Hunter's Marjory

Mr. Davidson smiled as he put down Captain Shaw's letter. He had received both the communications within a mail of each other, and one supplied information that the other lacked. He had turned the matter over in his mind this way and that, and he now felt very little doubt that this Marjory Davidson was indeed his child. And yet why should the fact that he had a child have been kept from him all these years? What reason could his brother-in-law have had for withholding the knowledge from him? It was all a mystery. He looked back over the lonely years since his wife's death, remembering how in the bitterness of his grief he had thrown himself heart and soul into his work, and had laid the foundations of a fortune. He thought of the time when the rush of gold-seekers to the Klondike had first started, and he had left the company he then represented to start on his own account in the shipping and transportation business, seeing at once that here was a certain road to success. And so it had proved, for to-day his was the best-known and most highly-respected name in all that broad region. But there had been times such as that to which Mr. Hilary Forester had alluded in his letter—when money, success, popularity, all seemed as nothing compared with a wife, a home, a child to love him. He envied the poorest labourer with these blessings. He now felt like a man in a dream. Fifteen years! He saw in fancy the little child he would have loved to take upon his knee; the growing girl learning her first lessons. How he would have cared for her and watched over her, trying to be both father and mother to the motherless child! Now she was growing quickly to womanhood, and he knew nothing of her, nor she of him. A great wave of indignation against his brother-in-law swept over him; it was a downright crime to have kept him in ignorance all these years, and the man should be brought to book. All the old bitterness against his wife's unreasonable brother took hold of him, and Captain Shaw's suggestion as to the forgetting of bygones seemed for a time little likely to be acted upon. But this mood passed, and then a great tenderness towards this unknown daughter of his welled up in his heart, and he made up his mind. He would go as soon as he could, and find out the truth.

Other influences were at work to bring about this meeting of father and child. Dr. Hunter, yielding at last to the voice of conscience, had written to Hugh Davidson, but he had sent the letter to the care of the company to which he had belonged in the old days. This company had since gone out of existence, and the letter had come back, as Mary Ann had told Marjory, and nothing more was done for a time.

Mrs. Forester, ever since the beginning of their acquaintance, had made periodical attacks upon the doctor, declaring that it was his duty to take steps to bring back Marjory's father. It must be remembered that Mrs. Forester knew nothing of the part Dr. Hunter had played, and blamed the cold-heartedness of a man who could leave his child unclaimed for fifteen years.

While Marjory was ill, Mrs. Forester renewed the attack with many arguments. At last one day, in a moment of expansion, the doctor confessed what he had done. In the face of Mrs. Forester's amazed displeasure, his reasons for his conduct seemed absurdly inadequate. She told him in no measured terms exactly what she thought of him, and indignantly reproached him for the course which he had taken. She quite pooh-poohed the suggestion that Hugh Davidson might be dead, as the letter had come back.

"I know he isn't dead," she protested. "I feel it as strongly as if he were standing before me at this moment. That child's father is alive, Dr. Hunter, and you have got to find him!"

The doctor made a mental reflection as to the "queerness" of women, with their intuitions and unfounded assertions, without reason or logic to guide them, but before he and Mrs. Forester parted that day he had promised to take steps at once. In the end he decided to go to America and meet face to face the man he had wronged, and ask his forgiveness. It was the least he could do. One stipulation he made: Marjory must not know the real object of his journey, in case nothing came of it.

The first step was to find out where Hugh Davidson was likely to be found, if alive. Dr. Hunter felt as though he were beginning to search for the proverbial needle in a haystack; but by Mrs. Forester's advice he entrusted the matter to his lawyers, and in an incredibly short space of time he heard from them that the man he wanted was now the manager of the A1 Shipping and Transportation Company at Skaguay, Alaska, the largest organization of its kind in that part of the world.

So the doctor made up his mind to go in search of his brother-in-law. His friends the Foresters (he told no one else of his real intentions) tried to dissuade him, representing to him the length of the journey and its fatigues, the heat at that time of the year, and any and every reason they could think of to alter his purpose. But the doctor did nothing by halves, and having once realized the great wrong he had done, he would not spare himself anything till he had tried to make reparation, and it seemed that a personal meeting could do more in that direction than any number of letters.

"Besides," he said, "it'll do me good. I begin to think that I've kept myself and Marjory shut up too long. I shall never be anything but an old fogey, but a little change and knocking about may make me a more agreeable one."

The scientific meetings at New York served as a plausible excuse for his going, and the Foresters kept his secret.

Marjory felt as if she were living in a dream, such impossible things seemed to be happening. Could it be true that she was going to London, and her uncle to New York? One thing she begged of the doctor: that they might both be at home again in time for her birthday—that important fifteenth one when she was to see and know so much; and her uncle promised that it should be so if possible.

If the skies had suddenly fallen, Lisbeth and Peter could hardly have been more surprised than they were when the doctor announced his plans for his and Marjory's departure. Such a thing had never happened before, and they felt doubtful that they would ever see their master again if he went to "foreign parts." But when they became more accustomed to the idea, it lost some of its terrors, and they began to take a keen interest in the preparations for departure.

The house was to be left in charge of Lisbeth and Peter, who, as their master knew, would take care of it as if it were their own.

"Look after Miss Marjory's room," he said to Lisbeth one day.

