"I am sorry not to be as beautiful," she said, with great humility. "I must make up any deficiency by my love and devotion. Oh, it seems as if I had gone into some divine country when love filled the very atmosphere."

She held out her hand to her father who crushed it in a tender clasp.

"But you are looking pale and weary, mother." What a sweet word it was to say when it was true.

"I have had a great deal of excitement these last few days, then the nurse had to go away to a more serious case, but I have tried to obey her injunctions," smiling a little. "Probably I shall never be very robust again, but nothing like this will try nerves. I think I have stood it exceedingly well," glancing up at her husband. "I was very quiet all day yesterday, but I could not help dreaming of the years to come----"

"I hope G.o.d will give me strength to make them happy. Oh, I want to give you the best of love and service and never pain you by any lack. For you _are_ the mother I have longed for, who could capture and fill my desires. I would like to work for you----"

"My dear, if you could be so devoted to the mother who was not your ideal and could not understand your thoughts and feelings, I shall try to come nearer and fill your whole heart, sympathize with your aspirations. I shall be glad to listen to them. Oh, my child, if you had been dull and coa.r.s.e, but you simply could not have been, and this Mrs.

Boyd must have had a certain refinement. I appreciate her more every day as I think it over."

"Oh, I thank you for that. It seems to me that I must have been willful at times; but I wanted to take her out of that narrow round as well as myself. I felt so certain I could do it after we came to Mrs.

Barrington's. She understood my aims."

"You fell into good hands. Oh, how many times we shall talk this over, for I want to know all the incidents of these years we have been apart.

When I have lived them with you, I shall feel more truly still that I am your mother. And now are you not a little curious about your new home?"

Mrs. Crawford rose with her arm about the girl, and Marguerite glanced about the room. It was exquisitely appointed. The second story rooms were ranged about an oval that gave a picturesque aspect. This and the sleeping rooms were toward the east; Mrs. Crawford had a pa.s.sion for sunrise. On one side was Zay's room, adjoining it Aunt Kate's. Opposite, two guest rooms with bath and closets. It all seemed like some lovely description she had read of in books. Her girl's heart and the refined tastes that had been her birthright seemed to leap for joy. Was she really to live amid all this loveliness!

"We talked of your room on Friday. We couldn't take Zay away from Aunt Kate to put you two together. Willard had this room next to my sitting room, when he came home on vacations; sometimes, both boys; they are very fond of each other. So he proposed his should be yours and had everything taken out and the walls tinted afresh. But we couldn't order new furniture at once, so we brought this from one of the guest chambers. Some day you may choose for yourself. He took out the real boys' pictures except 'Night and Morning' which are great favorites of his and his two bookcases. In one he has left all his poets; at heart, he is a rather romantic fellow. And the other you must fill up to your liking."

"Oh, how could he be so kind to me, when--" and Marguerite swallowed over a great sob.

"He is so glad for me. And he thinks it is truly a gift of Providence that you should come, now that he is going away. Three years! Yet I have waited so many years for these great blessings; prayed for them, if one's ardent wish is a prayer."

"Did you ever pray for me?" asked Marguerite in a low awed tone.

"I prayed that if I died I should find you in that beautiful other country. And sometimes I almost believed I should find you here.

Invalids have curious fancies almost like visions. Perhaps G.o.d gave me the hope to enable me to endure the suffering and to be comparatively well again and to have you--"

There was the summons to luncheon. The Major came for his wife, Willard met his sister in the hall. The dining room was perfectly appointed, with stands of flowers and ferns that made almost a garden of it. A few blossoms were laid beside each one's plate. The butler seated them noiselessly. Aunt Kate was at the head of the table; she had kept the place so long that Mrs. Crawford would not hear of any change. She sat at the right of her husband, Marguerite at the left; Jay and Willard were opposite.

Marguerite _was_ nervous, but she did just as the others. She felt that Aunt Kate's sharp eyes were upon her. Nearly always, she and her mother had taken their meals together; on Sunday, specially invited to dine with Mrs. Barrington and Miss Arran. Mrs. Boyd shrank from these occasions but the girl seemed guiding her with an almost imperceptible grace.

And although the luncheon came in courses it was not ornate. Marguerite began to feel quite at ease. There was some bright talk, but she did not join that, only now and then answering when her father appealed to her.

But every moment she felt more at home.

When they rose Willard took her arm.

"You must examine your new home," he began, laughingly. "If you shouldn't like it--"

"I'd deserve to be banished to Laconia and live in an atmosphere of soot and dust and all manner of noises," she answered, brightly.

