t my bed-spread. This is the first day I have used it, and I
put it on expressly for you. What is the use of my having pretty things,
if no one will look at them?"

"Indeed, it is very beautiful!" said Margaret. "Everything you have is
beautiful, Mrs. Peyton."

"It is Honiton!" said Mrs. Peyton. "It ought to be handsome. But you do
not care, Margaret, it is perfectly easy to see that. You don't care
about any of my things any more. I was simply a new toy to you in the
beginning, and you liked to look at me because I was pretty. Now you
have new toys,--Sophronia Montfort, I suppose, and a sweet plaything she
is! and you pay no further attention to me. Deny it if you can!"

Margaret did not attempt to deny it; she was too absolutely truthful not
to feel a certain grain of fact in the lady's accusation. Life was
opening fuller and broader upon her every day; how could she think of
lace bed-spreads, with three children constantly in her mind, to think
and plan and puzzle for? To say nothing of Uncle John and all the rest.
And as to the "new toy" aspect, Margaret knew that she might well enough
turn the accusation upon her lovely friend herself; but this she was too
kind and too compassionate to do. Would not any one want toys, perhaps,
if forced to spend one's life between four walls?

So she simply stroked the exquisite hand that lay like a piece of carved
ivory on the splendid coverlet, and smiled, and waited for the next
remark.

"I knew you would not deny it!" the lady said. "You couldn't, you see.
Well, it doesn't matter! I shall be dead some day, I hope and trust. So
Sophronia was frightened? Tell me more about it!"

"She was very much frightened!" said Margaret. "Mrs. Peyton, I wanted
to ask you--when the children came home yesterday, they said something
about your having told them some story of old times here; of a ghost, or
some such thing. I never heard of anything of the sort. Do you--do you
remember what it was? I ought not to torment you!" she added,
remorsefully; for Mrs. Peyton put her hand to her head, and her brow
contracted slightly, as if with pain.

"Only my head, dear, it is rather troublesome to-day; I suppose I ought
not to talk very much! Yes, there was a ghost, or something like one, in
old times, when I was a child. I wasn't at Fernley at the time, but I
heard about it; Sophronia was there, and I remember she was frightened
into fits, just as you describe her last night."

"What--do you re