"Is this a pleasant neighborhood, Margaret?" asked Hugh, as they sat on the verandah after dinner. "Have you any pleasant—a—friends, of your own age?"
"None of my own age," said Margaret. "Indeed, our only near neighbor is Mrs. Peyton, an invalid lady, whom I go to see quite often. She is very charming, but—no, there is no one else; the places are large and scattered, you see, all about here. The next one on the other side belongs to Miss Desmond, and she is always abroad, and has not been here at all since I have."
"You don't think she may have returned lately, without your knowing it?"
"No, I am sure she cannot; I heard of her only a few days ago, in Egypt; Uncle John had a letter from her. Why do you ask, Hugh?"
"Oh—idle curiosity; or curiosity, whether idle or not. And—there are no other young girls?"
"None; that is why I missed Peggy and Rita so terribly, as I was telling you last night. Then the dear children came, and they were my comfort and joy; I shall have them again when the summer is over; happy day it will be when they come back. But, you see, having first the girls and then the children has rather spoiled Uncle John and me, and that is why it was so very particularly nice of you to come, Cousin Hugh."
"Suppose we drop the 'cousin,' and be just Hugh and Margaret?" suggested her cousin. "I am used to having sisters about me, you know, and don't know how to get along without them; some day it may be 'Sister Margaret.' Should you mind?"
Margaret colored high with pleasure, and again the foolish tears came into her eyes. "I have wanted a brother all my life!" she said, simply; and again Hugh's smile told her that he understood all about it. He was certainly a most wonderful person.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes; then—"I did not tell the exact truth," said Margaret, "when I said there were no young people here. Just now it happens there is one, a newcomer, a girl of my own age."
She paused. "Yes?" said Hugh, suggestively. "Some one you know?"