"Ay, an' I will that," responded the old woman. "It's to be Marjory's ain come she's fifteen, an' that's no sae lang."

The doctor had always spoken of his sister as Miss Marjory; he had never got into the habit of speaking of her as Mrs. Davidson to his servants, and it was always "Miss Marjory's room" to them.

There was quite a little crowd at the station to see them off on the day of their departure. The Foresters and Marjory and her uncle all went together to Liverpool, so that Marjory might be able to see the doctor start on his voyage.

It was a time of wonder to the country girl, who had never seen any place larger than Morristown. The long journey, as it seemed to her, the many crowded streets of the city, the noise and bustle of the docks, bewildered her, and she hardly knew whether she enjoyed these new sensations or not, they were so overpowering.

When at last it was time to say good-bye to her uncle, she clung to him, begging him not to go and leave her. "Take me with you," she sobbed. Poor Marjory! it was her first parting, and she had not realized what it would mean. This great ship towering above her like a monster ready to swallow her uncle out of her sight, the unknown miles of ocean that lay between him and his destination—all this seemed terrible to the girl. She could not let him go without her.

The doctor folded her in his arms, kissing her many times. "There, there, my child; it won't be very long before I come back, and I hope you will be very glad to see me. Be brave now, and wish me a good voyage. Good-bye, my own little girl." And he was obliged to put her from him. She was led down the gangway by Mr. Forester; blinded by her tears, she could not see the way before her. People crowded behind them, there was much shouting of good-byes, the clatter of gangways being withdrawn, a straining and creaking of ropes, a throbbing of engines, and the great ship began to move—stealthily, it seemed to Marjory, as though it knew the heartaches it was causing, and felt ashamed of its part in tearing so many people away from their friends.

"Come, cheer up, Marjory," urged Mrs. Forester. "Give your uncle a smile to take with him. Wave your handkerchief—quick! they're off!"

Marjory's kind friends stayed with her until nothing more could be seen. She watched the tall, bent figure standing at the rail until it merged into the misty outline of the ship. She strained her eyes to the very last, and then she turned away, white and trembling and tearful.

"I didn't know I should care so much," she whispered half apologetically to Mrs. Forester.

"You see, you are such good friends with your uncle now, dear, that it is very hard to part with him, I know; but cheer up, and look forward to his coming home. It won't be very long."

Blanche had thoroughly enjoyed her visit to the docks. Mr. Forester had taken her over the ship; she had seen the saloons and staterooms, and had been on to the captain's bridge, and thought it great fun. She was sorry for Marjory's trouble, but she could hardly see the reason for its intensity. She had often been parted from her father for more than two months, which was all the time the doctor expected to be away. Dr. Hunter never made much fuss over Marjory that she could see—"Nothing like daddy does over me," she reflected. Still, it was very sweet of Marjory to care so much.

Yes, Marjory did care. She had grown to love dearly the silent, stern man who had been father and mother to her. He was gone. Her life would be strangely empty without him, and she would count the days until he came back to her.

"Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises."—Shakespeare.

Dr. Hunter attended the most important meetings of the Congress of Scientists which was being held in New York. He was quite unprepared for the reception that was given him there. Of a very quiet and retiring disposition, and having lived the life of a recluse for many years, known to the world only by his writings, it never seemed to have occurred to him that his name was a famous one in other countries as well as his own. His first appearance was greeted with acclamation as soon as his name was mentioned, and during his stay in New York invitations were showered upon him, reporters called upon him at his hotel, and paragraphs referring to him appeared in all the papers, although he steadily refused to be interviewed.

He was thankful when the day of his departure came, as he shrank from so much publicity. He remarked afterwards that he felt as a hunted criminal might who saw in every casual passer-by a possible detective.

He was careful not to mention his destination to any one but the clerk from whom he purchased his ticket, but next day in a paper which he bought in the train he saw the inevitable paragraph,—

"Dr. Hunter, the famous scientist of London, England, left this city to-day for Montreal, en route for the North-West."

The learned gentleman might have been heard to mutter words not usually included in his vocabulary when he read this. As he had only taken a ticket to Montreal, the latter part of the announcement, although it happened to be true, was an absolute invention on the part of the light-hearted paragraphist who had penned it.

Escaped from New York and the social obligations his position had entailed upon him, Dr. Hunter gave himself up to the enjoyment of his trip. From Montreal he travelled on the wonderful Canadian Pacific Railway, and he never ceased to wonder at its construction—the amazing manner in which difficulties that appeared to be insuperable had been overcome, and the way in which the brain of man had enabled him to carve a path for himself up and through mighty mountains.

"To think that one can be climbing the Rockies and at the same time partaking of an excellent dinner served as in a first-class hotel!" he remarked to a fellow-traveller.

"Yes indeed, we make ourselves pretty comfortable in these times," was the reply. "My father was a pioneer and crossed the plains in '47. He has some rare tales to tell of roughing it in the old days." And the friendly stranger entertained the doctor with an account of some of those early experiences.

The doctor was struck by the geniality of his fellow-travellers for the most part, and the very intelligent way in which they answered his inquiries. He was able to say on his return that he had met with nothing but kindness from beginning to end of his trip.

He was greatly looking forward to his meeting with Hugh Davidson. How surprised he would be! The doctor's feelings had changed so completely that a meeting with this man now seemed of all things the most desirable. He had purposely refrained from sending any notice of his visit beforehand, taking an almost childish delight in the idea of suddenly and unexpectedly appearing before his brother-in-law.

