With the almost uncanny wisdom characteristic of her, she refrained
from discussing Lily Bell with the other members of the family.
Possibly she took her cue from Raymond Mortimer, who himself spoke of
her less and less as the weeks passed; but quite probably it was part
of an instinct which forbids one to discuss the failings of one's
friends. Lily Bell was to Margaret Hamilton a blot on the boy's
scutcheon. She would not point it out even to him, actively as her
practical little soul revolted against his self-deception. Once,
however, in a rare moment of candor, she unbosomed herself to Mr.
Prescott.

"I don't like her very well," she said, referring, of course, to Lily
Bell. "She's so silly! I hate to pretend an' pretend an' do things we
don't want to do when we could have such good times just by
ourselves."

She buried her nose in his waistcoat as she spoke and sniffed rather
dismally. It had been a trying day. Lily Bell had been much _en
evidence_, and her presence had weighed perceptibly upon the spirits
of the two children.

"Can't you get rid of her?" suggested the man, shamelessly. "A real
meat little girl like you ought to do away with a dream kid--an
imaginary girl--don't you think?"

Margaret Hamilton raised her head and looked long into the eyes that
looked back at her. The man nodded solemnly.

"I'd try if I were you," he said. "I'd try mighty hard. You don't want