"Well, Margaret," said Hugh, somewhat impressed, but more amused, at sight of all this hoarded treasure, "what do you say? I shall leave the expression of emotion to you."
But Margaret was in no jesting mood. With clasped hands she turned to her cousin. "Oh, Hugh," she cried, "isn't it wonderful? to think of all those beautiful things living here alone,—I don't mean alone, but all by themselves—year after year, with no one to see them, or take them out and polish them. Oh, I never saw such things! Look at this perfect pitcher, will you? did you ever see anything so graceful? This must come in, if nothing else does. The milk shall be poured from it from this day forward, as long as I am the Mistress of Fernley. That is just a play-name, of course," she hastened to explain, blushing as she did so. "Uncle John gave it to me in sport, when I first began to try to keep house."
"It seems to me a most appropriate name," said Hugh. "There has never been another, has there? in this generation, I mean. Uncle John was never married, was he?"
"No; isn't it a pity? I have so often wondered why. I asked Aunt Faith once,—well, Hugh, of course she was Mistress of Fernley as long as she lived, though she would always speak of herself as a visitor,—and she only sighed and shook her head, and said, 'Poor John! poor dear lad!' and then changed the subject. But—do you suppose any one can hear us here, Hugh?"
"I do not, Margaret. I should say that you might safely tell me anything, of however fearful a nature, in this iron-bound retreat."
"Oh, it really isn't anything—or perhaps it is not—but my own fancy. I have built up a kind of air-castle of the past, that is all. You know Uncle John's passion for roses? Well, and sometimes, when he is sitting quietly and has forgotten that any one is near, he will say to himself, 'Rose! Rose!' softly, just like that, and as if it were something he loved to say. I have wondered whether he once cared a great deal for some one whose name was Rose.—What do you think, Hugh? and she died, and that is why he has never married. There! I have never spoken of this before, not even to Peggy. Don't tell any one, will you?"
She looked anxiously in her cousin's face, and met the grave, sweet look that always made her feel safe and quiet; she did not know how else to express it.
"Tell any one? No indeed, my dear little cousin. It is a young girl's fancy, and a very sweet and graceful one."
"Then you don't think it may be true?" asked Margaret, disappointed.
"Certainly it may be true; I should think it highly probable that something of the sort had happened, to keep a man like Uncle John single all his days; but—well, I don't see that anything can be done about it now, do you?"