"This is the drawing room. In my grandmother's time they used to have famous gatherings. Uncle Reginald was a great society man, and Aunt Kate quite a belle, but the Madam as she was called, spent her money lavishly. That was in her own right. Much of this furniture came from abroad. But I will do her the justice to say that she did not despise the old Crawford heirlooms that were handsome. Some of them are two centuries old, when people loved to carve and ornament and never compared their time with money. Uncle Reginald was very handsome in his early days and her favorite. Father went to West Point."

The room was certainly full of choice belongings. At the end, a full length portrait of Madame Crawford, painted by a famous French artist during one of her visits to Paris. The satin and velvet of her gown looked real and her laces were magnificently done. She _was_ handsome and set them off beautifully. A string of sapphires encircled her throat and from it depended three pendants of diamonds so skilfully done that in certain lights they emitted rays. A handsome woman, truly, but proud and haughty.

"She only wanted one son so that the Crawford estate need not be divided. She was not in favor of large families, while father would have been glad of at least half a dozen. So you may judge how delighted he is to have you. This is the library. There is a small fortune in the books. Great-grandfather Crawford was an eager collector. Father has been offered big prices for some of the rare editions."

At the farther end of the library there were wide gla.s.s doors that opened into a conservatory, where the choicest flowers were kept, and curious ferns. Just beyond was the propagating room and where the tired-out bloomers were put for recuperation.

Marguerite was speechless with admiration. She glanced up with a lovely smile and her dark eyes were l.u.s.trous. "Oh," she murmured, with a long sigh, "I never saw anything so lovely! And that I should have come here to live--"

"Our next door neighbors have quite as much beauty, only it is rather more modern. But their conservatory is magnificent. Such a show of orchids is unusual. But Mount Morris is a rather aristocratic place, that is not wholly given over to fashion, but where people have lovely things to enjoy and are not trying to distance each other unless it is in the matter of choice flowers," and he laughed. "Mother is so fond of them."

She thought she could linger there all the remainder of the day, but presently Willard turned and they retraced their steps. Major Crawford stood in the hall.

"Shall we go for our walk, Willard?" he asked. "I think mother would like Marguerite."

She made a pretty inclination of the head and went up stairs feeling as if she was in fairyland. Mrs. Crawford lay on the lounge with a beautiful Persian wrap thrown over her.

"Will you come and read to me?" she asked in a winsome tone. "I want to hear your voice in poetry; Mrs. Barrington said you were a fine reader.

I hope you love verse. The dainty little ones are a great pleasure to me, fugitive verses, as they are called. They have soothed many a painful hour."

"Are you very tired?" Marguerite bent over and kissed her.

"No, my dear, only this is part of my German doctor's regimen. He sent a nurse home with me, and last week she went back to a.s.sist him with a peculiar case; and I have certain directions to follow, which I obey, implicitly. One is to take a rest after luncheon. Then, I like to be read to. I am something of a spoiled child, you see."

"I shall be glad to go on with the spoiling," the girl said in a sweet, earnest tone. "I want to do all I can to make you happy--to make up for the years when you did not have me."

Marguerite's eyes were l.u.s.trous with deep feeling. Her words went to the mother's heart.

"Let me see--find 'In Memoriam.' How many times in the last few days I have said over to myself:

"If one should bring me this report That thou hads't touched the land today, And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port,"

Marguerite took the beautifully bound volume in her hand and it gave her a thrill.

"Some poems are adapted to this or that one's voice, like songs. The Major reads Browning and that is saved especially for him. Willard loves Stevenson and Eugene Field's children's verses. Zaidee the light gay caroling things, and those arch, sweet Irish poems. But your voice sounded to me as if you loved Tennyson and Whittier."

"I have not had the opportunity of reading Tennyson very much, but I thought the Christmas verses most beautiful. I hope I shall please you,"

hesitatingly.

Mrs. Crawford listened attentively. There was a depth and richness in the voice, an impressive, penetrating emotion that betrayed the harmony with the lines. And when she had finished that poem, she said in a low tone:

"Shall I go on?"

"Yes," replied the mother.

It was so beautiful that Marguerite forgot herself in the poet's deep feeling--so human, so comforting--she could have read on until dusk, but Mrs. Crawford turned presently.

"I must not tire you for I shall want you to read to me often. Do you sing? I suppose you have not begun to play?"

"No, Mrs. Barrington thought I would, in the new term. And she also thought my voice was--" Marguerite paused, afraid of being too presuming.

"Worth cultivating, was not that what she said? It is a contralto that can express profound depths of feeling. I had it years ago and your father was wild over it. He will be delighted. Zay's voice is a light soprano. She plays very well. Yes, you must take up music."