Hunter's Marjory

"According to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings."
Shakespeare.

Marjory went to bed with a glow of happiness in her heart. Her uncle had called her a true Hunter. How often had she brooded over those looks of hers, which could not be said to resemble in any feature those of the Hunters whose portraits hung on the walls of the old house! How many times had she wished herself a boy who could carry out the traditions of the family! Foolish troubles these were, no doubt, but they were real enough to the lonely child, living with her own fancies for company. True, she had not thought about them so much of late; but although they were not uppermost in her mind, they were still there. And now those words of the doctor's brought comfort for the memory of many a lonely wakeful hour, when Marjory should have been sleeping the untroubled sleep of childhood. A true Hunter!—in spite of that unknown father, perhaps long dead; in spite of her ignorance; in spite of her looks. A true Hunter! How her heart thrilled at the words!

Fired with these thoughts, she took out the old portfolio and began to read the copy of the prophecies about her family. As she sat alone with these old-time records, the candlelight flickering on their pages, she felt almost as if she were in the presence of these ancestors of hers.

She found her grandmother's writing rather difficult to read, it was so fine and delicate, and time had faded the ink to a pale gray.

As for the old prophecies, they were nothing but a set of doggerel verses which any sensible person would probably have laughed at, but they were made serious and impressive to Marjory by the fact that her grandmother had thought it worth while to copy them, and had made notes of her own as to the fulfilment of their predictions.

With great difficulty Marjory deciphered the following lines:—

"Come list to me, whoe'er ye be,
Who care for sayings true,
For, sooth to say, me trust ye may—
Prophesy these things I do:

"Since days of old the Hunters bold
Upon the muir held sway;
The Hunters' line shall ne'er decline
Till the muir doth pass away.

"By land and sea these brave men free
Their king shall nobly serve;
Their blood shall flow, their riches go
For the sovereign's cause they love.

"When bright days shine, the Stuart line
Shall hold these Hunters dear.
Should storms befall, a Hunter shall
Take his death-blow without fear.

"In Church and State these Hunters great
A foremost place shall take;
With words as bold as theirs of old,
They shall speak for conscience' sake.

"Should Hunter of this noble race
Pride of his house forget,
Ancestors grim shall punish him,
Till his fault he doth regret.

"Fancy that!" said Marjory to herself. "I never knew that all that land once belonged to us. No wonder if the ancestors did punish James; they wouldn't like to see their property disappearing."

Then came a verse which caused the girl's heart to beat fast and her face to flush:—

"The ladies fine of Hunter line
Are fair as fair can be.
Should tresses dark a maiden mark,
Her beloved must cross the sea."

A note followed:—

It is easy to see that any one of these so-called predictions was more than likely to be fulfilled under any circumstances, and that very probably the whole thing was written in the first place as a joke. Moreover, Marjory was not a Hunter by name, being the child of a daughter of the house and not of a son. Still, she took this saying to mean herself: she, Marjory Davidson, and no other, must be the dark-haired maiden whose beloved must cross the sea. It must mean that, sooner or later, her father would come to her across the sea.

It was little wonder, then, that she tossed and turned upon her pillow that night, and that, when at last she did fall asleep, her dreams were a confused mixture—rats flying from a terrier of impossible size, shadowy processions of ancestors in their picture-frames, and a long row of ladies with flaxen locks pointing at her and calling to her, "Tresses dark a maiden mark."

Next morning, full of enthusiasm, she showed her uncle the portfolio, directing his attention to the copied verses. Contrary to all her expectations, he only laughed at them, and made no remark about the dark-haired maiden. It was not that he did not notice that particular verse, but he did not wish Marjory to think that there was any reason why she should apply it to herself, and he did not wish her head to be filled with romantic nonsense. So he took away the portfolio, much to Marjory's disgust, for she had looked forward to showing it to Blanche and Alan. Still, she had a good memory, and could repeat every word of it by heart, and was not likely to forget it.

Should tresses dark a maiden mark,
Her beloved must cross the sea."

The words repeated themselves over and over again in her head. She could not get rid of them, or of the thoughts and fancies to which they gave rise.

Marjory did not see the Braeside visitors till the Sunday morning, when they met in the churchyard. Mrs. Hilary Forester was a very grand personage, but looked good-natured. Her daughter Maud, whom she considered to be little short of an angel, certainly did not look like one just then. Something must have put her out that morning, for the look she gave Marjory as the introductions were made was not by any means calculated to make a good impression upon that young person, already predisposed to dislike the new arrival.

Marjory saw the eyes of mother and daughter travel over her person from head to foot—or rather, as she expressed it to herself, from hat to shoes—and she felt as if that cold scrutiny would shrivel her up. She herself, although she did not stare, quickly took in the details of Mrs. Hilary Forester's very fashionable attire. She had never seen anything like it in Heathermuir before. The ladies at Morristown always seemed to her to be very grandly dressed, but nothing like this.

"I wonder if she is at all religious," was Marjory's mental comment. To her mind, a display of finery was not compatible with what she called religion.

Then her eyes fell upon Blanche's mother. She too was richly dressed, but Marjory knew without being told that her clothes were in much better taste than those of her visitor. Still, Marjory had never looked upon Mrs. Forester as very religious; for the child had somehow come to understand the word as being synonymous with sour looks, long faces, unattractive clothes, and disapproval of most pleasant things. Mrs. Forester was sweet and good and kind, and much nicer than any of the people whom Lisbeth had pointed out to her as "releegious."

