“Pray excuse me,” said Margaret, embarrassed.
This answer surprised the family group, who had, however, the tact to withdraw their attention and change the subject.
After tea, an hour or two was spent upon the pleasant lawn, strolling through the groves, or down to the silvery beach, and watching the monotonous motion of the sea, the occasional leap and plunge of the fish, the solitary flight of a laggard water fowl, and perhaps the distant appearance of a sail.
At last, when the full moon was high in the heavens, the family returned to the house.
Mrs. Houston took Margaret’s arm, and saying:
“I have a little surprise for you, my love,” led her into the pretty wing appropriated to her.
The rooms were illumined by a shaded alabaster lamp that diffused a sort of tender moonlight tone over the bright carpet and chairs and sofa covers, and the marble-topped tables, and white lace window curtains of the boudoir, and fell softly upon the pure white draperies of the sleeping-room beyond.
Hildreth, in her neat, sober gown of gray stuff, and her apron, neckhandkerchief and turban of white linen, stood in attendance.
Margaret had not seen her faithful nurse for a month—that is, not since her mother’s decease—and now she sprang to greet her, scarcely able to refrain from bursting into tears.
Mrs. Houston interfered.