good; all this, and
much more, Margaret learned. The two sat hand in hand, and took counsel
together. "Oh, it is so good to have some one to talk to," cried Basil.

"Isn't it, dear?" said Margaret. "Now you know how I feel with Uncle
John away; and--oh, Basil, before I had Uncle John,--when my father
died,--oh, my dear! But you are going to be my brother now, Basil,--my
dear, dear little brother, aren't you? And you will tell me how to make
Susan D. love me. I think you do love me a little already, don't you,
Basil?"

For all answer, Basil threw his arms round her, and gave her such a hug
as made her gasp for breath.

"Dear boy," cried Margaret, "don't--kill me! Oh, Basil! I tried to hug
Susan D. the other day, and I might as well have hugged the door! She
won't even let me kiss her good night; that is, she lets me, but there
is no response. Why doesn't she like me, do you think?"

"She does!" said Basil. "Or she will, soon as she can get out of
herself. Don't you know what I mean, Cousin Margaret? It's as if she had
a dumb spirit, like that fellow in the Bible, don't you know? Nobody but
me understands; but you will, just once you get inside."

"Ah, but how shall I ever get inside?" said Margaret.

Basil nodded confidently. "You will!" he said. "I know you will, some
time. Oh, Cousin Margaret, mayn't I take her something to eat? She's
always hungry, Susan D. is, and I know she won't sleep a mite if she
doesn't have anything. I--no, I won't let go again, but it _is_ the
meanest, hatefullest thing that ever was done in the world! Now isn't
it, Cousin Margaret? Don't you think so yourself?"

Sorely puzzled as to the exact path of duty, Margaret tried to explain
to the boy how ideas of discipline had changed since Cousin Sophronia
was a young girl; how, probably, she had herself been brought up with
rigid severity, and, never having married, had kept all the old
cast-iron ideas which were now superseded by wider and better knowledge
and sympathy. As to this particular point, what should she say? Her
whole kind nature revolted against the thought of the hungry child,
alone, waking, perhaps weeping, with no one to comfort her; yet how
could she, Margaret, possibly interfere with the doings of one old
enough to be her mother?

Pondering in anxious perplexity, she chanced to raise her eyes to the
house. It was brightly lighted, and, as it happened, the curtains had
not been drawn. "Look!" said Margaret, pressing the