At last the long journey was accomplished, and he found himself outside the offices of the A1 Shipping and Transportation Company at Skaguay.

Stirred by unusual feelings, he went in rather nervously.

"Can I see the manager?" he inquired of a clerk who came forward. The young man opened a door with a flourish and ushered him into the manager's room.

A man rose from a desk, but it was not Hugh Davidson. This was a youngish man, fair haired and clean shaven.

Much taken aback, the doctor murmured, "I beg your pardon; I expected to find Mr. Davidson here."

"Mr. Davidson is not here at present," said the man courteously. "Is there anything I can do for you in his place?"

"Oh no, thank you; my visit is purely a personal one. As a matter of fact, I am his brother-in-law, and intended paying him a surprise visit. Here is my card; perhaps you can tell me when he is likely to be in."

An expression of concern passed over the other man's face.

"I am exceedingly sorry," he said, "to inform you that Mr. Davidson sailed from New York for England this very morning. You must have passed each other on the way. Most unfortunate," he added sympathetically.

The doctor was nonplussed for the moment. Here was an unexpected turn of events; he had not contemplated such a possibility, and was undecided as to his own best course of action. At last he said, with an attempt at a smile, "Business, I suppose;" but the other replied, "No, I should gather that it was principally upon private affairs that he has gone to England; but Mr. Davidson is a very reticent man, and he gave me no particulars. I represent him here until he returns, and beyond that it is really no business of mine; but I certainly received the impression that some personal matter was calling him."

Somewhat dismayed, the doctor asked himself if it were possible that after all his brother-in-law had heard of his child's existence from an outsider. In such a case his own conduct would appear blacker than ever.

The manager's representative was really sorry for the doctor's disappointment. The old man seemed to him a pathetic figure, weary with many days of travelling only to find that his journey had been taken in vain, so far as its chief object was concerned. He suggested a cable message. "You could send it from Victoria, to the care of the Steamship Company, or to his private address in London—perhaps the latter would be the better plan." And he took a paper from the desk and read, "Care of Hilary Forester, Esq., 50 Royal Gate, London, S.W."

A smothered exclamation escaped the doctor. "I'll send a message," he said. "When is there a steamer back to Victoria?"

"Well, if you don't much mind what you go in, there is one to-morrow, but it won't travel quicker than eight knots an hour in smooth water," with a laugh.

"I'll take it," said Dr. Hunter decidedly. "It is important that I should get back as soon as possible."

Poor old man, he had been so anxious to tell his tale himself to Hugh Davidson, to throw himself upon the generosity of the man he had injured. He had wished to entreat him not to tell Marjory of the part he had played; he could not bear that her memory of him should be embittered by the knowledge of that wrong—that wrong which by reason of his biassed mind had seemed right, until the fearless words of a good and gentle woman had aided the voice of his own conscience and pronounced it wrong.

But now Marjory would hear the story from other lips, and what would he seem in her eyes? Would she banish him from his place in her heart? Would she think bitterly of him and reproach him with those fifteen years of silence? Would she not blame him for keeping her away from the world, even from the knowledge of the true personality of her mother, into whose room he had not allowed her to penetrate, in case that what she saw there might influence the childish mind in a way her uncle did not wish. It was not to be expected that the girl should understand his reasons.

He determined to start on his homeward journey the next day, and to send the cable message from the first possible point.

Meanwhile his new friend offered the hospitality of his home to Dr. Hunter, and the invitation was given in such a hearty way that it would have seemed ungracious to refuse it. He thought that evening that many people at home would open their eyes were they able to see the well-appointed table at which he was a guest, and the charming and cultured woman who presided over it, and he felt glad that he had been allowed to have this glimpse of home life in that far-away corner of the world. It was a peaceful home life, all the more attractive in that its background was rough-and-ready Skaguay—a plain town enough to look at, but one full of thrilling human interest, of tragedy and comedy. Through its streets had passed a motley procession of men—some on their way to fortune, some to disappointment, but all battling with the realities of life. The doctor was struck by the simple and straightforward outlook of these people, their sincerity, and the pleasure they found in their life; far as it was from any of the great world centres, every hour of every day seemed to be full of interest.

They spoke of Mr. Davidson, and there was nothing but praise of his sterling integrity, his upright and honourable life, his unfailing kindness and charity towards others.

"There's not a man in this town, or, for that matter, in the whole of this vast district, who doesn't know and honour the name of Hugh Davidson," said the manager's representative enthusiastically; "and as for myself, sir," thumping the table with his closed fist, "I am proud to be associated with such a man."

The doctor's heart smote him. This then was the black sheep—the man he had not considered fit to have the care of his own child!

He started off again next morning, and the journey back seemed long and tedious by reason of his impatience, although he could not but be struck by the beauty of the scenery as the ship steamed slowly along, threading its way amongst the many islands which lie across the course of the inland passage, as it is called.

After the doctor had dispatched his message, his one thought was, Would they wait for his return before telling Marjory what had happened? If only they would. And yet, after his conduct in the past, he could hardly expect any consideration from Hugh Davidson. To his great relief he received a message at New York from Mr. Davidson saying that he would await him in London.

