“No, no,” wailed Selina.  “I’m a regular block-head, and my hands is too coarse.”

“But you have a good heart and I like you,” said Margaret.  “And I want you to forgive me and like me.  I’m so lonely and unhappy.  And I need the love of one so close to me all the time as you are.  It’d be a real help.”

Selina began to cry again, and then Margaret gave way to tears; and, presently, out came the dreadful story of the lover’s fight and jailing; and Margaret, of course, promised to see that he was released at once.  When she went to her own room, the maid following to help her efface the very disfiguring evidence of their humble, emotional drama, Margaret had recovered her self-esteem and had won a friend, who, if too stupid to be very useful, was also too stupid to be unfaithful.

As it was on the same day, and scarcely one brief hour later, it must have been the very same Margaret who paced the alley of trimmed elms, her eyes so stern and somber, her mouth and chin so hard that her worshipful sister Lucia watched in silent, fascinated dread.  At length Margaret noted Lucia, halted and:  “Why don’t you read your book?” she cried fiercely.  “Why do you sit staring at me?”

“What a temper you have got—­what a nasty temper!” Lucia was goaded into retorting.

“Haven’t I, though!” exclaimed Margaret, as if she gloried in it.  “Stop that staring!”

“I could see you were thinking something—­something—­terrible!” explained Lucia.

Margaret’s face cleared before a satirical smile.  “What a romancer you are, Lucia.”  Then, with a laugh:  “I’m taking myself ridiculously seriously today.  Temper—­giving way to temper—­is a sure sign of defective intelligence or of defective digestion.”

“Is it about—­about Mr. Craig?”

Margaret reddened, dropped to the bench near her sister—­evidence that she was willing to talk, to confide—­so far as she ever confided her inmost self—­to the one person she could trust.

“Has he asked you to marry him?”

“No; not yet.”

“But he’s going to?”

Margaret gave a queer smile.  “He doesn’t think so.”

“He wouldn’t dare!” exclaimed Lucia.  “Why, he’s not in the same class with you.”

“So!  The little romancer is not so romantic that she forgets her snobbishness.”

“I mean, he’s so rude and noisy.  I detest him!”

“So do I—­at times.”

Lucia looked greatly relieved.  “I thought you were encouraging him.  It seemed sort of—­of—­cheap, unworthy of you, to care to flirt with a man like that.”

Margaret’s expression became strange indeed.  “I am not flirting with him,” she said gravely.  “I’m going to marry him.”

Lucia was too amazed to speak, was so profoundly shocked that her usually rosy cheeks grew almost pale.

“Yes, I shall marry him,” repeated Margaret slowly.

“But you don’t love him!” cried Lucia.