"Why didn't I tell her, as I intended to?" thought he. "Is it because
I fear her--fear my own child? No, it cannot be--and yet there is that
in her eye which sometimes makes me quail, and which, if necessary,
would keep at bay a dozen stepmothers. But neither she, nor either one
of them, has aught to dread from Mrs. Carter, whose presence will, I
think, be of great benefit to us all, and whose gentle manners, I
trust, will tend to soften Mag!"

Meantime his children were discussing and wondering at the strange
mood of their father. Walter, however, took no part in the
conversation. He had lived longer than his sisters--had seen more of
human nature, and had his own suspicions with regard to what would
take place during their absence; but he could not spoil all Margaret's
happiness by telling her his thoughts, so he kept them to himself,
secretly resolving to make the best of whatever might occur, and to
advise Mag to do the same.

Now for a time we leave them, and take a look into the cottage of
Widow Carter, where, one September morning, about three weeks after
the departure of the Hamiltons, preparations were making for some
great event. In the kitchen a servant girl was busily at work, while
in the parlor Lenora was talking and the widow was listening.

"Oh, mother," said Lenora, "isn't it so nice that they went away just
now? But won't Mag look daggers at us when she comes home and finds us
in quiet possession, and is told to call you _mother_!"

"I never expect her to do that," answered Mrs. Carter. "The most I can
hope for is that she will call me Mrs. Hamilton."