Meanwhile Marjory, unconscious of the coming change in her fortunes, was enjoying new sights and experiences. She was not yet allowed to walk much or to exert herself in any way. They spent a week in London with the Hilary Foresters before going to the seaside. Marjory felt a mild surprise when she heard it remarked on all sides that "town was very empty." To her it seemed full to overflowing, and more like one of the anthills that were Peter's abhorrence in the garden than anything else. The continuous stream of human beings flowing in all directions was a never-ending source of wonder to her.

"Every single one of these people must have a story, you know," she said to the others one day. "Some are good and some are wicked, I suppose."

"I think they're all much of a muchness," replied Maud thoughtfully. "Good people can be bad, and bad people can be good. The best nurse I ever had turned out to be a thief, and I was so sorry when she went away. I tell you I loved that thief. You've no idea what a good, kind nurse she was; and it was found that she stole for the sake of somebody else who was poor."

"Well, but it can't be right to steal," argued Blanche.

"No, of course not, silly. But what I mean is that even wicked people may have some good in them. I've always thought that there ought to be something between sheep and goats—not quite so good and not quite so bad as either; or they might have points, such as length of horn, or silkiness of coat and thickness of fleece, and so on."

"Would an extra fine goat be an extra wicked person, or a shade better than an ordinary goat?" asked Marjory, laughing.

"Of course he would be better. A wretched, thin, mangy animal would be the worst, and they would gradually go on improving till the best goat was just the next thing to the worst sheep." Maud laughed.

Blanche was rather shocked. "I don't think you ought to make fun of those things, Maud," she said, reddening.

"I'm not making fun, my serious little cousin. I only mean to show that I think it's very hard to decide where the good begins and the bad leaves off, and that everybody has some of each. You see, I'm older than you, and I do think sometimes, although you might not guess it to look at me—eh?"

"Miss Waspe quoted some rather nice lines to us one day," said Marjory. "They were by Robert Louis Stevenson, I think. I don't know if I can remember them properly, but they were something like this,—

'There's so much bad in the best of us,
And so much good in the most of us,
That it hardly becomes any of us
To talk evil of the rest of us.'"

"Awfully jolly," agreed Maud. "I couldn't have put it better myself; it's exactly what I think."

The passing crowd was a never-failing source of interest to Marjory, and one of her favourite occupations was to go to Kensington Gardens or to the Park and watch the people, weaving their life-stories in her imagination. Driving about, shopping with Mrs. Forester in such shops as threw the most important establishments in Morristown far into the shade, in the streets, or even looking out of the windows at 50 Royal Gate, there was this never-ending procession to speculate upon; so, although the time was spent quietly, there was not a dull moment in that week.

Then came another move, the excitement of another railway journey, and then at last the sea. Marjory's wonder and delight were indescribable. She had dreamed of the sea all her life. Her uncle had always promised that some day he would take her to the seaside. He had always vaguely said to himself that the child should be taken about when she was old enough; but the years had slipped by until she was nearly fifteen, and yet she had never seen the sea till now.

"Her beloved must cross the sea," she whispered to herself, as she stood at the water's edge for the first time, looking over its shining expanse, dancing and sparkling in the sun like myriads of diamonds in a setting of blue. Nothing but the sea as far as the eye could reach—what a sense of freedom and space and unbounded possibility! How she loved to watch the rise and fall of the waves with their fringes of white, to listen for the clatter of the shingle as it rushed along, keeping pace with each receding wave! But, best of all, she loved to stand barefooted on the shining sand when the tide was low, and to feel the water lapping gently over her ankles.

The three girls (for Maud had begged her mother to spend at least half their holiday at the little, unfashionable place Mrs. Forester had chosen) spent long days by the sea—days of delight for all, and of the gathering of health and strength for Marjory.

In the mornings the other two would usually bathe, Marjory looking on from her deck-chair, and finding much amusement in the antics of the bathers. She liked to watch Blanche in her pretty bathing suit, her hair rippling over her shoulders, and Maud, too, with her coquettish little cap amongst her fair curls. Thanks to her friend's tuition, Blanche was now quite a good swimmer, and was endeavouring to teach Maud, and they had great fun over it. Marjory herself was not allowed to bathe; she might only wade sometimes at low tide.

The girl would lie and dream of what the sea might bring her if dreams could ever come true, but her visions showed her nothing of a great ship with precious freight for her on board which one day very soon was to come from the New World to the Old, and make the old one new for her. Marjory knew nothing of this, and yet she was strangely content and happy in these days as she lay dreaming in the sunshine and listening to the singing of the sea.

Home again at last! How good it was to see the doctor at the station, to drive with dear old Peter and Brownie along the familiar road, to breathe the sweet pure air scented with pine and heather!

"After all," Marjory said to her uncle, "there can't be any place in the world just like dear little old Heathermuir. I love every bit of it."

"'East, west, hame's best,'" quoted the doctor. "No, my dear, there's no place like it, not even New York!" with a smile at the recollection of his late experiences.

"What a lot you must have to tell me!" said Marjory. "And, uncle dear, I hope you haven't forgotten that to-morrow is my fifteenth birthday, and you've always promised to tell me everything I want to know on that day."

"Yes, yes," replied the doctor evasively. "By the way, Marjory, you'll find a surprise awaiting you at the Brae; we've a new member of our household," smiling.

