The Turn of the Tide: The Story of How Margaret Solved Her Problem

by Eleanor H. Porter

There did, indeed, seem nothing left to do for Patty, and Margaret found herself with the old idleness on her hands.

At Hilcrest Mrs. Merideth and her brothers were doing everything in their power to make Margaret happy. They were frightened and dismayed at the girl’s “infatuation for that mill woman,” as they termed Margaret’s interest in Patty; and they had ever before them the haunting vision of the girl’s childhood morbidness, which they so feared to see return.

To the Spencers, happiness for Margaret meant pleasure, excitement, and—as Ned expressed it—“something doing.” At the first hint, then, of leisure on the part of Margaret, these three vied with each other to fill that leisure to the brim.

Two or three guests were invited—just enough to break the monotony of the familiar faces, though not enough to spoil the intimacy and render outside interests easy. It was December, and too late for picnics, but it was yet early in the month, and driving and motoring were still possible, and even enjoyable. The goal now was not a lake or a mountain, to be sure; but might be a not too distant city with a matinée or a luncheon to give zest to the trip.

Ned, in particular, was indefatigable in his efforts to please; and Margaret could scarcely move that she did not find him at her elbow with some suggestion for her gratification ranging all the way from a dinner-party to a footstool.

Margaret was not quite at ease about Ned. There was an exclusiveness in his devotions, and a tenderness in his ministrations that made her a little restless in his presence, particularly if she found herself alone with him. Ned was her good friend—her comrade. She was very sure that she did not wish him to be anything else; and if he should try to be—there would be an end to the comradeship, at all events, if not to the friendship.

By way of defense against these possibilities she adopted a playful air of whimsicality and fell to calling him the name by which he had introduced himself on that first day when she had seen him at the head of the hillside path—“Uncle Ned.” She did not do this many times, however, for one day he turned upon her a white face working with emotion.

“I am not your uncle,” he burst out; and Margaret scarcely knew whether to laugh or to cry, he threw so much tragedy into the simple words.

“No?” she managed to return lightly. “Oh, but you said you were, you know; and when a man says——”

“But I say otherwise now,” he cut in, leaning toward her until his breath stirred the hair at her temples. “Margaret,” he murmured tremulously, “it’s not ‘uncle,’—but there’s something else—a name that——”