"I can tell you all about her," Lena said. "My mother was once engaged to her father, Gerald Vincent--" Margaret turned quickly as if to stop her. But she took no notice and went on. "He was a clergyman then, but he changed his opinions, left the Church, and wrote some articles that made a sensation. All his relations were furious, and mother couldn't marry him. A little cry came from Margaret.

"Oh! How could she tell you?" she exclaimed.

"You oughtn't to have told us, anyhow," Tom Carringford said, turning upon Lena: he was almost distressed. "It's an awful shame!"

"Miss Lakeman didn't mean any harm--she's not like any one else," Miss Hunstan said to Margaret, with a look in her eyes that counted for more than her words.

"It's history, dear--everybody knows it," Lena cooed, soothingly.

"Besides, I always tell everything I know, about myself and every one else. It's much the best way; then one doesn't get any shocks in life, and isn't told any secrets."

"There's something in that," Mr. Farley agreed, and then he turned to Margaret; "I've read some of Mr. Vincent's articles. They are beyond my depth, but I recognized their brilliance."

"You see?" Lena said, with a shrug that implied it was impossible to cover up the history of a famous person. Mr. Farley looked at her impatiently and then at the stranger-girl: it was odd how different from themselves they all felt her to be.

"Are you going to any theatres?" he asked, trying to change the conversation. "There are all sorts of things to see in London."

"We are going to 'King John' to-night."

"Mr. Shakespeare and rather slow," Tom Carringford put in, gayly.

"Ah, that's what you young men think," Mr. Farley said--he himself was under forty.

"Tell me what you do in the country, little Margaret?" Lena asked, with the air of a culprit who loved her, and ignoring the fact that Margaret was a good five foot seven. "Do you bask in the sun all the summer, and hide beneath the snow all the winter, or do you behave like ordinary mortals?"

"We behave like ordinary mortals. Father and I read a great many books--" she began.

"And what does your mother do?"

"Mother and Hannah are generally busy with the farm and the house."

"Who is Hannah?"

"My half-sister. She is a good deal older than I am."

"Can't you see it all?" Lena said, turning to the others. "I can, as clearly as possible. Mrs. Vincent and Hannah look after the farm, and Margaret and her father sit together and read books. The farm carts rumble by, dogs bark, and chickens wander about; there are cows in the fields, honeysuckle in the hedges, and bees in the hives at the end of the garden. In my thoughts I can see them all jumbled up together, and hear the notes of the thrushes in the trees."

"Rubbish!" said Tom Carringford. "Your talk is a little too picturesque, you know. It always is. I can't think how you manage to invent it so quickly."

"Are you eager, now that you have come into the world?" Lena asked, taking no notice of Tom's crushing remark. "Do you long to run all over it, and feel as if you could eat it up?"

"Rubbish!" said Tom again. "She doesn't feel anything of the sort."

"Everybody does who is really alive."

"All right," he said, imperturbably. "I am a babe unborn, or a mummy."

Then he turned to Margaret: "I have to go now; but I wish I had seen your father, Miss Vincent. Where are you staying?"

"At the Langham Hotel--it's in Regent Street."

"Oh yes, we know; we have been in London for some time, you see," Mr.

Farley laughed. He liked this girl; she was fresh and unspoiled, he thought. He had a curious hatred of Lena Lakeman, which had just been intensified by her treatment of Margaret. There were times when he felt that he should like to strangle her, just for the good of the community.

He hated her wriggling movements, her low tones, her sugary manner, and the outrageous things she said and did with an air of unconsciousness.

Tom Carringford stood talking with Miss Hunstan before he departed. They appeared to be making some arrangement together, for, as he wished her good-bye he said, "All right, then; I will if I can. Anyhow, may I look in at tea-time to-morrow?"

"You may look in at any time you like," Miss Hunstan said, and then she explained to Margaret: "Mr. Carringford and I are old friends, and always have a great deal to say to each other." She got up when he had gone. "I'm going, too," she said; "but I wish I could stay longer." She held out her hand to Margaret. "I am a stranger to you," she said; "but I should like you to know that I am an American woman, and an actress--who was once a stranger, too, here in London. I hope to stay for some time, and if you come up again and would come and see me, either at the theatre or at my home, I'd be more glad than I can say, for you remind me of a girl I knew in Philadelphia, and she was the sweetest thing on earth."

"I should like it so very much," Margaret said, gratefully.

"Write to me if you can, for I wouldn't like to miss you. Anyway, just remember that I live in Great College Street, Westminster; and you will easily find it, for it's quite near the Abbey. No, thank you, Miss Lakeman, I won't stay for tea. Good-bye."

"I'll walk with you, Louise," Mr. Farley said. "Miss Hunstan is an old friend of mine, too," he told Margaret. "We knew each other in America."

Then, when they were alone, Lena went up to Margaret. "I am glad they are gone," she said. "Now we shall understand each other so much better, and you must tell me"--she stopped to ring the bell--"all about yourself. We ought to know each other, when we remember--" She had been speaking in an intense tone, but the servant entered, and in quite an ordinary one she asked for tea to be brought at once; then turned and immediately resumed the intensity--"when we remember that your father and my mother were lovers."

"Oh, don't say that," Margaret answered, almost vehemently, but with a sweetness of which her listener was uneasily sensible. "It was all finished and done with before we were born. I couldn't bear you to speak of it, nor of my father's opinions, as you did when the others were here; and I can't now, for we have only known each other an hour. There are some things we should only say to those who are nearest to us, and very seldom even then."

Lena wriggled a little closer. "You beautiful thing! Imagine your knowing that. But don't you know that some people are never strangers?

And when mother brought you in just now I felt that I had known you for years. You must love mother and me, Margaret. People always do; we understand so well."

"You don't--you can't--or you would not have spoken as you did before those strangers."

"Didn't you hear what I said? I am one of those people who think that everything we do and feel should be spread out under the light of heaven. There should be no dark corners or secret places in our lives."

"But why did you say that my father and your mother were lovers once? I didn't want to know that he had ever cared for any one but my own dear mother." Margaret was indignant still.

Lena looked at her with a bewildered smile. "How sweet you are, and how unspoiled by the world," she said. "I wish I could come and live on your farm, dear. Tell me about your mother."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I shouldn't like to talk about her to any one I don't know."

"Do you love her very much?"

"I love her with all my heart. That is why--"

"Tell me what she is like."

"I can't. I don't want to talk about her to you."

"Do you feel that I am not worthy?" Lena asked, with a gleam of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes.

"I don't think you worthy or unworthy," Margaret answered; "but I don't want to talk about her to you."

"You are very curious, little Margaret. I am glad we have met." Lena leaned forward, as if she were trying to dive into the innermost depths of the soul before her, but Margaret felt half afraid of her, as of something uncanny.