“What is it, deary?” asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face which invited confidence.

“I want to tell you something, mother.”

“About Meg?”

“How quickly you guessed! Yes, it’s about her, and though it’s a little thing, it fidgets me.”

“Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn’t been here, I hope?” asked Mrs. March rather sharply.