"Who can it be?"

"Wait and see. It's a kind of a sort of a birthday present, but I am not sure that you will be altogether pleased."

Marjory laughed.

"It sounds as if it might be some sort of an animal. O uncle," in dismay, "I hope you haven't brought a monkey from America!"

"No," laughing.

"Perhaps it's a parrot, then, or—no—surely not a nigger!"

"No; it's not a coloured gentleman or lady, as I have lately been taught to call them."

"Oh dear, I do wonder what it is! But there's the house at last, and dear old Lisbeth's round smiling face, and my darling Silky. Oh, it is good to be at home again!" And Marjory nestled close to her uncle for a moment, and then sprang out of the cart and began hugging Lisbeth in the most boisterous fashion.

But who was this standing shyly in the background? Here was indeed a surprise. This girl with the smooth sleek head, the neat gown and spotless apron and cap, could it be Mary Ann Smylie, the rich miller's daughter? Yes, indeed it was. But what could it mean? Quite bewildered, Marjory held out her hand to the girl. "I am glad to see you, Mary Ann," she said.

Tears were in Mary Ann's eyes as she replied, "Thank you, Miss Marjory; I'm very glad to be here." And she disappeared at once in the direction of the kitchen.

"This is a surprise," said Marjory, looking inquiringly at her uncle and then at Lisbeth. Each seemed to expect the other to speak.

"Weel, it was this way," began Lisbeth. "Yon puir lassie's feyther, no content wi' bein' just a plain man like ony ither miller, must needs try to mak a big fortune, and some o' thae speculatin' deils—I canna ca' them by ony ither name—got hand o' the auld man, an' ae fine day his fortune's awa—the vera hoose he's livin' in no his ain, a' signed awa, an' he in debt. His puir silly wife was clean dementit, an' this girl wi' naething but her buik-learnin' an' sic like rubbish to stand by. There was naebody wantit her to teach their bairns, and yon grandee o' a schulemistress telt the puir lassie she wasna competent for teachin', an' that efter a' the guid money her feyther had spent upo' her learnin'. Weel, Mary Ann she comes to me, an' says, 'Will ye gie me wark at Hunters' Brae?' says she. 'The doctor's awa,' says I, but she begged that hard I couldna say no to the creature. 'I'm willin' to learn,' says she, 'an' if so's I could wait upo' Miss Marjory I'd be more nor set up.' She cried sae, and looked that peekit an' meeserable, I hadna the heart to send her off, sae I e'en kept her here, thinkin' the doctor, guid man, wouldna blame me for the bit she ate an' drank till he cam hame."

"Yes," put in the doctor, "when I got back yesterday I found Mary Ann comfortably settled. I suppose she thought that if she had won over Lisbeth the rest was easy," laughing. "I'm sorry for the girl, and I dare say she can be made useful here in many ways. As you are getting on, Marjory, it will be nice for you to have a maid of your own to look after your fallals; but the question is, Do you like the girl well enough to have her about you? This is your home, and I don't want to insist upon anything that would be unpleasant to you."

Marjory remembered her old grudge against Mary Ann, but she could hardly connect the quiet, subdued person who had just disappeared, weeping, with the frizzy-haired, overdressed, and affected girl at the post office.

"Poor Mary Ann! Let her stay, uncle. I'm sure we shall get on quite well."

"That's settled then," said the doctor, with relief. He had been a little afraid that Lisbeth's philanthropy might not be quite to Marjory's liking.

Dr. Hunter was strangely restless that evening—sad and merry by turns. Marjory herself felt very excited as she thought of the morrow.

When she went to bid her uncle good-night, he drew her to him very tenderly. "So you are really glad to be at home again, my child," he said, stroking her hair.

"Very, very glad," was the reply, and the dark eyes shone with tears.

"You love the old place, then?"

"Oh yes, I do; but it wouldn't be the same without you." And she rubbed her cheek against his.

"And you love your old uncle in spite of all his mistakes and queer ways?"

"I love you better than any one else in the whole world," she said simply.

He kissed her very tenderly, and then put her away from him with a sigh. "Go, my child, sleep well; to-morrow is a new day, and begins a new life for you."

"Better than any one else in the whole world," he repeated to himself when Marjory had left him. This had been his heart's desire, his scheme from the beginning—that his beloved sister's child should be his, and that he should be her all, and first in her affections; and now had come his punishment for that selfish wish. The child had made this open avowal of her feeling for him on the eve of the very day on which he must renounce her, must give her up to another with a better right than he to that first place in her love. He had done wrong; he had made what amends he could, and the rest was in God's hands. Would this girl, growing sweeter and more lovable year by year, take away her affection from the uncle and give it all to the father? Would she forget the old man and all his care for her? Then he thought of the honest eyes as they had looked into his, clear and steadfast. Surely he had caught a glimpse of the loving, faithful heart within; surely that heart would prove large enough for love of both. He could no longer expect to be first, but surely he was wronging the child and all that he knew of her by the mere suggestion that she would change towards him, and the memory of her look and her caress comforted him.

Marjory's fifteenth birthday had come at last, and she stood in her mother's room.

The sunlight streamed across the faded hangings and the panelled walls, flooding the place with brightness. It seemed hardly possible that it had been unused for so many years. Lisbeth had worked in it so faithfully week by week that, beyond the fading of the curtains and the rugs which lay about the polished floor, there was nothing to indicate that it had been unoccupied for so long.

