"I am sure you could; the greatest," he responded promptly, his voice betraying relief. "Mrs. Thorne is an odd little woman; but she has a very genuine liking for you; I think she feels more at home with you, for some reason or other, than she does with any of these Gracias friends, long as she has known them. And as for Garda, I am sure you could do more for her than any other person here could—later, I mean—she is so fond of you." He paused; what he had said seemed to come back to him. "Both of them, mother and daughter, appear to have selected you as their ideal of goodness," he went on; "I hope you appreciate the compliment." This time the slight, very slight indication of sarcasm showed itself again in his tone.
"Is it possible that you think the poor mother really in danger?" said Margaret, paying no heed, apparently, to his last remark.
"She has evidently grown very weak, and I have never thought she had any strength to spare. But it is only my own idea, I ought to tell you, that she is—that she may not recover."
"I will go as soon as possible; early to-morrow morning," said Margaret. "But if I do—" She hesitated. "I am afraid Aunt Katrina will be lone—I mean I fear she might feel deserted if left alone."
"Alone—with Minerva and Telano and Cindy, and the mysterious factotum called Maum Jube?"
"There would still be no companion, no one for her to talk to."
"How you underrate the conversation of Celestine! I should, of course, come in often."
"I think that if you should stay in the house, while I am gone, it would be better," answered Margaret.
"To try and make up, in some small degree, for what she loses when she loses you?"
"Whatever you please, so long as you come," she responded.