doubt she is lonely, and glad of any society; and
sweet Margaret is most sympathetic, I am sure. Sympathy, my dear John!
how could we live without it, my poor dear fellow?"

"I am going to walk," said Mr. Montfort, abruptly. "Margaret, will you
come? Sophronia, you will be glad of a chance to rest; you must be tired
after your long drive."

"This once, yes, dearest John!" said the lady. "This once you must go
without me. I am tired,--so thoughtful of you to notice it! There is no
sofa in the Blue Room, but I shall do very well there for a few days.
Don't have me on your mind in the least, my dear cousin; I shall soon
be absolutely at home. Enjoy your walk, both of you! After to-day, I
shall always be with you, I hope. I ordered tea an hour earlier, as I
dined early, and I knew you would not mind. Good-bye!" and the lady
nodded, and smiled herself into the house.

Margaret went for her hat in silence, and in silence she and her uncle
walked along. Mr. Montfort was smoking, not in his usual calm and
dignified manner, but in short, fierce puffs; smoking fast and
violently. Margaret did not dare to speak, and they walked a mile or
more without exchanging a word.

"Margaret," said her uncle, at last.

"Yes, Uncle John."

"Not in the least, my dear!"

"No, Uncle John."

They walked another mile, and presently stopped at the top of a breezy
hill, to draw breath, and look about them. The sun was going down in a
cheerful blaze; the whole country smiled, and was glad of its own
beauty. Mr. Montfort gazed about him, and heaved a long sigh of
content.

"Pretty! Pretty country!" he said. "Spreading fields, quiet woods, sky
over all, undisturbed. Yes! You are very silent, my dear. Have I been
silent, too, or have I been talking?"

"What a curious question!" thought Margaret.

"You--you have not said much, Uncle John," she replied.

"Well, my love, that may be because there isn't much to say. Some
situations, Margaret, are best met in silence."

Margaret nodded. She knew her uncle's ways pretty well by this time.

"And yet," continued Mr. Montfort, "it may be well to have just a word
of understanding with you, my dear child. Sophronia Montfort is my own
cousin, my first cousin."

"Yes, Uncle John," said Margaret, as he seemed to pause for a reply.

"Ri tumpty,--that is to say, there is no gainsaying that fact,--my own
cousin. And by natural consequence, Margaret, the own cousin of your
father, and by further cons