into the garden, where Mr. Montfort was
enjoying his morning cigar, with Margaret at his side. "You dear child,"
said the sprightly lady, "run now and amuse yourself, or attend to any
little duties you may have set yourself. So important, I always say, for
the young to be regular in everything they do. I am sure you agree with
me, dearest John. I will be your uncle's companion, my love; that is my
duty and my pleasure now. I must see your roses, John! No one in the
world loves roses as I do. What do you use for them? I have a recipe for
an infallible wash; I must give it to you, I must indeed."

Margaret went into the house; there was no place for her, for the lady
was leaning on Mr. Montfort's arm, chattering gaily in his ear. Margaret
was conscious of an unpleasant sensation which was entirely new to her.
She had always been with people she liked. Rita had often distressed
her, but still she was most lovable, with all her faults. Cousin
Sophronia was--not--lovable, the girl said to herself.

It was a relief to visit the kitchen, and find Frances beaming over her
bread-pan. The good woman hailed Margaret with delight, and received her
timid suggestions as to dinner with enthusiasm.

"Yes, Miss Margaret, I do think as a chicken-pie would be the very
thing. I've a couple of fowl in the house now, and what would you think
of putting in a bit of ham, miss?"

"Oh!" said Margaret. "Is that what you usually do, Frances? Then I am
sure it will be just right. And about a pudding; what do you think,
Frances? You know so many kinds of puddings, and they are all so good!"

Well, Frances had been thinking that if Miss Margaret should fancy
apple-fritters, Mr. Montfort was fond of them, and they had not had them
this month. And lemon-juice with them, or a little sugar and wine; which
did Miss Margaret think would be best? This was a delightful way of
keeping house; and after praising the bread, which was rising white and
light in the great pan, and poking the bubbles with her little finger,
and begging that she might be allowed to mix it some day soon, Margaret
went back in a better humour to the White Rooms, and sat down resolutely
to her buttonholes. There would be no walk this morning, evidently;
well, when she had done her hour's stint, she would go for a little
stroll by herself. After all, perhaps Uncle John would, when the
strangeness had worn off a little, enjoy having some one of his own age
to talk to; of course she wa