“And not a very pleasant one, either, I imagine,” whispered Lenora to Carrie.

Walter came last, and though he took the lady’s hand, there was something in his manner which plainly said she was not wanted there.  Tea was now announced, and Mag bit her lip when, she saw her accustomed seat occupied by another.

Feigning to recollect herself, Mrs. Hamilton, in the blandest tones, said, “Perhaps, dear Maggie, you would prefer this seat?”

“Of course not,” said Mag, while Lenora thought to herself: 

“And if she does, I wonder what good it will do?”

That young lady, however, made no remarks, for Walter Hamilton’s searching eyes were upon her and kept her silent.  After tea, Walter said, “Come, Mag, I have not heard your piano in a long time.  Give us some music.”

Mag arose to comply with his wishes, but ere she had reached the door Mrs. Hamilton gently detained her, saying, “Maggie, dear, Lenora has always slept near me, and as I knew you would not object, if you were here, I took the liberty to remove your piano to the parlor, and to fit this up for Lenora’s sleeping-room.  See”—­and she threw open the door, disclosing the metamorphose, while Willie, who began to get an inkling of matters, and who always called the piazza “outdoors,” chimed in, “And they throw’d your little trees outdoors, too!”

Mag stood for a moment, mute with astonishment; then thinking she could not “do the subject justice,” she turned silently away.  A roguish smile from Walter met her eye, but she did not laugh, until, with Carrie, she repaired to her own room, and tried to put something in the closet.  Then coming upon the pile of extra clothes, she exclaimed, “What in the world!  Here’s all our winter clothing, and, as I live, five dresses crammed upon one nail!  We’ll have to move to the barn next!”

This was too much, and sitting down, Mag cried and laughed alternately.

CHAPTER VIII.

DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD.

For a few weeks after Margaret’s return matters at the Homestead glided on smoothly enough, but at the end of that time Mrs. Hamilton began to reveal her real character.  Carrie’s journey had not been as beneficial as her father had hoped it would be, and as the days grew colder she complained of extreme languor and a severe pain in her side, and at last kept her room entirely, notwithstanding the numerous hints from her stepmother that it was no small trouble to carry so many dishes up and down stairs three times a day.

Mrs. Hamilton was naturally very stirring and active, and in spite of her remarkable skill in nursing, she felt exceedingly annoyed when any of her own family were ill.  She fancied, too, that Carrie was feigning all her bad feelings, and that she would be much better if she exerted herself more.  Accordingly, one afternoon when Mag was gone, she repaired to Carrie’s room, giving vent to her opinion as follows:  “Carrie,” said she (she now dropped the dear when Mr. Hamilton was not by), “Carrie, I shouldn’t suppose you’d ever expect to get well, so long as you stay moped up here all day.  You ought to come down-stairs, and stir around more.”