Three Margarets | Page 2

stopped at a broad flight of steps, leading to a
stone-paved veranda. As the coachman opened the carriage-door, the
door of the house opened too, and a cheerful light streamed out upon
the three weary travellers. Two staid waiting-women, in spotless caps
and aprons, were waiting to receive them as they came up the steps.
"This way, young ladies, if you please!" said the elder of the two. "You
must be tired with your long drive. This is the library; and will you rest
here a while, or will you be shown your rooms at once?"
"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret, "let us stay here a little while! What do
you say, cousins?"
"All right!" said Peggy. The girl whose home name was Rita had
already thrown herself down in an armchair, and seemed to think no
reply necessary.
"Very well, miss," said the dignified waiting-woman, addressing
herself markedly to Margaret. "Susan will come in ten minutes to show
you the rooms, miss, and supper will be ready in half an hour. I am
Elizabeth, miss, if you should want me. The bell is here in the corner."
Margaret thanked her with a cordial smile, the other two never glancing
in her direction, and the woman withdrew.
"Just ten minutes," said Margaret, turning to her cousins, "to make
acquaintance in, and find out what we all look like! Suppose we begin
by taking off our wraps. How delightful the little fire is, even if we are
in the middle of June. Let me help you, Peggy!"
Peggy was fumbling at her veil, which was tied in a hard knot; but in a

few minutes everything was off, and the three Margaret Montforts
stood silent, gazing at each other.
Nearest the fire stood the girl who was called Peggy. She was
apparently about sixteen, plump and fair, with a profusion of blonde
hair which looked as if it were trying to fly away. Her round, rosy
cheeks, blue eyes, and pouting lips gave her a cherubic contour which
was comically at variance with her little tilted nose; but she was pretty,
in spite of her singularly ill-devised and ill-fitting costume of green
flannel.
Reclining in the armchair next her, the Margaret who was called Rita
was a startling contrast to the rosy Peggy. She was a year older, slight
and graceful, her simple black gown fitting like a glove and saying
"Paris" in every seam. Her hair was absolutely black, her eyes large and
dark, her delicate features regular and finely cut; but the beautiful face
wore an expression of discontent, and there were two fine vertical lines
between the eyebrows. Her complexion had the clear pallor of a Cape
Jessamine.
Facing these two, and looking with thoughtful eyes from one to the
other, stood the girl whom we have spoken of as the first Margaret. She
was seventeen, within two months of the age of her dark-eyed cousin.
Lacking the brilliant colouring of the other two, her face had its own
charm. Her eyes were dark gray, with violet shades in them, deepened
by the long and heavy black lashes. The faint tinge of colour in her
smooth cheeks was that of the wild rose; her wavy chestnut hair had
glints of gold here and there in it, and though her nose was nothing in
particular, she had the prettiest mouth in the world, and a dimple beside
it. In conclusion, she was dressed in dark blue, simply, yet tastefully
too.
"Well," said Peggy, breaking the silence with an embarrassed giggle, "I
hope we shall know each other the next time we meet."
Margaret blushed. "I fear I have been staring rudely!" she said. "But I
have never had any cousins before,--never seen any, that is, and I am
really so glad to know you both! Let us shake hands, girls, and try to be

friends!"
She spoke so pleasantly that Peggy's plump hand and Rita's delicate
white fingers were at once extended. Holding them in her own,
Margaret hesitated a moment, and then, bending forward, kissed both
girls timidly on the cheek.
"Our fathers were own brothers," she said. "We must try to be fond of
each other. And now," she added, "let us all tell our tells, as the
children say. Rita, you shall begin. Tell us about yourself and your
home, and anything else that you will."
Rita settled herself comfortably in her chair, and looked meditatively at
the tip of her little boot.
"My home," she said, "is in Havana. My mother was a Spaniard, a San
Real. My father is Richard Montfort. My mother died three years ago,
and my father has lately married again, a girl of my own age. You may
imagine that I do not find home particularly attractive now, so I was
glad