There were flowers about the room; there was a work-basket on a small table by the window; and an embroidery frame with a half-finished piece of work in it stood near, just as if its owner might have been working at it yesterday. It was altogether a dainty apartment, and bore evidence in every corner of the girlish fancies of its former mistress. The pictures on the walls were all of a romantic description; the books on the shelves could almost have told the tale of Marjory Hunter's childhood and girlhood. Fairy tales there were in plenty, and the rest were of the tender, sentimental kind—love poems and the like. If Blanche Forester had been describing the collection, she would have said that there was not a single dry book amongst them—the word "dry" in her vocabulary meaning anything from uninteresting to instructive! Had the doctor only known it, he need not have feared the attraction of these books for his niece. Marjory required something stronger and more active in character—stories of great men and women, histories of the world and its wonders, something stirring and stimulating.

Marjory stood in her mother's room—alone. Her feelings as she entered this chamber of her dreams were those of awe and expectation of she knew not what. She gave one quick glance around, but she had eyes for nothing at present but a picture—a picture of a man with a strong, handsome face, and dark hair and eyes which she knew resembled her own. Beside it was another picture—that of a fair-haired girl, her mother. "How sweet she must have been!" thought Marjory, and her eyes turned again to the other picture.

That other picture, would the doctor have confessed it, was one of the chief reasons why he did not wish Marjory to enter her mother's room. With that speaking, impressive portrait of her father continually before her eyes, could the child be taught to ignore and forget him? The doctor had an almost superstitious dislike of having anything moved at Hunters' Brae. His sister had ordered Hugh Davidson's portrait to be hung in her room; there it must stay, but Marjory should not see it until he thought fit.

Marjory now stood gazing at the picture. This, then, was the hero of her dreams and hopes, that father who had been the central figure in many a tale of stirring adventure, hairbreadth escape, and brave deed—tales which she had told herself many a time. But this was a figure even more splendid than that of her imagination. The strong, square chin and determined mouth, the flashing, piercing eyes under the dark brows—all spoke of the strength and courage of a Cœur de Lion or a Napoleon.

She could not take her eyes off the picture. How proud of him she would have been! was her sad thought, but it seemed no use hoping any more. She must begin afresh to-day, and try to be content without him. It would be very hard, for the hope had been very dear to her.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and a strange voice called, "May I come in, Marjory?"

Who could this be, calling her by her Christian name, and yet in a voice she did not know? She must be dreaming; but no—the voice called again, "May I come in, Marjory?"

"Come in," she said, turning towards the door with a puzzled and inquiring expression on her face.

"I've brought you a large and handsome birthday present," said the doctor's voice, as he almost pushed Mr. Davidson into the room. Then he shut the door, and left the father and daughter confronting each other.

There was a moment's silence. Marjory looked at the tall man with the noble gray head, the lined forehead that told of years of sorrow and care. Time had set its marks upon the face, but it was the face of the picture. At last—somehow, and from somewhere—her father had been brought to her. The man held out his arms, and she crept into them, sobbing with wonder and delight and other feelings to which she could not have given a name, as he murmured, "My own little girl, come to me."

That moment seemed to sweep away all the sad memories of her longings and yearnings. Never again would she feel that she was an orphan, really belonging to nobody. Her father, her very own, had come to her at last. How good it was!

It may well be imagined that these two had much to say to each other. Mr. Davidson told his child of her sweet young mother, as he took her round the room, showing her the various treasures, which were in their places just as they had been in the old time when he knew that room so well. In the work-basket was a dainty little garment which had been intended for Marjory. It was not finished; the rusty needle, with its thread yellow with age, was still in it, just as the worker had left it. Mr. Davidson took up the little bundle of muslin and lace and reverently kissed it.

"Thank God for you, my darling," he said, "and for this good day that gives you to me!" And he kissed Marjory again.

Marjory showed her father the locket and chain which she always wore. Yes, he knew it; it was one he had given to her mother. But he did not add that at that time it had contained a picture of himself. And the coin? Yes, he had the other half; and he told Marjory how he and that other Marjory had split it for luck, and how each had promised to wear it always.

There was much questioning and answering of questions between them, and at last came the inevitable one which Mr. Davidson had expected and dreaded,—

"Why did you never come before?"

He looked into his daughter's eyes.

"Can you trust me when I tell you that there was a reason I cannot explain which made it impossible until now, and when I tell you that it was not my fault, and that as soon as the reason was removed I came to you? Will you be content to believe me, and ask no more questions?"

Marjory returned her father's look, a world of trust and confidence in her eyes. "Yes," she replied; and from that moment they understood each other.

And Marjory never knew the answer to that question. Mrs. Forester kept her own counsel, and so did Mr. Hilary Forester, and they were the only people besides the principals themselves who knew the truth.

"My beloved did cross the sea, after all," said Marjory to her uncle, when they joined him later.

"Quite right; so he did," replied the doctor.

"And you believe the old prophecy now?" triumphantly.

The doctor laughed.

"I can hardly say that," he answered. "It has just happened so, that's all."

The doctor had persuaded Mr. Davidson to wait until Marjory's birthday before making himself known to her, in order that the day might be a red-letter one in her life. The Foresters had kept the secret carefully, Captain Shaw had kept his, and not a whisper had gone abroad of the wonderful event about to happen, and all had fallen out just as the doctor had planned and wished.

