"Oh, I mean it!" said the lady, with a pretty little grimace. "I mean it, Miss Puritan. See! Here's a pretty emerald. But you haven't told me the news. Mr. Montfort is well always?"
"Always!" said Margaret. "We—we have a visitor just now, Mrs. Peyton,—some one you know."
"Some one I know?" cried Mrs. Peyton. "I thought every one I knew was dead and buried. Who is it, child? Don't keep me in suspense. Can't you see that I am palpitating?"
She laughed, and looked so pretty, and so malicious, that Margaret wanted to kiss and to shake her at the same moment.
"It is a cousin of Uncle John's and of mine," she said; "Miss Sophronia Montfort."
"What!" cried Mrs. Peyton, sitting up in bed. "Sophronia Montfort? You are joking, Margaret."
Assured that Margaret was not joking, she fell back again on her pillows. "Sophronia Montfort!" she said, laughing softly. "I have not heard of her since the flood. How does John—how does Mr. Montfort endure it, Pussy? He was not always a patient man."
Margaret thought her uncle one of the most patient men she had ever seen.
"And how many men have you seen, little girl? Never mind! I will allow him all the qualities of the Patient Patriarch. He will need them all, if he is to have Sophronia long. I am sorry for you, Pussy! Come over as often as you can to see me. I am dull, but there are worse things than dullness."
This was not very encouraging.