When all was arranged, even to the fresh flowers in the white vases upon the front room mantelpiece, and the choice books from Mrs. Houston’s own private library upon the center table, the busy little lady, in her eagerness to surprise and please, hurried away to seek Margaret and introduce her to her delightful apartments. She tripped swiftly and softly up the stairs, and into the room, where she surprised Margaret, quite absorbed in some work at her writing-desk.
“Oh, you are busy! Whom are you writing to, my dear?” she inquired eagerly, hastening to the side of the girl and looking over her shoulder.
She meant nothing, or next to nothing—it was her heedless, impulsive way. She was in a hurry, and did not stop to remember that the question was rude, even when Margaret, with a sudden blush, reversed her sheet of paper, and, keeping her hand pressed down upon it, arose in agitation.
“Why, how startled you are, my dear! How nervous you must be! I ought not to have come upon you so suddenly. But to whom are you writing, my dear?”
“To—a—correspondent, Mrs. Houston.”
“Why, just look there now! See what a good hand I am at guessing, for I even judged as much! But who is your correspondent then, my dear?”
“A—friend! Mrs. Houston.”
“Good, again! I had imagined so, since you have no enemies, my child. But who then is this friend, you little rustic? You have not even acquaintances to write letters to, much less friends, unless it is Franky! Ah, by the way, don’t write to Franky, Margaret! He could not bear it now.”
Margaret made no comment, and Mrs. Houston, growing uneasy upon the subject of Franky, said:
“I hope you are not writing to Franky, Margaret!”