There were great rejoicings at Hunters' Brae that day, and in the evening there was a large and merry birthday party. Mr. and Mrs. Forester and Blanche, Mr. and Mrs. Hilary Forester and Maud, the Morisons, with Herbert and Alan, all came with a welcome for Mr. Davidson and congratulations for Marjory.

Earlier in the day, Captain and Mrs. Shaw had come together, as they had done once before, to be congratulated on their own happy reunion.

"There's nothing like the forgetting of old bygones," said the captain, as he wrung Mr. Davidson's hand, "and there's no happiness so sweet as when it's been long in coming, sir. I wish you and dear Miss Marjory many happy returns of the day."

The doctor had been wondering what Mr. Davidson's plans for the future would be. Would it be part of his punishment that the father would take his child to far-away Skaguay and keep her to himself? It would be natural enough, perhaps, but he thought with a pang of the difference it would make to him. Life at Hunters' Brae would be sad for him without the girl. This matter weighed heavily upon his mind, but he dared not speak upon the subject for fear of hastening a decision.

At last one day Mr. Davidson spoke his mind. He must go back to Alaska, and would take Marjory with him, but—and here Dr. Hunter's heart almost stopped beating—he would retire from business. He had enough and to spare for Marjory and himself, and he looked forward to settling down at home.

"Here, here!" interrupted the doctor then. "The Brae will eventually be Marjory's. If you can forgive the past, Hugh, make this your home. You shall not regret it, I promise you. I do believe I have laid that old ghost of jealousy at last. All I have is to be Marjory's. My old age would be comfortless indeed if I were doomed to spend it here alone. Perhaps that is what I deserve, but do give the old place a trial. The child loves it."

"It is associated in my mind with the happiest time of my life," replied Mr. Davidson earnestly. "No other place could seem so like home to me."

And so it was settled. Marjory was delighted at the idea of travelling with her father—of crossing that wonderful sea which had brought her beloved. She was enchanted by the prospect, but, as she said, it would not have been so delightful if she had not been able to look forward to coming home again at the end of her travels—home to her uncle at Hunters' Brae.

There was a certain clause in the doctor's will which he discussed with his niece and her father before they started on their journey. He had made the stipulation that, when the time came that Marjory should become possessor of Hunters' Brae, and of all that he had to leave, she should adopt the surname of Hunter. Marjory clapped her hands when she heard this.

"There's the prophecy again," she cried, quoting,—

"'The Hunters' line shall ne'er decline
Till the muir doth pass away.'"

"Nonsense!" replied the doctor. "It is merely a question of title and property. Had there been a male Hunter living, the Brae would have been his; and it is stated in the original deeds that, in the event of the sole descendant being a girl, she must take the family name, and give it to her husband when she marries. The person who wrote that rubbish probably knew of this when he scribbled his so-called prophecy."

"You are always so scornful about those prophecies, uncle dear," said Marjory, laughing. "I think they are so interesting and so true. I shall copy them out and put my notes to them, as my grandmother did."

So Marjory was quite happy at last. Her childhood had had its troubles—very real ones while they lasted. Then friendship had come to lighten them, and wise, loving words from a motherly woman, who had taught her to look away from self, to find happiness in thinking of others. In so doing, she had found her way into her uncle's heart, and the finding of it had brought ample reward. And now had come this crowning joy of all—the meeting with her father at last, the realization that he was all and more than all her fancy had painted him. She felt that her cup of happiness was full. Looking back over the past, she could sing with the poet,—

"What had I then? A hope that grew
Each hour more bright and dear,
The flush upon the eastern skies
That showed the sun was near.
Now night has faded far away,
My sun has risen, and it is day."

THE END.

The Girls' Select Library.

CHOICE TALES, STORIES, AND BIOGRAPHIES.

Post 8vo, cloth extra. Price 2s. 6d.

Above Rubies; or, Memoirs of Christian Gentlewomen. By Miss Brightwell.

Ada and Gerty; or, Hand in Hand Heavenward. A Story of School Life. By Louisa M. Gray.

Aunt Judith. The Story of a Loving Life. By Grace Beaumont.

The Children of Abbotsmuir Manse. By Louisa M. Gray.

Dunalton. The Story of Jack and his Guardians. By Louisa M. Gray.

The Early Choice. A Book for Daughters. By the late Rev. W. K. Tweedie, D.D.

Earnest Women. Their Efforts, Struggles, and Triumphs. By J. Johnson.

Isabel's Secret; or, A Sister's Love. By the Author of "The Story of a Happy Little Girl."

Margie at the Harbour Light. A Story for the Young. By the Rev. Edward A. Rand.

Nelly's Teachers, and What They Learned. By Louisa M. Gray.

Stories of the Lives of Noble Women. A Series of Biographical Sketches of Illustrious Women who have won for themselves a name in History. By W. H. D. Adams.

The Story of Madge Hilton; or, Left to Themselves. By Agnes C. Maitland.

On Angels' Wings; or, The Story of Little Violet of Edelsheim. By the Hon. Mrs. Greene.

The Girls' Own Library.

Post 8vo, cl. ex. Price 2s. each.

Following Heavenward; or, The Story of Alfred Reid. By Pansy.