Marjory had yet to learn that religion is a life, not a profession; that in its reality it is a wellspring of cheerfulness, of love and charity for others, of praise and thanksgiving—a life which, instead of holding itself aloof from the world as a wicked place, lives in it, works for its good, believing that nothing which God has created can be altogether wicked. Mrs. Forester and Miss Waspe were gradually suggesting these new ideas to the girl, more perhaps by example than by precept.

Marjory followed Miss Maud into church. She did not much like the look of her, she decided. Waspy had said one must never judge hastily of people, but she did not feel that she was going to like this girl; even her back view looked stuck-up!

It really did; for Maud could never forget that she was Miss Hilary Forester, and she gave a self-satisfied little waggle to her skirts as she walked, which said very plainly, "Look at me! Don't I strike you as being more attractive than most girls?"

This attitude on Maud's part was hardly to be wondered at, seeing that she had been spoiled and petted all her life. Everything that she said and did was extravagantly praised by her adoring mother, and she had grown up with exaggerated ideas of her cleverness, her looks, and her own importance. What wonder, then, that the poor child held her head high and waggled her skirts? But Marjory knew nothing of these causes, and, seeing only their effects, her feelings towards the newcomer had not softened at all by the time church was over.

The three girls walked together as far as the turning to Braeside, and conversation flagged considerably.

"Are there many parties here at Christmas?" asked Maud.

"I don't know," replied Blanche.—"Are there, Marjory?"

"Not that I know of."

"What a dead-and-alive place to live in!" exclaimed Maud.

"It isn't!" said Blanche, firing up.

"Don't be so touchy, Blanche," said her cousin. "You don't seem to be at all improved since I saw you."

Just then Silky, who had been sitting by the milestone as usual, watching for his mistress, bounded forward to meet her, jumping and barking round her with every sign of delight. In so doing he brushed against Maud, and she was not at all pleased.

"What a horrid, rough dog!" she cried. "Do send him off, one of you! I hate a great lumbering beast like that!"

"He isn't either horrid or rough," said Marjory indignantly, "but I think I'd better go. Good-bye, Miss Hilary Forester.—Good-bye, Blanche.—Come, Silky darling." And she walked on.

Maud laughed. "'Love me, love my dog,'" she quoted loudly, so that Marjory might hear. And then to Blanche, "This friend you talk so much about seems to be somewhat of a savage. I shall try to tame her, though, for I rather like the look of her."

Marjory marched on, very indignant. It was hateful, she thought, that this outsider, with her smart frocks and her superior ways, should come and spoil their good time. She allowed herself to think very hardly of Maud, although Miss Waspe's warning against hasty judgments came into her mind more than once.

Marjory walked on, forgetting to look behind to see if her uncle were coming. Some one called suddenly, "Miss Marjory!" She turned quickly, and saw that Mary Ann Smylie was trying to catch up with her; so she slackened her pace, and waited for her old enemy, wondering what she might want.

Mary Ann, still self-conscious, still overdressed, nevertheless showed a difference in her manner to Marjory.

"I only wanted to tell you something I thought you would like to know," she said, panting after her quick walk.

"What is it?" asked Marjory, curious to know what this something might be.

"Mother told me that your uncle had sent a letter to foreign parts; she wouldn't say who to, because she's not supposed to tell anything about post-office business, you know. It was last Thursday, when she was stamping the letters for the evening mail, suddenly she said 'Hallo!' very surprised like. When I asked her what it was, she said, 'Hunter's Marjory would like to see this,' but she wouldn't tell me any more except that it was a foreign letter. It must have been to your father, I believe, though I always thought he must be dead. Of course, I don't know for certain that it was to him, only I thought I'd tell you about it." And Mary Ann looked at Marjory with a deprecating little smile, as much as to say, "I am trying to make amends for what I once said to you."

Marjory thanked her, and then, remembering her uncle, she said that she must wait for him.

"In that case," remarked Mary Ann, "I'll be off; he gives me the shivers. Mind you, I don't know for certain about that letter; I only think," she called back.

Marjory had plenty to think about as she sauntered back in the direction of the church to meet her uncle. Could it possibly be that he had heard something of her father? If so, how very unkind not to tell her. She had a right to know; she would know; and she worked herself into a very excited state.

When her uncle joined her, she gave very short replies to his questions and remarks, and at last she burst out, "Uncle, do you know anything about my father?" in a very peremptory tone.

The doctor started. "My dear child," he said testily, "haven't I told you over and over again that I have not heard one single word from your father since I wrote and told him of your mothers death? I do not know whether he is alive or dead, but I know this—he is dead to you." And his voice rose with passion. Then, after a pause, he said rather sadly, "Can't you be content, Marjory? Have I not done my best for you? I had hoped that you were happier lately."

Marjory was touched by the feeling in his voice. "So I am, uncle, much happier; but I can't help thinking and wondering about things sometimes," she said wistfully. "No one can be exactly like a real father and mother—at least, not quite," she added quickly, fearing to wound her uncle afresh.

They finished their walk in silence, each busy with thoughts which, could they have read each other's minds, would have filled them with astonishment. The little storm blew over as other storms had done, but Marjory could not forget what Mary Ann had told her about the letter.

Next day, when she went to Braeside, Marjory spent rather a painful quarter of an hour with Mrs. Hilary Forester. Blanche and Maud had gone out for a walk, and Marjory was shown into the morning-room to wait for them. There she found the lady, sitting in a capacious armchair by the fire, toasting her feet upon the fender, displaying elaborately-embroidered stockings and many rustling frills.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Forester," said Marjory shyly.

"Mrs. Hilary Forester, dear child," amended the lady. "Blanche's mother is Mrs. Forester, having married the eldest son, and one must be exact, you know."

"I beg your pardon," said Marjory, covered with confusion.

