t, Miss Puritan. See! Here's a pretty emerald. But you haven't told me
the news. Mr. Montfort is well always?"

"Always!" said Margaret. "We--we have a visitor just now, Mrs.
Peyton,--some one you know."

"Some one I know?" cried Mrs. Peyton. "I thought every one I knew was
dead and buried. Who is it, child? Don't keep me in suspense. Can't you
see that I am palpitating?"

She laughed, and looked so pretty, and so malicious, that Margaret
wanted to kiss and to shake her at the same moment.

"It is a cousin of Uncle John's and of mine," she said; "Miss Sophronia
Montfort."

"_What!_" cried Mrs. Peyton, sitting up in bed. "Sophronia Montfort? You
are joking, Margaret."

Assured that Margaret was not joking, she fell back again on her
pillows. "Sophronia Montfort!" she said, laughing softly. "I have not
heard of her since the flood. How does John--how does Mr. Montfort
endure it, Pussy? He was not always a patient man."

Margaret thought her uncle one of the most patient men she had ever
seen.

"And how many men have you seen, little girl? Never mind! I will allow
him all the qualities of the Patient Patriarch. He will need them all,
if he is to have Sophronia long. I am sorry for you, Pussy! Come over as
often as you can to see me. I am dull, but there are worse things than
dullness."

This was not very encouraging.

"She--Cousin Sophronia--sent you a great many messages," Margaret said,
timidly. "She--is very anxious to see you, Mrs. Peyton. She would like
to come over some morning, and spend an hour with you."

"If she does, I'll poison her!" said Mrs. Peyton, promptly. "Don't look
shocked, Margaret Montfort; I shall certainly do as I say. Sophronia
comes here at peril of her life, and you may tell her so with my
compliments."

Margaret sat silent and distressed, not knowing what to say. She had
known very few people in her quiet life, and this beautiful lady, whom
she admired greatly, also puzzled her sadly.

"I cannot tell her that, can I, dear Mrs. Peyton?" she said, at last. "I
shall tell her that you are not well,--that is true, most
certainly,--and that you do not feel able to see her."

"Tell her what you please," said Emily Peyton, laughing again. "If she
comes, I shall poison her,--that is my first and last word. Tell her?
Tell her that Emily Peyton is a wreck; that she lies here like a log,
week after week, month after month, caring for nothing, no one caring
for her, except a kind little gi