Three Margarets | Page 3

to accept my Uncle John's invitation to spend the summer here. As
I have money in my own right, I was at liberty to do as I pleased; nor in
truth did my father object, but the contrary. I have never seen my
uncle."
"Nor I!" "Nor I!" exclaimed the other two.
"But I received this note from him a month ago."
She produced a note from her reticule, and read as follows.
"MY DEAR NIECE:
The thought has occurred to me that it would be well for you to make
some acquaintance with the home of your fathers. I therefore invite you
to spend the coming summer here, with the daughters of my brothers
James and Roger, to whom I have extended a similar invitation.
Business will unhappily prevent me from receiving you in person, but
my cousin and yours, Mrs. Cheriton, who resides at Fernley, will pay

you every attention.
Trusting that this plan will meet with your approval and that of your
father,
I am, my dear niece, Your affectionate uncle, JOHN MONTFORT."
"Well, I never!" cried Peggy, drawing a long breath. "Why, it's word
for word like my note."
"And like mine!" said Margaret.
The three notes were laid side by side, and proved to be exactly alike,
even to the brief flourish under the signature; with the one difference
that in Margaret's the words "and that of your father," were omitted.
"He must be a very methodical man!" said Margaret thoughtfully. "Isn't
it strange that none of us has ever seen him? And yet one can
understand how it has been. The other brothers, our fathers, left home
when they were quite young,--that is what Papa has told me,--and soon
formed ties elsewhere. Uncle John stayed with Grandfather till he died;
then he went abroad, and was gone many years; and since he came
back, he has lived here alone. I suppose he has grown a recluse, and
does not care to see people. I know Papa often and often begged him to
come and make us a visit, and once or twice the time was actually set;
but each time something happened to prevent his coming, and he never
did come. I think he would have come last year, when dear Papa died,
but he had had some accident, and had injured his foot so that he could
not walk."
"Pa read us the letter you wrote him then," said Peggy, with an
awkward attempt at condolence. "He said he thought you must be a
nice girl."
The tears came quickly to Margaret's eyes, and she turned her head to
hide them. Peggy instantly plunged into a description of her nine
brothers and sisters, and their life on the great Western farm where they
lived; but she was hardly under way when the demure Susan tapped at

the door, and said with gentle firmness that she had come to show the
young ladies their rooms.
There was a sudden clutching of hats, cloaks, and bags, and the next
moment the three maidens were ascending the wide staircase, casting
looks of curiosity and wonderment about them.
"What beautiful twisted balusters!" whispered Margaret.
"And such queer old pictures!" said Peggy. "My! How they stare!
Wondering who we are, I suppose."
Arrived in the wide upper hall, Susan threw open the doors of three
rooms, two side by side, the third opposite.
"This is yours, Miss Montfort," she said. "This is the young lady's from
the South, and this the other young lady's. Mr. Montfort arranged it all
before he left."
"How kind and thoughtful!" cried Margaret.
"How precise and formal!" murmured Rita.
Peggy said nothing, but stared with round eyes. These rooms were not
like the great whitewashed chamber at home, where she and her three
sisters slept in iron bedsteads. These rooms were not large, but oh, so
pretty and cosy! In each was an open fireplace, with a tiny fire
burning,--"just for looks," Susan explained. Each contained a pretty
brass bedstead, a comfortable chair or two, and curtains and cushions of
flowered chintz. Rita's chintz showed deep red poppies on a pale buff
ground; Peggy's was blue, with buttercups and daisies scattered over it;
while Margaret's--oh, Margaret's was not chintz after all, but
old-fashioned white dimity, with a bewilderment of tufts, and
ball-fringe, and tassels. Candles were lighted on the trim
dressing-tables; everything was spotless, fresh, and inviting, and the
three tired girls sank each into her soft-cushioned easy chair with a
delightful sense of being at home.

"The tea-bell will ring in half an hour, if you please," said Susan, and
she closed the three doors.
CHAPTER II.
FIRST THOUGHTS.
"The eggs and the ham, And the strawberry jam; The rollicking bun,
And the gay Sally Lunn."
"Ting! ting-a-ling!" the silver tinkle sounded cheerfully. Margaret was