Blanche's Aunt Katharine looked at her critically. "I suppose your mother plaits your hair in that pigtail to save trouble, but they are not worn in town, you know."

"My mother is dead," said Marjory stolidly.

"Dear, dear, yes, of course, now I remember Rose—that's Mrs. Forester, you know—Rose did say something to that effect, but my memory fails me so often; it is a great affliction. Well, it's a good thing your poor father has you left to comfort him. My darling Maud is my one comfort, I'm sure, while her father is away in those dreadful foreign places. Perhaps I spoil her a little," complacently; "but then I dare say," playfully, "that your father spoils you."

"I haven't got a father either," said poor Marjory dully.

Mrs. Hilary carefully adjusted her gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and looked at Marjory over the top of them.

"Well, to be sure, I certainly understood—at least I thought—but there, my memory does fail me at times; still, I was certainly under the impression that your father was Dr. Hunter—the great Dr. Hunter."

"No, he is my uncle; my name is Davidson," explained Marjory.

"Oh yes, yes, to be sure, now I come to think of it, Rose did say something about it, and I remember wondering whether you belonged to the Davidsons, you know."

"I don't know," said Marjory doubtfully, wishing that Blanche and Maud would come to her rescue.

"I must look it up for you, dear child. It is such a comfort to know that one belongs to the branch of a family, you know. As I tell Maud, it makes all the difference to a young girl in these days when mere money, that root of all evil, is so much thought of; not but that it is a comfort too, in its way—in its way," she continued thoughtfully; "but at this time of year one ought to think of doing little kindnesses, leaving money out of the question—I mean we should not let it be our sole comfort at such a time, you understand."

Marjory did not understand, and as she did not know what to reply to this harangue, she said nothing. But silence did not suit Mrs. Hilary.

"You are very quiet for a girl of your age," she said. "Now my Maud has a continual flow of merry chatter, and I encourage the darling. I think it is so nice for a young girl to have plenty to say, and to have her own little opinions about things. For instance, Maudie chooses all her own hats and frocks, and decides what we shall do and where we shall go. It is perfectly delightful for me, and saves me so much thought and worry; I suffer so with my bad memory, you know. Come now, can't you chat to me? Any little village gossip or small happenings at home?" ("atome," as she pronounced it). "No? Well, dear me, what was it that darling Maud said about you? I know she said something, but my memory is such a trial. Oh yes, there was something about a dog; and you called Maud a savage, and she rather liked you for it. Dear child, she has such a sweet, forgiving nature."

"I never called her a savage," protested Marjory. "I—"

At that moment Blanche and Maud came bursting into the room.

"What's that about calling names?" cried Maud. "I called her a savage," nodding at Marjory, "but I didn't mean any harm, and you've got it all mixed up, you dear darling old muddle-head of a mother." And she rushed upon Mrs. Hilary and hugged her until the poor lady had no breath left with which to protest.

Marjory looked on in wonder. When Maud had done with her mother she turned to Marjory.

"Now, don't look at me like that," she said plaintively; "you're going to like me in the end; I'm going to make you. I know just exactly what you're thinking—that I'm a horrid, stuck-up, thoroughly spoilt and disagreeable girl. So I am; but I'm all right when you know me, though you've got to know me first, as the song says. True, I don't like dogs—nasty lumbering things that spoil one's best clothes; but that's not a crime—it's an opinion. I always have my own way, everybody gives in to me, and so long as I can 'boss the show,' as our American cousins say, I can be quite charming. Now you look as if you liked bossing shows yourself, Miss Marjory—people with long noses always do; so one of us will have to give in. I wonder which it will be. But I must have you like me; I am perfectly miserable if people aren't fond of me." And she looked at Marjory with a comic yet pathetic appeal in her eyes.

"Dear Maudie has such quaint little sayings," said her mother. "I don't know how she can remember them all."

"Well, which is it to be?" demanded Maud, dramatically striking an attitude. "Is it peace or war?"

"Oh, peace, I suppose," replied Marjory, laughing; and then as an afterthought—"for the present."

This girl with her airs and graces and her comical ways was something quite new to Marjory, and she stood contemplating this wonderful and puzzling creature, when the creature suddenly seized her round the waist, waltzing out of the room with her, and calling Blanche to come too.

"Darling Maud has such wonderfully high spirits," murmured Mrs. Hilary to the empty air. She had probably forgotten that there was no one left in the room.

Blanche had told her cousin something of Marjory's history, and Maud was prepared to be much interested in her, for her life had been so unusual, so different from that of ordinary girls.

"I've never met anybody just like you," she said to Marjory as they walked across the park, "and I want to know all about you and your belongings, and above all, I ache to find out what is in that forbidden room, and why you mustn't go into it."

This was a sore subject with Marjory. She felt more than half ashamed of her uncle's eccentricity in this matter.

"I don't think there is anything in it except my mother's things," she replied. "Everything that belonged to her is there, except this chain with the locket and coin on it that she said she wanted me to have and to wear always. Lisbeth says I used to wear it when I was a tiny baby." And she pulled the chain outside her coat to show it to Maud.

"Oh, how sweet!" cried Maud as she opened the locket and saw the face of Marjory's mother. "How I wish you'd got her now!" impulsively squeezing Marjory's arm. "And what's this?" looking at the other trinket which hung on the chain.

"It's the half of a coin with a hole bored through it."

"So it is. And look, there's one-half of the date on it—87. Let's see. This is 1902. That's" (and she counted rapidly on her fingers, contrary to all approved systems of mental arithmetic) "fifteen years ago—before you were born, and of course the very year I was born. It was the Queen's Jubilee year, and that's why I was called Victoria—Maud Victoria my name is. Think it's pretty?" she asked, with her head coquettishly on one side.

"I like Maud," said Marjory. "Victoria sounds rather too grand for an ordinary person."

"But I'm not an ordinary person. Well, don't mind me; let's think about this coin. The question is, Where's the other half? Somebody must have got it. More mystery. Why, Marjory, you are like a girl in a book where all sorts of impossible things can happen. I'm going to write a book some day—from a girl's point of view—and I intend to make all parents and guardians and governesses, et cetera, sit up. Why should boys have everything jolly, while girls are made to be so prim and proper? Read a boys' book and you will find it full of fun and adventures and excitement, but girls are supposed to care about nothing but wish-wash, about self-denial and being good, and all that. Course I know we ought to try to be good, keep our promises, and never do mean things, or tell stories; every decent girl tries; but we don't want it continually poked down our throats till we're sick of it. My theory is that girls ought to have just as good a time all round as boys, if not a better." And the irrepressible Maud laughed merrily.

"Here comes Alan," said Blanche, secretly wondering what he would think of the visitor. When she heard the announcement, Maud gave a tilt to her hat and a toss to her hair, which she wore hanging, as if to prepare herself for an encounter.

Alan approached the girls rather shyly, introductions were made, and after a little consultation Maud decided that they would make an expedition to the pond. Strange to say, by the time the pond was reached, Alan had dismissed all thoughts of booby traps and apple-pie beds, for Miss Maud had quite won him over by her expressions of opinion upon things in general and upon boys in particular. He felt that it was more than possible, without loss of dignity, to "chum up" with such a girl. The only thing he did not like about her was the way she waggled her skirts, and he decided that some one ought to tell her not to do it, although he would have hesitated long had such a task devolved upon himself.

So the Triple Alliance became a quadruple one, and on the whole things went well with its members. It must be admitted that Marjory understood Maud much better than did her cousin Blanche. Blanche was an unimaginative, rather matter-of-fact little person, and was apt to take all Maud's sayings literally. For instance, when her cousin said, as she often did, "Don't I look sweet in this dress?" or "this hat?" as the case might be, Blanche would think her vain and conceited, and feel ashamed of her, whereas Marjory would know at once that it was only Maud's fun, and would laugh at these sayings of hers.

As the days went by, Marjory found herself really liking this bright, merry girl with all her airs and nonsense. She noticed her devotion to her mother, and saw that in spite of her talk about always taking her own way, she very seldom did anything that was really in opposition to her mother's wishes. True, she laughed at her indulgent muddle-headed parent; but though it shocked poor Blanche's ideas of what was fitting, this laughter was nothing more than affectionate raillery and a sign in itself of the excellent understanding which existed between mother and daughter. "Mamma does forget so," she would say. "Papa says sometimes he believes she forgets that he ever existed."

To Dr. Hunter, Maud was an entirely new phenomenon, and he studied her with curiosity. He had not been much better pleased than the children when he heard of the expected visitors, for he still wished to keep Marjory away from strangers if possible; but he had not the heart to separate her from her friend at Christmas time, and so he allowed her to go to Braeside just as usual.

Maud conquered the doctor as she had conquered Alan. For calm self-assurance, irrepressible spirits, and undoubted charm he thought he had never seen her equal, and, compared with the girl of his former experience, seemed an inhabitant of another world.

Mrs. Hilary, too, was quite a new specimen of womanhood to him, good-natured incapacity personified, as she was. Sometimes, when she made some more than usually foolish remark, the doctor would catch Maud's eye, and they would enjoy the joke together. Then he would rebuke himself and inform himself that it was altogether out of order that he should countenance such disrespect, and, what was worse, that he should thoroughly enjoy the fun himself.

On Christmas evening, when he was first introduced to Mrs. Hilary, he was quite bewildered by the vagueness of her conversation. Endeavouring to make himself agreeable, he began to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. Hilary Forester, who was travelling abroad.

"Well, I had a letter from him two days ago," she replied, "from Texas, or Mexico—those foreign names are so alike, and I never was good at geography, and the letters take such a long time to come that by the time they get here the place is different—I mean, he has gone somewhere else, so that I really never know exactly where he is." The doctor murmured something sympathetic, and Mrs. Hilary continued, "I hope Texas or Mexico, which ever it is, is a British possession. I always feel safer about Hilary when he is under his own country's protection, for one never knows what foreigners are going to do, there are such dreadful stories in the papers nowadays." And she beamed upon the bewildered man of science. "And then there's the climate, too, to be considered," she went on; "some of these foreign places have their winter while we have summer, or is it the other way round? I never know, it is so dreadfully confusing, especially to me with my bad memory; perhaps it is that they have summer while we have winter, but anyway I think the English arrangement is much to be preferred. I am a good Conservative, you know; besides, I think it is so charming to love one's own country, and all that. By the way, about that letter.—Maudie darling," she called to her daughter, "just go and fetch me daddy's last letter; it's the top one on the left-hand side of where the papers are—not the bill side, darling, but the other one. You'll find it at the back, under my handkerchief sachet; and mind, dearest, that you don't crush my lace collar; it's just been cleaned—if it's there."

To the doctor's astonishment Maud went off obediently. Mrs. Hilary's instructions had conveyed nothing to him.

"It is so much better to decide things at once," said that lady, with a charming smile. "I shall feel quite worried now till I know whether Hilary is in Mexico or Texas—at least, when the letter was written; one can't expect to know where he is now," with a sigh. "I was so hoping that the new postmaster-general might make some better arrangement; but I dare say he is much worried, poor man, so we must hope and trust for the best."

Maud returned with the letter, and the question was settled. Mr. Hilary Forester had written from Galveston, Texas, and his wife was relieved when the others laughingly assured her that he was not amongst savages or wild beasts, and that the arrangement of the seasons was much the same as in England.

There was to be a real party at Braeside on Twelfth Night. All the young people of the neighbourhood had been invited, and after much persuasion on Mrs. Forester's part, the doctor had consented to let Marjory go. She looked forward to it with much pleasure, for she felt that with Blanche, Maud, and Alan as allies she could face the strangers with confidence. Mrs. Forester, with her usual tact, had asked her to arrange some of the games for the younger children, so that she might feel that she was being useful—a feeling which gives confidence to the shyest of girls.

The doctor had ordered her a new white frock for the occasion, with stockings and shoes to match. Lisbeth was in raptures over it, and how it would become her little mistress; and it must be confessed that Marjory could not think of the fairy-like contents of a certain long drawer without a thrill of pleasure.

The day came, and Lisbeth, who insisted that she must dress Marjory for her first party, spread all the finery on the bed quite early in the afternoon. She lighted the fire to make the room cheerful, and she brought an extra pair of candles so that Marjory should have plenty of light.

Poor Peter had been very bad with rheumatism the last day or two, and could do nothing but sit in his armchair in the kitchen watching Lisbeth or doing little jobs for her, such as cutting skewers or "sorting" her string bag. He was much interested in the party, and Marjory promised to go to the kitchen and show herself when she was all ready.

Lisbeth was much concerned to see her husband so crippled, but she would not allow anything more than that he was "just a wee bit colded," and blamed the weather as being the cause. She was afraid her master might be inclined to find fault with Peter for his helplessness. "Rain and snaw, and frost and fog, and wind like newly-sharpened knives—a body doesna ken what's coming next," she said indignantly when she went to tell the doctor about it. He reassured Lisbeth by his kindly sympathy, and the old woman wept with joy when he told her that so long as he was alive there would be a home for his faithful servants at Hunters' Brae, whether they were past work or not.

The party was to begin at seven o'clock, and Mrs. Forester had promised to send a carriage for Marjory at half-past six, so that she should be there in good time and feel at home before the other guests arrived.

But things were to turn out very differently from all expectations. Contrary to his usual habit, Dr. Hunter had not appeared at early dinner that day, nor had he left any message; but it was concluded that he had gone to the Morisons', or to the minister's, perhaps. He did not return during the afternoon, and when tea-time came and still he did not appear, Marjory began to feel anxious. He never went out for so long a time without telling her or leaving a message.

Lisbeth asked the man who brought the afternoon's milk from the farm if he would go to the doctor's and the minister's and inquire whether her master were there, and he good-naturedly agreed to do so—perhaps with visions of a reward in the shape of a good cup of tea in the Hunters' Brae kitchen on his return.

He came back with no news of the doctor; he had not been seen out that day.

Marjory had her tea alone, and a feeling of dread weighed upon her. It seemed so strange for her uncle to be away so long, and on this particular day too. He had been so interested about the party, and her frock, and all the arrangements. What could it mean?

Suddenly, as she sat puzzling over it, a thought struck her. Quick as lightning she ran to the hall, took up a candle, and went along the passage to the old wing. It was about five o'clock, and the place was dark as night. Her footsteps echoed through the empty rooms and passages till she reached the place where the secret chamber was. Tremblingly she felt along the wall. Would she be able to find the spring? She now felt almost certain that she would find her uncle here. Perhaps he would be angry with her for disturbing him; he might be finishing some very important experiment. Should she go in? She hesitated, but only for a moment; something seemed to urge her on. After some searching she found the spring; the door flew open, and, holding her candle high, she went in. She could not suppress a cry of terror when she saw that her uncle lay stretched upon the floor. He moaned a little as she went towards him, and she was thankful to hear his voice. Broken glass was strewed upon the floor, and there was an unpleasant chemical odour in the room. She knelt beside her uncle, and found that his head and face were cut, that blood was flowing freely, and that his poor hands had suffered in some dreadful way. She took her handkerchief and gently tried to wipe his face. He murmured faintly, "Brandy—my cupboard—keys," and she understood what he wished. She felt in his pocket for the keys, and, saying that she would be back directly, she took the candle and went quickly to the study, found the brandy, and got back again without being seen. She did not call Lisbeth, as she felt sure that the doctor would be very sorry if his hiding-place became known, and she hoped that he might be able to get to his study before she gave the alarm.

Dr. Hunter swallowed some brandy, and it revived him. After a little while Marjory asked him if he thought he could go to his study, and he replied, "Yes, lassie; but you must help me."

Marjory's heart beat fast and her hands trembled as she assisted him to rise. The least movement of his injured hands made him wince. Very slowly and painfully the two made their way down the stairs and across the old hall, till at last they reached the doctor's study. The exertion had been too much for him, and he fainted. Marjory rushed to call Lisbeth, saying that the doctor had come home, and that there had been an accident.

Full of concern, the old lady bustled along from the kitchen. "Mercy on us! what's this?" she cried when she saw her master. But she wasted no time in words; she hurried away and soon returned with a basin of water and a sponge, and a bottle of spirits, which she held under the doctor's nose—an old-fashioned but often efficacious remedy.

"We maun hae Dr. Morison," she said; "an' how we're to come by him beats me. Jean's awa to Braeside to help at the pairty, an' Peter he canna walk a step; thae good-for-noughts" (which was her name for the garden assistants) "is a' gane hame; an' as for me, I couldna get the length o' Heathermuir on my ain feet."

"I'll go," said Marjory decidedly.

"What? An' walk twa mile at this time o' day, an' maybe more nor that if the doctor's no at hame!"

"Well, I'll go on Brownie; then I can go after him wherever he is. O Lisbeth dear, do you think uncle's very bad?" And Marjory looked anxiously at the white face and still form on the couch.

"I canna say. Dinna tell Peter, but just gang yer ways the quickest that ye can."

How thankful Marjory felt now that she had insisted upon Peter teaching her how to saddle Brownie! She was soon on his back, off and away to Heathermuir, glad to have something to do, her heart aching with anxiety as to the seriousness of her uncle's injuries. The love for him which had been steadily developing of late gained sudden force to-night, and she felt how precious he was to her.

Never had Brownie indulged in such a mad gallop as this. His mistress gave him his head, and he took full advantage of the opportunity. He flew like the wind, and clattered into the courtyard in front of Dr. Morison's house.

The doctor was not there; he had been called to Hillcrest village, she was told. Waiting to hear no more, Marjory started off again, and Brownie felt that their mission was as yet unfulfilled. On he went through the lanes, up hill and down, his hoofs striking fire as he tore along. They passed the Braeside carriage going to fetch Marjory to the party. The horses shied at the flying apparition. Marjory shouted, "I'm not coming!" but did not slacken her pace.

The party! It seemed hours, days, since she had seen her white frock lying on the bed, and had looked forward to wearing it. Instead of that, here was she tearing madly across the country, her poor uncle lying, it might be, at the point of death. Nothing was the same as it had been in the morning. Would things ever be the same again? What if her uncle should die? No, no, she would not allow herself to think of it; she must not think, she must act, and she urged Brownie on.

At the top of the hill just out of Hillcrest, to her great relief, she met Dr. Morison riding. She quickly explained her errand, and it was now his turn to ride hard.

"Don't wait for me," said Marjory; "I'll follow."

Brownie had done his work well, and must be considered. Now that the doctor was on his way to her uncle, she felt that she might slacken her pace. Then she began to wonder as to the cause of the accident, but could only suppose that the doctor had been trying some dangerous experiment; and then, anxious and alone on the hillside in the darkness, she sent up a real prayer to Heaven for the safety of her uncle, whom she now knew to be very dear to her. Countless proofs of his goodness and thoughtful kindness crowded upon her memory, and looking back over the years, she saw his figure in its attitude of protection and care for his dead sister's child. Then the reaction came, and Marjory wept bitterly.

When Marjory reached home, finding that the doctor was still with her uncle, she put Brownie into the stable, rubbed him down, and gave him a good supper and much petting, which was highly approved of by the affectionate little animal, for he rubbed his velvety nose up and down Marjory's sleeve, as if to say, "Thank you; you are very kind."

Dr. Morison had got his patient into bed and comfortably settled there by the time Marjory went back to the house. She lingered near the bedroom door, so that she might catch him as he came out and hear what he had to say. She thought he looked rather grave as he left the room, but as soon as he saw her his face brightened, and he said cheerfully,—

"Not so very bad. He must be kept very quiet, of course. I've told your old woman what to do. I'll look in first thing to-morrow. How did it happen?"

"I don't quite know," replied Marjory, afraid of a cross-examination, "but I think he must have been trying some experiment."

"H'm!" said Dr. Morison. "Well, good-night, Marjory. Don't be over-anxious; he'll do." And then, as if in answer to her unspoken question, "You may go in and see him if you like."

Marjory went in, and found her uncle in bed, his head bandaged, and his hands lying on a pillow in front of him and covered with wool dressings. It made her feel, as she afterwards said to Blanche, quite faint and fluttering inside to see him lying like that, so helpless. What could be seen of his face was very pale, and his eyes looked unnaturally large and bright.

Lisbeth was standing by the bed watching her master, on guard lest he should move a muscle.

The doctor smiled as Marjory went towards him, and she stooped to kiss him. He seemed very weak and soon closed his eyes.

Lisbeth fetched a chair, so that Marjory might sit beside him while she went to the kitchen to prepare what was wanted, giving strict injunctions that the patient must not move.

After a little while the doctor said in a low tone, "Marjory, did you give me away?" a note of half-comic, half-pathetic inquiry in his voice.

"No, uncle; I only told Dr. Morison I thought you had been trying some experiment, but I didn't say where. Nobody knows where I found you."

"Good little girl!" he said, closing his eyes again and smiling contentedly. The thought that his den might have been discovered had been worrying the doctor. Its secrecy had been one of its great charms to the eccentric man, and the knowledge that it was no longer secret would have been a real trouble to him.

He did not talk any more, and Marjory asked no questions, though she was naturally very anxious to know exactly how the accident had happened.

Mr. Forester came up later in the evening to inquire how things were going. Lisbeth had sent a message by the coachman who had come for Marjory that there had been an accident to Dr. Hunter, and that she would like Jean to come back at once unless she was very badly wanted.

Mr. Forester was very kind. He told Marjory how they had all missed her, and promised that some day they would give another party expressly for her. He did not tease her at all, and Marjory liked him better than she ever had as yet. She could not have stood any teasing, poor child, after all she had been through. The sight of her uncle, injured as he was, hurt her sorely. She could not see suffering without feeling pain herself, and it was a pale-faced girl, on the verge of tears, who answered Mr. Forester's inquiries.

When Marjory went to her room her things for the party were still lying on the bed. The sight of them struck a chill to her heart, for it made her realize how little one can tell what a day may bring; how evening may see changes undreamt of in the morning. The party which had seemed all-important when she woke that day had dwindled away into nothing, blotted out of sight by the happenings of the last few hours. Still, her chief feeling was one of great thankfulness that the doctor thought her uncle would get over this trouble; and that she had been of some use to him was also a comforting thought. She fell asleep thinking how she would try to nurse him and to take care of him until he was better.

When the doctor was able to talk more, he explained to Marjory that he had been trying a dangerous experiment that day. He had heard the dinner-bell ring, but was loath to leave his work, and in the end had forgotten all about it, having become entirely absorbed in his occupation. Something—perhaps a flaw in the glass—had caused one of the tubes he was using to burst, and the chemicals burnt his hands. At the sudden shock he started back, and in some way lost his balance and fell, striking his head on a corner of the table and falling on to the broken glass. He must have lost consciousness from the blow on his head, and he could not tell how long he had lain as Marjory found him, but he had felt so weak that every effort to rise made him faint again, and he supposed he must have lain for a long time in a half-conscious condition.

It was some weeks before he was quite himself again, and Marjory made a most devoted nurse. She could hardly bear to leave him in case he might want her when she was gone. Her feeling for him was a revelation to herself, for she knew now that she really loved this uncle of hers whom she had once thought to be hard and cruel and indifferent to her. She considered him very much changed, but in reality the change was in herself. Blanche's friendship, the kindness of the Foresters, Miss Waspe's wise and careful teaching, had all combined to expand her really warm and loving nature, which had threatened at one time to become soured and warped for want of love's sunshine. Her uncle, as Mrs. Forester had predicted on that memorable day in the plantation, had met half-way any advances that she had made, and the result had been the establishment of much happier relations between them. Now that he was ill and dependent upon her, it was Marjory's delight to wait upon him, and to fetch and carry for him, and her uncle was deeply touched by the girl's whole-hearted devotion to him.

Marjory did not see so much of Blanche and the others after the doctor's accident, for she did not join their expeditions, but she usually managed to meet her friend once a day to exchange news. Herbert Morison had now joined the company, and Alan was half inclined to resent this, although the girls had made no objection. He came to see Marjory one day—in fact, as soon as he thought he might venture to do so without being in the way—and he freely expressed his opinion upon the subject of the new member.

"It's all very fine," he said, "for Herbert to come tacking himself on to my friends. I wasn't good enough for him before. He only makes an ass of himself, and I'm sure Maud laughs at him. It all happened through him going to the party. He said afterwards that she was ripping, and licked all the others into fits; and now it's a new tie every day, and a polish on his boots fit to dazzle you, so that he hates to get 'em muddy, and always wants to go the easiest way everywhere. Rot, I call it. He asked Maud yesterday if she liked his tie—silly booby!—and she said it was useful as a danger-signal, cos you could see it a long way off. Crikey! how red he got; and to-day he put on a very sad-looking gray one." And Master Alan went off into fits of laughter at the recollection of his brother's discomfiture.

"Oh, well," replied Marjory, always sorry for the man who is down, so to speak, "he can see that Maud likes pretty things, and I suppose he thought he was pleasing her."

"But that is just what I think is such rot," replied Alan emphatically. "Why should a fellow try to please with his ties?" in a tone of disgust. "He ought to do things, and not be such a muff. Herbert didn't use to be like that; he's got it from those beastly sixth fellows. Course I know he's a good-looking chap. I don't mind saying so to you, though I wouldn't to any of the fellows; 'tisn't the thing. I shall never be like him; and of course the mater's awful proud of him."

There was just a suspicion of brightness in Alan's eyes just then which Marjory did not fail to see, and she said quickly,—

"O Alan, I'm sure she's just as proud of you. Mothers are always proud of their children."

"But I'm so short. She's always telling me I shall never be tall, like Herbert," ruefully.

"But that doesn't matter a bit. Lots of little men get to be quite famous. Think of Napoleon, and Moltke, and that dear German Emperor Wilhelm—the old one, I mean. Miss Waspe said she saw the Kaiser Wilhelm and General Moltke once when she was in Germany, and her recollection of them is that neither of them was big; and anyway," she added consolingly, "you're only fourteen, and you may grow a bit yet."

So Alan took comfort, for he had a high opinion of Marjory's wisdom.

"I say," he remarked, "I do think you know a lot, considering what a short time it is since you began lessons. Fancy your knowing about those men being small! I didn't." And he looked admiringly at Marjory.

"We have a rather nice lesson with Miss Waspe about famous men and women, and she tells us stories about them, and describes them so beautifully that I can see them quite plainly. It is so splendid to think they were really alive and walked about just like ordinary people."

Alan agreed, and there was a short silence. Marjory felt sure that the boy had something else to say, for he seemed rather fidgety, and got up and walked about the room, fingering things here and there, and clearing his throat several times. She kept silent to give him an opportunity to unburden himself. At last, rather red in the face, he said,—

"I say, you know, I felt beastly the other night when I heard about you riding after father in the dark. If I'd only known, I would have done it. It was awful rot me going to the party; I hated it when I knew."

"But I'm glad you went to the party. Blanche would have been very disappointed if you hadn't gone."

There was still something else to come.

"I say, you'll let the Triple Alliance be on again next holidays, won't you?" looking rather anxiously at Marjory.

"Yes, of course, and we shall have lots of fun." And Marjory's hearty tone set all Alan's fears at rest.

The holidays came to an end. Maud and her mother went home, the Morison boys returned to college, and Blanche and Marjory were to begin lessons again.

Dr. Hunter was up and about by this time, and able to use his hands, so that Marjory went back to her studies with a light heart.

When they had settled themselves in the schoolroom on the first day of the new term, Miss Waspe said, "Now, children, I generally give what Blanche calls a 'good talk' when we begin afresh, and I want to say a few things to you to-day. If there is anything you want to know, tell me, and I will try to help you if I can. First of all, I want you to understand and to remember that you don't come here only to learn lessons and repeat them. That is only a small part of your education, and there is much besides. You have to learn to make the best of your lives, to learn how to live; to be good girls, who will grow into good women; to be true and honest, strong and fearless, thoughtful for others—in fact, to be gentlewomen. All this is not easy—not nearly so easy as learning a page of history, for instance, and then repeating it to me. I want you to understand—and especially you, Marjory, who have begun so-called lessons rather later in life than most girls—that it is not the amount of information you possess and the studies you have gone through that is the important thing; it is the way you have worked, the sort of girl that you are, the life you are living, that matters. We are beginning again to-day. Let us all do our very best, so that at the end of the term we may have really gone forward. The lessons I have been talking about are never finished; our education goes on as long as we are alive. Now," with a bright smile, "my speech is done, and I hope it hasn't been too long. It is your turn now. Have either of you any problems for me?"

"I have," replied Marjory. "I want to know whether it is ever right to tell a lie, or a kind of a one, for the sake of somebody else." And she blushed very red.

Miss Waspe looked at her in surprise. Marjory had always seemed to her to be so absolutely straightforward and honest that she could not understand the reason for such a question.

"I don't believe in a 'kind of a lie,'" she replied, "A thing is either true or untrue, and I don't think it could ever be right to tell an untruth under any circumstances."

"Not if you can see quite well that if you tell this lie it will prevent something bad happening to some one else?" asked Marjory appealingly.

"No," was the decided reply. "Tell the truth at all costs, and trust the results to a higher power than yours. Wrong cannot make right."

Tears stood in Marjory's eyes, but she said no more, and Miss Waspe did not question her. The truth was that ever since Marjory had told the man in the plantation that "people" of the name of Shaw kept the Low Farm, allowing him to think that the husband was at home, she had felt uncomfortable about it. Certainly she had said it for Mrs. Shaw's sake, to prevent a suspicious-looking person from going to the farm when its mistress was alone; but she had not been able to silence her conscience, and had at last determined to ask Miss Waspe what she thought. Her words had only confirmed Marjory's uneasy feelings, and she could not give the circumstances as an excuse without breaking her promise to the man.

"I've got a problem too," said Blanche, "and it's this: Is a secret a proper secret if you tell only one person, and you are certain that other person will never tell?"

The others laughed, and Miss Waspe said,—

"I don't quite know what you mean, dear."

Blanche explained. "Well, it's like this. I simply can't keep a secret. I feel as if I shall burst if I don't tell somebody, so I always tell mother, and then it's all right, and, of course, I never want to tell anybody else. Do you think it is right for me to do that?"

Miss Waspe could not help smiling at this confession, and she replied, "I think if you tell the person who wants to confide in you that you must tell your mother, and the person still chooses to trust you with the secret, then you are quite right to tell her."

"But supposing," argued Blanche, "that the person tells you the thing before he or she says, 'Don't tell any one,' ought I to try to do without telling mother? It would be an awful risk," she added solemnly.

"Well," replied Miss Waspe, "personally, I don't like secrets, except, perhaps, about presents or pleasant surprises for people. I think I should advise you, for the present, at any rate, to make the stipulation that you be allowed to tell your mother anything and everything, but at the same time you must learn to control yourself and keep your own counsel so far as other people are concerned."

"I'll try," said Blanche, looking very solemn, "but I haven't much hope."

After that the girls teased their good-natured governess with many other "problems," as they called them, such as, "Whether would you choose to be very pretty and very poor, or very rich and quite plain?" and another, "Whether would you prefer to walk in a very fashionable place with a person you love, who is so badly dressed as to attract attention, or with a nicely-dressed person for whom you did not care so much?"

Miss Waspe rather encouraged the girls to give their opinions on all sorts of subjects, as she liked them to think.

"Learn to think and to see," she would say. And one day she told them how, when she was a girl, she had been made to learn some lines by heart, which had helped her to begin thinking for herself. "I think they frightened me into it," she said, laughing. "They were written by Carlyle; you will know something of his works some day, I hope. This is what he says: 'Not one in a thousand has the smallest turn for thinking; only for passive dreaming, and hearsaying, and active babbling by rote. Of the eyes that men do glare withal, so few can see.' It sounds rather like a scolding, doesn't it? Well, I don't want you to be like that; I want you both to think and to see, and you will find much happiness to think about and many beauties to see."

Certainly Marjory's world had grown much wider and brighter by this woman's thought. The romance and wonder of reality put before the girl had opened up possibilities of interest in every direction to her who was so eager to learn and so quick to see. To give an instance: it may be remembered that in her days of loneliness Marjory had woven fairy stories about the flowers and trees in the garden and the woods. Knowledge had now replaced these fairy tales with facts far more marvellous than any of her fancies had been.

These were happy hours spent in the schoolroom at Braeside. They never became irksome to Marjory, but they made her long to see more of this "great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world."

Two things were often in her mind at this time—the prophecy about the dark-haired maiden, and the letter of which Mary Ann had told her. She built many hopes upon that letter; night and day she prayed that her father might be found and brought back to her.

The postman only came once a day to Hunters' Brae, and the letter-bag was always taken straight to her uncle's study; so, although Marjory watched carefully for any sign, she did not know whether a reply had been received to that letter her uncle had sent to foreign parts.

One day, coming out of church, Mary Ann managed to whisper to her, "That letter came back, so I expect your father's really dead."

This was a great blow to Marjory. She had hardly realized how much she had hoped, and this bitter disappointment seemed to leave her nothing to hope for. Still she refused to give up altogether, for there was just the chance that the letter might not have been written to her father, as Mary Ann had not actually seen the address on it. Marjory reasoned with herself in this way, for she felt that her life would be strangely empty without the hope of some day finding her father.