Margaret was far from well, even for her. For two weeks she had been ailing, and appeared weak and listless. Corinne was not very much surprised on coming in one afternoon to find her no longer in her wheel-chair by the parlor window, but upstairs in bed in her room on the second floor. This had never happened before since the day that Corinne had first visited the little house in Charlton Street, and her heart misgave her as she climbed the stairs with the twins. But she entered the room, assuming a cheerfulness she was far from feeling.
"Taking a vacation in bed, Honey? Well, I don't blame you, in such wretched weather! It was sleeting and freezing as I came in, and the walking is simply abominable. How cozy you are here with another open fire! You seem to have one in every room. I wish we did!"
Margaret greeted her with something of her old animation, but presently relapsed into listlessness again. Corinne chatted on for a time, as though nothing out of the ordinary were the matter:
"I've got some news from the latest member of the Antiquarian Club! He has a proposition to make. He says that when the first nice spring weather comes, he's going to invite the club to a series of 'antiquarian outings.' They're to take place every pleasant Saturday afternoon. He will have a big, comfy automobile come here, and we're all to pile in,—Margaret in the comfiest place of all,—and we're going to 'do' old New York—the real, historic parts, I mean. One day we'll take a run up to Van Cortlandt Manor, and see that place, which was Washington's headquarters at one time. Then another day we'll do the lower part of the city, and have lunch at Fraunces' Tavern. And, oh! he's planned a lot of things like that. It's going to be great fun, I tell you!"
But Margaret failed to be roused to any extent even by this delightful prospect, though the twins were thoroughly enthusiastic. At last, when Bess and Jess had gone downstairs to investigate the refreshment proposition, Corinne determined to fathom, if possible, the curious apathy that seemed so new to Margaret.
"Honey, dear," she crooned, sitting on the bed-side and putting her face down by Margaret, "something's bothering you, and I want you to tell me what it is! Something's troubling your mind. Can't you tell me about it, dear, even if you haven't any one else?"
Margaret raised herself on her elbow and faced Corinne. "Yes, something is bothering me," she acknowledged, "and no one but you has seemed to notice it. But I'm going to tell you, Corinne, because I love you, and I haven't any secrets from you. I'm just worried sick because that journal was destroyed! It was my fault. I'm responsible for it all! It might have been very valuable, and been sold for a good deal of money. And that would have helped Mother a lot, because we're not very well off, and she has to work awfully hard!"
"But, Margaret," exclaimed Corinne, "this is all nonsense! Of course, it's unfortunate that the thing happened, but you can't even blame Sarah, for she didn't know it was anything of value, and she thought she was acting for the best, and saving you from getting sick. Nobody's to blame! It's just one of those unlucky things that happen sometimes. It isn't as if you or any one else had been careless about it!"
"But you don't understand me!" insisted Margaret. "It was my fault, because I kept insisting that this thing should be a secret, and nobody else was to be told. It was terribly foolish—I can see that plainly now! And I never should have kept such a valuable thing in such an insecure place. We ought to have shown it at once to your father and let him keep it. Oh, I'll never forgive myself—never, never!" She turned her face into the pillows and lay a long time silent,—not crying, but just in an apathy of self-reproach.
Corinne, meanwhile, argued and pleaded and consoled—in vain. Margaret would neither look up nor respond. And at last, in despair, she exclaimed: