Chimney, there was nobody there. A chilly wind outside, which dashed
the rain against the windows, only served to call attention to the
pleasantness within. It was indeed an aggressively cheerful room,
entirely out of keeping with Mrs. Pennington's mood. The open piano,
the row of thrifty ferns on the window-sill, the new novel on the table
with a foreign letter between its leaves, and the work basket beside
it--which, by the way, was of sweet grass--all sang the same song to
the accompaniment of the fire's quiet crackle.

The burden of the song was Margaret Elizabeth. You saw her sitting bolt
upright on the sofa, being very intense about something, or lost in
thought, elbows on knees, on the ottoman beside the hearth, or occupied
with that bit of embroidery, her curling lashes almost on her cheek. Oh,
Margaret Elizabeth, how could you? How could you?

Mrs. Pennington, pacing uneasily back and forth, glanced at the music on
the piano rack.

"Oh, stay at home, my heart, and rest,
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,"

it admonished her. In this disarming atmosphere she began to feel
herself the victim of some wretched dream. Yet here in her bag was
Margaret Elizabeth's note, found awaiting her on her return from Chicago
an hour ago.

In it her niece apologised contritely for the inexcusable manner in
which she had spoken, and continued: "It makes me unhappy, dearest
Aunt Eleanor, to think of disappointing you, for you have been the
kindest aunt in the world, but I have discovered in the last few