"No! oh, no! She says—she is sorry for Fernando, but he will always be her brother. This one's name is—let me see. José Maria Salvador Santillo de Santayana. What a magnificent name! He had followed her from Cuba, and he has Uncle Richard's permission to pay his addresses to Rita, and she says—she says he is the dream of her life, embodied in the form of a Greek hero, with the soul of a poet, and the intellect of a Shakespeare. So I suppose it is all right, uncle; only, she is very young."
"Young! My dear child, she was grown up while you were still in the nursery," said Mr. Montfort. "According to Spanish ideas, it is high time for her to be married, and I am sure I wish the dear girl all happiness. We must look over the family trinkets, Margaret, and find something for our bird of Paradise. There are some pretty bits of jewelry; but that will keep. Now, if you can stop wondering and romancing for a moment, May Margaret, I, too, have a letter, about which I wish to consult you."
"Yes, uncle, oh, yes! I hope he is good as well as handsome, don't you? She says the Santillo nose is the marvel of all Cuba."
"The Santillo nose may be pickled in brine, my dear, for ought I care; I really want your attention, Margaret, and you must come down from the clouds. Here is Anthony Montfort writing for his children."
"What!" cried Margaret, waking suddenly from her dream. "What did you say about the children, Uncle John? Cousin Anthony writing for them? What can you mean?"
"Why, my love, I mean writing for them," said Mr. Montfort, calmly. "He is, you may remember, a relation of theirs, a father in point of fact. He has found an excellent opening in California, and means to stay there. He says—I'll read you his letter, or the part of it that relates to the children. Hum—'grateful to you'—ha! yes, here it is. 'Of course I must make some arrangement about the children. One of the boys can come to me, but I cannot take care of both, so Basil will have to go to boarding-school, and Susan D., too. If you would be so good as to look up a good school or two, I should be ever so much obliged. Basil can take care of himself, you'll only have to consign and ship him; perhaps you can get some one to go with the little girl, and see to her things and all that. It's a shame to call upon you,'—h'm! so forth! Well, Meg, what do you say?"
But Margaret said nothing. She was sitting with her hands fallen on her lap, gazing at her uncle with a face of such piteous consternation that he had much ado to keep his countenance.
"Take them away!" she faltered, presently. "Take away—my children? Oh, Uncle John!"
Mr. Montfort looked away, and smoked awhile in silence, giving the girl time to collect herself. Margaret struggled with the tears that wanted to rush to her eyes. She forced herself to take up the letters that lay in her lap and fold them methodically. When he saw that her hands trembled less, Mr. Montfort said, quietly, "The children have been a great deal of care to you, Margaret; but you have grown fond of them, I know, and so have I. I think a good deal of your judgment, my dear, young as you are. What would you like best to have done about the little people? Take time; take time! Anthony practically leaves the whole matter in my hands. In fact, I think he is puzzled, and feels perhaps that he has not done as well as he might for them always. Take time, my child."
"Oh, I don't need any time, Uncle John!" cried Margaret, trying to speak steadily. "I—I didn't realise, I suppose—it has all come about so gradually—I didn't realise all that they were to me. To lose Basil and Susan D.,—I don't see how I can let them go, uncle; I don't indeed. You won't think me ungrateful, will you, dear? I was, oh, so happy, before they came; but now—they are so dear, so dear! and—and Susan D. is used to me, and to have her go to a stranger who might not understand the poor little shut-up nature—oh, how can I bear it? how can I bear it?"