I couldn't live alone without her. It does not make so much
difference with Mr. Fairchild and Mr. Morgan, for they have plenty
of other resources. Mr. Fairchild tells her that she is in very
good company, for lots of the bonds are held in Brandon, and she is
not the only widow who suffers; but this is poor consolation. We
had great hopes, the other day, of the trial, but Morgan says it may
be years before any final settlement. I don't believe Mr. Henderson
knows. But there, dearest, I won't find fault. We are all well,
and eager to see you. Do come.

"Your affectionate aunt,

"GEORGIAN A."

Margaret's hand that held the letter trembled, and the eyes that read
these words were hot with indignation; but she controlled herself into an
appearance of calmness as she marched away with it straight to the
library.

As she entered, Henderson was seated at his desk, with bowed head and
perplexed brows, sorting a pile of papers before him, and making notes.
He did not look up until she came close to him and stood at the end of
his desk. Then, turning his eyes for a moment, and putting out his left
hand to her, he said, "Well, what is it, dear?"

"Will you read that?" said Margaret, in a voice that sounded strange in
her own ears.

"What?"

"A letter from Aun