Margaret had led Nan into a strange country, so to speak, and she knew not which way to turn or what to say. Something was wrong, but what? Of all Nan's acquaintances, Margaret was the most self-contained, the most evenly balanced. Many and many a time Nan had envied Margaret's serenity, and now here she was in tears, after talking as wildly as some hysterical person.
"Come home with me, Margaret," cried Nan. "Maybe the change would do you good."
"I thank you, Nan. You are as good as you can be; you are almost as good as the people here; but I can't go. I can't leave this house for any length of time until I leave it for good. I'd be wild to get back; my misery fascinates me; I hate it and hug it."
"I am sure that I don't understand you at all," said Nan, in a tone of despair.
"No, and you never will," Margaret affirmed. "To understand you would have to feel as I do, and I hope you may be spared that experience all the days of your life."
After awhile Nan decided that Margaret would be more comfortable if she were alone, and so she bade her friend good-bye, and went downstairs, where she found Miss Fanny awaiting her somewhat impatiently.
"Well, what is the trouble, child?" she asked.
Nan shook her head. "I don't know, Aunt Fanny, and I don't believe she knows herself."
"But didn't she give you some hint—some intimation? I don't want to be inquisitive, child; but if she's in trouble, I want to find some remedy for it. Pulaski is in a terrible state of mind about her, and I am considerably worried myself. We love her just as much as if she were our own, and yet we can't go to her and make a serious effort to discover what is worrying her. She is proud and sensitive, and we have to be very careful. Oh, I hope we have done nothing to wound that child's feelings."
"It isn't that," replied Nan. "I asked her, and she said that you treated her too kindly."