gent, to be devoted, to be self-sacrificing,--but not blind;
blindness is contrary to my nature, and you must not expect it.' Yes!
And--what was done with the clothes, my dear?"

"The clothes?" echoed Margaret. "Aunt Faith's clothes, do you mean,
Cousin Sophronia?"

"No. I meant the Montfort clothes; the heirlooms, my dear. But perhaps
you never saw them?"

"Oh, yes, I have seen them often," said Margaret. "They are in the cedar
chest, Cousin Sophronia, where they have always been. It is in the deep
closet there," she nodded towards an alcove at the other end of the
room.

Miss Sophronia rose with alacrity. "Ah! I think I will look them over.
Very valuable, some of those clothes are; quite unsuitable, I have
thought for some years, to have them under the charge of an aged person,
who could not in the course of nature be expected to see to them
properly. I fear I shall find them in a sad condition."

Her hand was already on the door, when Margaret was able to speak.
"Excuse me, Cousin Sophronia; the chest is locked."

"Very proper! Entirely proper!" cried the lady. "And you have the key?
That will not do, will it, my love? Too heavy for these dear young
shoulders, such a weight of responsibility! I will take entire charge of
this; not a word! It will be a pleasure! Where is the key, did you say,
love?"

"Uncle John has the key!" said Margaret, quietly; and blamed herself
severely for the pleasure she felt in saying it.

"Oh!" Miss Montfort paused, her hand on the door; for a moment she
seemed at a loss; but she went on again.

"Right, Margaret! Very right, my love! You felt yourself, or your uncle
felt for you, the unfitness of your having charge of such valuables.
Ahem! I--no doubt dear John will give me the key, as soon as I mention
it. I--I shall not speak of it at once; there is no hurry--except for
the danger of moth. An old house like Fernley is always riddled with
moth. I fear the clothes must be quite eaten away with them. Such a sad
pity! The accumulation of generations!"

Margaret hastened to assure her that the clothes were looked over
regularly once a month, and that no sign of moths had ever been found in
them. Miss Sophronia sighed and shook her head, and crocheted for some
minutes in silence; she was making a brown and yellow shoulder-shawl.
Margaret thought she had never seen a shawl so ugly.

"Has Cousin William Montfort any daughters?" she asked, presently,
thinking it her turn to bear som