il,
what do you want? I told you to go away."

"Cousin Margaret, could I speak to you a moment, please?" asked the boy.

"I will come to you, Basil," said Margaret, quickly. "Will you excuse
me, Cousin Sophronia, please? I have quite finished. Now, Basil, what is
it?"

She led the boy carefully out of earshot, for thunder and lightning were
in his face, and she foresaw an outburst.

"Susan D. is in bed!" cried Basil. "She has had no supper at all;
Elizabeth said so. That woman sent her. Cousin Margaret, I won't stand
it. I--I'll set fire to her clothes! I'll shoot her! I'll--I'll kill her
some way--"

Margaret laid her hand over the boy's mouth. "You will be silent!" she
said. "Not a word, not a syllable, till you can speak like a civilised
being. We will have no savages here."

Basil said no word,--he knew well enough when he must obey,--but he set
his teeth, and clenched his fists; the veins on his temples swelled, his
whole childish frame shook with anger. Margaret had never seen any one,
not even Rita, in such a passion as this. For a few moments, the two
stood motionless, facing each other. Then Margaret took the boy's hand
in hers, and led him out into the garden. Still holding his hand, she
paced up and down the green walk in silence, Basil following obediently.
The evening was falling soft and dusk; the last bird was chirping
sleepily; the air was full of the scent of flowers. Behind the dark
trees, where the sun had gone down, the sky still glowed with soft,
yellow light. "See!" said Margaret, presently. "There is the first star.
Let us wish! Oh, Basil dear, let us wish--and pray--for a good thing,
for strength to overcome--ourselves."

The boy's hand pressed hers convulsively, but he did not speak at first.
Presently he said, almost in a whisper, "She is so little,--and so thin!
I told Mother I would take care of her. But--I said--I would try not to
let go of myself, too."

Very tenderly Margaret drew the child down beside her, on a rustic
bench that stood under one of the great tulip-trees. In the quiet
darkness, she felt his heart open to her even more than it had done yet.
In the hour that followed, she learned the story of a wild, faithful
nature, full of mischief, full of love. The passionate love for his
mother, whom he remembered well; the faithful, scowling devotion to the
little sister, whom no one should scold but himself, and whom he shook,
and bullied, and protected with a sole eye to her