All's Well that Ends Well. A Story of Brittany. By Miss Gaye, Author of "Dickie Winton."

Annie Donaldson; or, Evenings in a Happy Home. By Miss M'Intosh. A Tale.

Georgie Merton; or, Only a Girl. By Florence Harrington. With Illustrations.

Little Susy's Six Birthdays. And Other Stories. By Mrs. Prentiss, Author of "Stepping Heavenward."

Willing to be Useful; or, Principle and Duty Illustrated in the Story of Edith Allison. With Plates.

The A.L.O.E. Series.

An interesting story, written in the author's characteristic style, and affording instructive glimpses of the hardships and dangers of missionary life in the rural districts of India.

The "Little Hazel" Series.

EIGHT VOLUMES BY THE AUTHOR OF "LITTLE HAZEL."

Post 8vo, cloth extra.
Price 1s. 6d. each.

Little Frida; or, The King's Messenger. By the Author of "Little Hazel, the King's Messenger," etc.

The story of a little girl who was found by a woodcutter in the Black Forest in Germany, and was taken to his home and brought up there by his kind-hearted wife along with her own children.

The Crown of Glory; or, "Faithful unto Death." A Scottish Story of Martyr Times. By the Author of "Little Hazel, the King's Messenger."

A tale, founded on history, regarding the first medical missionary in Scotland.

The Guiding Pillar. A Story for the Young. By the Author of "Under the Old Oaks; or, Won by Love."

An interesting tale for the young, illustrating the sure guidance of the pillar-cloud of Providence for all willing to follow in humble faith.

Little Hazel, the King's Messenger. By the Author of "Little Snowdrop and Her Golden Casket," etc.

A story for the young, showing what a Christian child may do.

Little Snowdrop and Her Golden Casket. By the Author of "Little Hazel, the King's Messenger," etc.

A tale for the young, illustrative of the preciousness of Scripture promises.

The Royal Banner; or, Gold and Rubies. A Story for the Young. By the Author of "Little Snowdrop and Her Golden Casket," etc.

A well-written story of home and school life. Cannot fail to prove interesting.

"Thy Kingdom Come." A Tale for Boys and Girls.

Under the Old Oaks; or, Won by Love. By the Author of "Little Hazel, the King's Messenger," etc.

UNIFORM WITH "LITTLE HAZEL" SERIES.

Little Tora, the Swedish Schoolmistress. And Other Stories. By Mrs. Woods Baker, Author of "The Swedish Twins," etc.

"Charming idyllic pictures of Swedish life."—Scotsman.

A Helping Hand. By M. B. Synge, Author of "A Child of the Mews," etc.

Archie's Chances. By the Author of "The Spanish Brothers," etc. With Illustrations.

Alive in the Jungle. A Story for the Young. By Eleanor Stredder, Author of "Jack and His Ostrich," etc.

A fascinating story of child-snatching by a wolf, of the life led by the child in the wolf's lair, and of the cunning device of a native hunter to effect the rescue of the child.

Post 8vo, cloth extra. Price 1s. 6d. each.

Captain Polly. "Thou hast Gained thy Brother." A Story for Young People. By Sophie Swett.

A pleasantly-written story, in which the author seeks to show that gentle persuasion and remonstrance, and a perfect trust in the person remonstrated with, often win the erring when severity and suspicion fail.

Cords of Love; or, Who is My Neighbour? By M. E. Clements.

Dick and Harry and Tom; or, For Our Reaping By-and-by. By Florence E. Burch.

A story for the young, showing how great is the power of steadfast love to overcome pride and selfishness.

Dickie Winton; or, Between Gate and Front Door. A Story for the Young. By Miss Gaye.

An interesting story, descriptive of the troubles into which a little boy, by a simple act of disobedience, brought both himself and his friends; and showing that however innocent the motive, the pursuit of wrong courses is certain to end in mischief.

Frank's First Term; or, Making a Man of Him. By Harold Avery.

A story of school life, describing the trials to which a boy is subjected, and the temptations to which he is exposed, on passing from the family circle to a large school.

Happy Little Children. Their Sayings and Doings. By A. S. L. With Seventeen Illustrations.

Jack and His Brothers. By Mrs. Austin Dobson. With Original Music and numerous Illustrations. Dedicated to Everybody under Four.

Numerous illustrations, and original children's songs and hymns, with music. Ought to be a great favourite with the little ones.

Jack and Floss at Sea and at Home. A Story for the Young in Words of One Syllable. By Mrs. Arthur G. K. Woodgate.

The story of Jack and Floss's adventures at the seaside, and what they did when they returned home. The simple style in which it is written—in words of one syllable—renders it suitable for the very youngest readers.

Jack and His Ostrich. An African Story. By Eleanor Stredder.

The story of an English boy's adventures among the Boers and on the African veldt. Pleasantly written, and very entertaining.

Jack's Year of Trial. By Annie S. Swan. With Illustrations.

"'Jack's Year of Trial' is the title of a short and pleasingly-written story by Miss Annie S. Swan, who has so deservedly won for herself a high place in public esteem as a story-writer."—Glasgow Herald.

Jacko. A Story for the Young. By Harriette E. Burch.

An interesting story of the sufferings undergone by a little girl through the well-meant but mistaken system of discipline pursued by her guardians.