Sorely puzzled as to the exact path of duty, Margaret tried to explain to the boy how ideas of discipline had changed since Cousin Sophronia was a young girl; how, probably, she had herself been brought up with rigid severity, and, never having married, had kept all the old cast-iron ideas which were now superseded by wider and better knowledge and sympathy. As to this particular point, what should she say? Her whole kind nature revolted against the thought of the hungry child, alone, waking, perhaps weeping, with no one to comfort her; yet how could she, Margaret, possibly interfere with the doings of one old enough to be her mother?
Pondering in anxious perplexity, she chanced to raise her eyes to the house. It was brightly lighted, and, as it happened, the curtains had not been drawn. "Look!" said Margaret, pressing the boy's hand in hers. "Basil, look!"
One long, narrow window looked directly upon the back stairs, which led from the servants' hall to the upper floor. Up these stairs, past the window, a figure was now seen to pass, swiftly and stealthily; a portly figure, carrying something that looked like a heaped up plate; the figure of Frances the cook. It passed, and in a moment more they saw light, as of an opening door, flash into the dark window of the corner room where the little girl slept.
"Do you know, Basil," said Margaret, "I wouldn't worry any more about Susan D.'s being hungry. There is one person in Fernley whom no one, not even Uncle John, can manage; that is Frances."
An hour or so later, Margaret was coming down from the nursery. Merton had announced, as bedtime drew near, that he "felt a pain;" and Margaret had no difficulty in tracing it to Mrs. Peyton's careless indulgence. She stole down quietly to the cheerful back room where Frances and Elizabeth sat with their sewing, and begged for some simple remedy. Frances rose with alacrity. "Checkerberry cordial is what you want, Miss Margaret," she said. "I've made it for thirty years, and I hope I know its merits. No wonder the child is sick. If some had their way, everybody in this house 'ud be sick to starvation."
"I am afraid it was the other thing in this case, Frances," said Margaret, meekly. "I'm afraid Master Merton ate too many rich things at Mrs. Peyton's." Now in general, Frances could not abide patiently the mention of Mrs. Peyton; but this time she declared she was glad the child had had enough to eat for once. "'Twill do him no harm!" she said, stoutly. "Give him ten drops of this, Miss Margaret, in a wine-glass of hot water,—wait a minute, dear, and I'll mix it myself,—and he'll turn over and go to sleep like a lamb. Treating children as if they was one half starch and t'other half sticks! Don't tell me!"
Knowing that none of this wrath was directed against herself, Margaret wisely held her tongue, and departed with her glass, leaving Frances still muttering, and Elizabeth with lips pursed up in judicious silence. And Merton took it and felt better, and was glad enough to be petted a little, and finally to be tucked up with the hot water-bottle for a comforter.
As has been said, Margaret was coming down-stairs after this mission was fulfilled, when she met Miss Sophronia coming up. "All quiet up-stairs, my dear?" said the lady. "I am going to bed myself, Margaret, for I feel a little rheumatic, or I should rather say neuralgic, perhaps. These things are very obscure; the doctor says my case is a very remarkable one; he has never seen another like it. Yes, and now I am going to make sure that this child is all right, and that she does not actually need anything. Duty, Margaret, is a thing I can never neglect."
Margaret followed her cousin into the room, feeling rather self-reproachful. Perhaps she had been unjust in her judgment. Cousin Sophronia was of course doing the best, or what she thought the best, for this poor wild little girl.
Miss Sophronia advanced towards the bed, holding up her candle. Margaret, looking over her shoulder, saw the child lying fast asleep, her hand under her cheek. Her face was flushed, and her fair hair lay in a tangle on the pillow. Margaret had never seen her look so nearly pretty. There were traces of tears on her face, too, and she sobbed a little, softly, in her sleep.