s very young, too young to be much of a
companion. Still,--

Well, she would be cheerful and patient, and try to make things pleasant
so far as she could. And now she could only go and wish Uncle John
good-bye when he started for town, and perhaps walk to the station with
him, if he was going to walk.

While she sat sewing, glancing at the clock from time to time, Cousin
Sophronia came in, work-bag in hand.

"He is gone!" she said, cheerfully. "I saw him off at the gate. Dearest
John! Excellent, sterling John Montfort! Such a pleasure to be with him!
Such a joy to feel that I can make a home for him!"

"Gone!" echoed Margaret, looking up in dismay. "Why, surely it is not
train time!"

"An early train, my love," the lady explained. "Your dear uncle felt
obliged to start an hour earlier than usual, he explained to me. These
busy men! And how are you occupying yourself, my dear? Ah! buttonholes?
Most necessary! But, my love, you are working these the wrong way!"

"No, I think not," said Margaret. "This is the way I have always made
them, Cousin Sophronia."

"Wrong, my dear! Quite wrong, I assure you. Impossible to get a smooth
edge if you work them that way. Let me--h'm! yes! that is fairly even, I
confess; but the other way is the correct one, you must take my word for
it; and I will show you how, with pleasure. So important, I always say,
to do things just as they should be done!"

In vain Margaret protested that she understood the other way, but
preferred this. She finally, for quiet's sake, yielded, and pricked her
fingers, and made herself hot and cross, working the wrong way.

Miss Sophronia next began to cross-question her about Mrs. Cheriton's
last days. Such a saintly woman! Austere, some thought; perhaps not
always charitable--

"Oh!" cried Margaret, indignant. "Cousin Sophronia, you cannot have
known Aunt Faith at all. She was the very soul of charity; and as for
being austere--but it is evident you did not know her." She tried to
keep down her rising temper, with thoughts of the sweet, serene eyes
that had never met hers without a look of love.

"I knew her before you were born, my dear!" said Miss Sophronia, with a
slightly acid smile. "Oh, yes, I was intimately acquainted with dear
Aunt Faith. I have never thought it right to be blind to people's little
failings, no matter how much we love them. I always tell my brother
William, 'William, do not ask me to be blind! Ask me, expect me, to be
indul