Margaret, in her absence, had laid violent hands on it; not knowing what it was, but taking it for some waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with one half of this elaborate composition had twisted herself up--a thread-paper! Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word.

She knew the poor soul would only fret, if she told her of it,--and when once Margaret was set a fretting for other people's misfortunes, the fit held her pretty long.
So Rosamund that very afternoon began another piece of the same size and subject; and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed of the mischief she had unconsciously done.
* * * * *.