Mr. Forester meanwhile was untying the string which fastened down the lid of the hamper. He slowly raised it, and there, curled up in the straw, lay a little black retriever puppy, its baby face puckered up partly in fear and partly in interest over this new experience.

"What a perfect little darling!" cried Blanche. "Oh, isn't he sweet? But how could you say some people might like to eat him, papa?"

"Well, I've heard of the Chinese eating puppy-dog stew; it comes after birds'-nest soup, you know."

"Papa!" indignantly.

Mr. Forester lifted the little fellow out of the basket and set him on the floor. He began running along with such a queer little waddle that they all laughed. Then he stopped and contemplated them questioningly, as much as to say, "What are you laughing at?"

"There, Miss Blanche," said her father, "you've got your work cut out for you to train that small person in the way he should go. Don't make a fool of him, dear; love him as much as you like, but make him obey orders. He's a game little beggar, isn't he?"

Blanche was delighted. "O papa, thank you a thousand times. Is he really for my very own, like Marjory has Silky? Oh, I am so glad to have him! You darling!" she cried, catching up the dog and hugging him close.

"I thought I was the darling," said Mr. Forester comically. "In fact, I'm sure I am, for thinking of it all myself."

"So you are—the dearest, darlingest papa in all the world." And the girl sprang into her father's arms.

This scene made Marjory a little bit sad.

"If only I had my father too, how happy I should be!" she thought. "But I don't even know if I've got one." And she sighed.

Blanche noticed the cloud on her friend's face, and instinctively felt what had caused it. Tears of sympathy rushed to her eyes, and she picked up the puppy and put him into Marjory's arms.

"Now," she said, with a look which Marjory understood, it was so full of sympathy, "you must christen him."

Marjory looked attentively at the little fat ball of a dog, and then said thoughtfully,—

"What would you think of 'Curly'? He is one of the curly kind, different from Silky."

"Yes, that will do beautifully. We'll call him Curly. Do you agree, papa?"

"Right you are," replied Mr. Forester. "But it doesn't matter so much what you call him as whether he comes when he's called; that's the chief thing." And so saying he left the girls to enjoy the new treasure by themselves.

Marjory was quite as enthusiastic as Blanche. She was passionately fond of animals, and the young ones always charmed her. She was able to give Blanche instructions as to how Curly should be fed; and they made a set of very strict rules for his training, which was to begin at once.

Their consultation was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Forester. She had been out driving, and was very beautifully dressed. Marjory thought she had never seen such a lovely lady before. She kissed the girl tenderly, and, putting her arms round her, said,—

"I am very glad to welcome you here, little Marjory, and I hope this will soon feel like a second home to you. Now," brightly, "I've got a great piece of news for you. Miss Waspe writes that she would be very glad to have an extra week's holidays till the eighteenth of September. What do you say?"

Blanche clapped her hands. "Oh, how jolly! a whole week more to do as we like! Do let her have it, mother."

Mrs. Forester laughed. "Yes, I think we must let her have it. She will be just as pleased as you, no doubt. Well, then, you will begin lessons on the eighteenth of September.—Will that suit you, Marjory?"

"Oh yes, it's my birthday."

"In that case, wouldn't you rather wait until the next day, dear? It won't make any difference to us."

"Oh no, thank you. I think it would be splendid to begin on my birthday. I've wanted to learn things for such a long time, it will be a kind of present," said Marjory.

"How funny you are!" cried Blanche. "I should hate to have lessons on my birthday. I always have a holiday. Mine is in June, and Waspy and I always have a treat of some kind."

"Miss Waspe also says, Marjory, that she is very glad indeed that you are going to be her pupil, and is looking forward to the term's work with two of you to teach."

Marjory blushed with pleasure. "She is very kind. I am looking forward too."

Mrs. Forester turned to go, saying that she hoped the girls would enjoy their tea and have a nice time. Marjory followed her as she left the room, and when they were outside the door asked,—

"Do you think I ought to say I'm sorry for calling Mary Ann Smylie a beast?"

Mrs. Forester smiled in spite of herself at Marjory's solemn face.

"Do you feel sorry?" she asked.

Marjory looked down. Her conscience had pricked her several times about it, but she could not honestly say that she felt really sorry. In fact, she felt quite sure that if Mary Ann were to say the same thing again, she would feel inclined to call her names again.

"I see," said Mrs. Forester, "you don't feel very sorry. Well, do you think it was a nice, lady-like way to speak?"

"Oh no," replied Marjory quickly.

"Then you are sorry that you used an unbecoming word, but you still think Mary Ann richly deserved some punishment for her unkind words?"

"Yes, that's just it," said Marjory, wondering how it was that Mrs. Forester understood her so well.

"But you still feel uncomfortable when you think about Mary Ann?"

"Yes."

"Well, if I were you, I should go to Mary Ann and say, 'I am sorry I used an ugly word to you, but I still think you were very unkind in what you said.' Then, if she is a nice girl, she will say she wishes she hadn't said what she did; and if not—well, you must just leave it, dear. I will go with you if you like. We can all drive to the village to-morrow afternoon."

"Oh, how good of you! Thank you so much." And Marjory, much relieved, went back to Blanche.

