"Then don't behave like a kid!" retorted Peggy. "There, that's enough. Yes, Margaret, it has all been perfectly delightful and fairy-like; and then the Mysteries, too, and the hunting, and the Silver Closet, and all. Oh, I am so glad we didn't find out everything that first summer. I suppose Uncle John thought we were too young and silly then; not that you were ever silly, you dear darling thing. But, Margaret, there is one thing wanting to it all, and only you and I know what that is."
Margaret nodded. "Yes," she said, with a little sigh. "We want our Princess, Peggy. Oh, Grace, if you only knew our Rita! How you and she would love each other! Peggy, you said that just at the right moment, for I have her last letter in my pocket, on purpose to read to you, and I am sure the others would like to hear it, too. Would you, girls?"
There seemed no possible doubt on the subject. All the girls gathered about Margaret, sitting on the floor, as they liked best to do. Margaret herself took possession of her favorite low chair, and drawing the letter from her pocket, began to read:
"Beloved Marguerite:—I am of return only yesterday from an expedition to the hills, and I find your precious letter waiting for me. No need to tell you that I pressed it to my heart, covered it with kisses. Jack says your letters are the sole thing of which he is jealous. I grieve to hear that you must lose those little ones whom you love so well, even for a short time; but courage, Margarita mia; there are other flowers besides roses, and summer is a pleasant time. You will have Peggy with you, dear Peggy! She sends me a photograph, which shows her little changed in the face; still the dimples, still the soft roundness of cheek and chin. Best of Peggys; if I had her here, what great joy! But I must tell you of our ride. We went, Jack and I, up to the hill camp, where we went last year, after the terrible ride you know of. There we spent three happy days, camping in the green hollow among the hills, with only Juan to cook for us and care for the horses. Ah, Marguerite, what a time was that! We visited every spot made sacred to us by our love. The hiding-place, near poor Don Annunzio's house, where I first saw my hero, swinging in his hammock. Have I told you that I thought him a skulker, a coward hiding to escape warfare? How often we have laughed over that! Then we passed along the road, so peaceful now, so wild and horrent then (how is this word, 'horrent,' Marguerite? I find it in a poem, it seems to me noble; I tell Jack, he laughs, and says something like 'high falu—' I cannot tell what!). We paused to weep over the gray heap where once smiled the residencia, where that kind old woman and her good vast husband sheltered the wandering maiden, protected her at the risk of their own lives, and—one of them, as you know—died to save her and others. Then farther, to Carlos's old camp, where Manuela and I lived, and where I first learned to be of a little use in the world. Ah, the memories, how they came crowding back! I have told you that Manuela is married to Pepe? Yes; two months ago. The wedding was charming! I gave her her wedding-gown, of finest muslin, suitable to her condition, with plenty of lace and ribbons, which the poor child values highly, and I dressed her hair (poor Manuela! She would have done it far better herself; she has a wonderful gift. My present maid is a poor creature, but Manuela is to give her lessons), and arranged the veil and wreath. She was a vision of enchantment, and really thrown away on poor Pepe, who never looked at either dress or veil. Jack says 'neither did he.' My dear, these men! To what purpose do we adorn ourselves, exhaust the treasure of our souls, in efforts to please them? But I wander from my story. My child, this expedition, carrying back heart as well as body to the scenes of before our marriage, has told me over again the story of my happiness. Marguerite, how to deserve it, this wonderful bliss? I study, I try, the dear Saint teaches me always many things—in vain! I am debtor to the whole world, and how much more to the gracious Power above worlds! But enough of this, my Pearl! Your time will come; till then you know nothing of it. I pant for your awakening, I burn, Marguerite, but I am powerless. If I had you here, there is a friend of ours, a paladin, a Roland, second only to my Jack—no! This makes you laugh, I feel it, I see your cool, pearly smile. I am angry with you for laughing, yet I laugh, too. So! now of other things. I think of you always; Jack also; I have told him so much, he assassinates himself with desire to see you all. The time will come! Marguerite—no matter! One word only! Our beloved Uncle's birthday; I remember the day, the Fourteenth. You will honor it, I know, as such a day should be honored, the day which blessed the earth with the best man—except one—that breathes mortal breath. Marguerite, if on that day a trifle should come from the far-away cousins, you will receive it kindly? Ah, how well I know the answer! Bless you, my treasure! I must go to my housekeeping. Dear Donito Miguelito is staying with us now; you can fancy the joy of tending this saintly old man in his feebleness. I prepare myself the little dishes that please him; it is a sacred task; it is like feeding a holy butterfly.
"Adios, my Marguerite!
"Ever and ever your devoted
"Rita.
"You ask of Concepcion. She is married to Diego Moreno, and, as I hear, is very unhappy. Poor woman, I compassionate her!"
After the reading of the letter, Grace slipped away to return to her patient, and the three cousins sat together, talking in low tones of Rita, and of Grace herself. Jean maintained stoutly that Rita could not be so fascinating as Grace. Peggy and Margaret insisted that, though totally different in quality, neither could outdo the other in amount of charm.
"They are both the kind of girls you would do anything for!" said Peggy; "just anything in the world, no matter how foolish, just because they wanted you to. It isn't a thing you can describe; it just is, and nobody can help it."
"Well, I should think the difference would be in the kind of thing they would ask you to do," said Jean, with wisdom beyond her years. "Grace wouldn't ask you anything foolish, and I should think Cousin Rita might."
"Grace!" exclaimed Peggy; and then checked herself loyally. "Grace wasn't always so wise as she is now, young one!" she said, simply.