The girl turned sharply. She gave a little cry of dismay. The embarrassed red flew to her cheeks.
“Oh, you—you are not Uncle Frank at all!” she stammered.
A sudden light of comprehension broke over Ned’s face. And so this was Margaret. How stupid of him not to have known at once!
He laughed lightly and made a low bow.
“I have not that honor,” he confessed. “But you—you must be Miss Kendall.”
“And you?”
“I?” Ned smiled quizzically. “I? Oh, I am—your Uncle Ned!” he announced; and his voice and his emphasis told her that he fully appreciated his privilege in being twenty-five—and uncle to a niece of twenty-three.
CHAPTER XV
By the end of the month the family at Hilcrest wondered how they had ever lived before they saw the world and everything in it through the blue eyes of Margaret Kendall—the world and everything in it seemed so much more beautiful now!
Never were the long mornings in the garden or on the veranda so delightful to Mrs. Merideth as now with a bright, sympathetic girl to laugh, chat, or keep silent as the whim of the moment dictated; and never were the summer evenings so charming to Frank as now when one might lie back in one’s chair or hammock and listen to a dreamy nocturne or a rippling waltz-song, and realize that the musician was no bird of passage, but that she was one’s own beloved ward and was even now at home. As for Ned—never were the golf links in so fine a shape, nor the tennis court and croquet ground so alluring; and never had he known before how many really delightful trips there were within a day’s run for his motor-car.