As a matter of fact Mrs. Forester had her own reasons for going herself with Marjory, for that very afternoon Mrs. Smylie, by way of ingratiating herself with the newcomer, had been making unkind remarks about Marjory and her bringing-up, and warning Mrs. Forester that she would not be a suitable companion for her daughter. Mrs. Forester had known very well how to reply to these statements, but she thought it would be a very good thing to show the Smylies that their spiteful, unkind words had no weight with her.

Mrs. Smylie's ambition knew no bounds as far as her daughter was concerned. She was conscious of the fact that she herself was a plain, ordinary, country woman, and would never be anything else; but with her daughter it was different. With her looks and education she ought to be able to associate with the best of people. Such was this foolish mother's dream, and she had thought to curry favour with the lady of Braeside by her remarks on what she considered should be the behaviour of a well-brought-up young lady, and what she had always aimed at in the education of her daughter. Mary Ann would have laughed could she have read her mother's mind and seen to what heights her ambition rose.

Marjory forgot about her for the time being. Blanche had so many treasures to show her and so much to say to her that the afternoon passed all too quickly.

They had tea by themselves in the room Mrs. Forester had chosen as a schoolroom—comfortable and cheerful, with windows looking over the garden. A new set of shelves had been put up, and all Blanche's books were arranged on them—her story books on the top and her lesson books on the lower shelves.

Marjory feasted her eyes upon the collection. Here were Blanche's old favourites, amongst them Grimm's "Fairy Tales," and Hans Andersen's, "Alice in Wonderland," "Black Beauty," and many others. One after another she took them down to show to Marjory.

"You must read every one of them," she said, "and then your mind inside will be just like mine."

"I should love to read them all, but I wouldn't be allowed to read the fairy tales," with a sigh.

"Why not?"

"Uncle doesn't approve of them."

"What a pity!" cried Blanche. "I wonder why. Do you think he would let you if I were to ask him? I could take him my 'Grimm' and show him what splendid tales they are."

"Would you dare to?" asked Marjory, awestruck by her friend's bold plan.

"Dare to? Of course I should. I can't think why you are so frightened of Dr. Hunter, he looks such a dear old thing. If he were a cow or a bull it would be different," laughing; "but you don't seem a bit afraid of them, with their great horns and bulging, glaring eyes."

"That's just where we're different," said Marjory, laughing too. "You're afraid of animals and not of people, and I'm afraid of people and not of animals."

"Well, anyway, I'm not afraid to ask about the fairy tales. I shall tell him that of course we don't really believe in them in our everyday heads, but they are nice to think about, and to think perhaps some day a fairy thing might happen."

Marjory laughed. "Isn't that believing in them?"

"No, not really. I can't quite explain what I mean."

"I've made fairies for myself," said Marjory. "There are plenty of them in the garden, and I understand what they say. They know me quite well, and I only have to sit very quietly and hardly breathe, and I can hear them. They live in the flowers, and you can hear them ringing their tiny little bells and talking to one another, so low that it is only just a whisper."

"Do go on," urged Blanche.

"I don't know if you would be able to hear them. Peter says he can't; but then he's old and deaf, and he says he never thought of listening when he was young."

"What made you think of it?"

"Nothing; it just came. I seem to have known about the flower fairies all my life. I miss them so in the winter, when they all go away under the ground to their winter palace, and I am always so happy when I see the first snowdrop come. I always go and kiss her, and tell her how glad I am to see her, and how brave I think she is to be the first to come; and I promise her that if a hard frost comes I will put some nice leaves round her to keep her warm."

"Why, this is a fairy tale. What does your uncle say?"

"I have never told him; it wouldn't be any good. He would only tell me to sew my seam, or knit my stocking, or do something useful."

"But couldn't you make him understand?"

Marjory shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Do tell me some more," said Blanche.

"Well, there are all sorts of fairies that belong to the different kinds of flowers. The head one of all, who is great queen, arranges everything for them, and tells each one exactly how long she may stay; and they come up out of the winter palace through the ground inside the buds, and they live in the flowers until they begin to fade, and then they go back again and wait for the next flower time. The fairies bring the sweet scents with them. They have to see that their flower houses are shut up in good time at night, and in the daytime they have to be kind in receiving the bees and insects that fly into them, and give them what they can. They have to try to keep away bad insects and worms and caterpillars that do harm, and before they go they have to see that everything is ready for the seeds to form, because they mean homes for the fairies when the next year comes. So they are really quite busy all the time. I'm always so glad to think that the fairies are all girls, and yet how important they are! Not like us human beings: boys are always most wanted and most important with us. I heard Dr. Morison say to Uncle George one day, 'It's a pity she wasn't a boy; she might have been such a help to you.' Of course that meant that I wasn't a help at all. The doctor has two boys. I don't like them much; they seem to think such a lot of themselves, and they never believe that I can do anything, because I'm a girl; but I can do most things that boys do."

"I'm very glad you're not a boy," said Blanche. "You're just as good as one in being strong and knowing how to do things, but you're much nicer than a boy." And she gave her friend a loving hug; then continuing, "I don't suppose the fairies would talk to a boy like they do to you."

"No, they say that they only talk to people who believe in them," laughing, and looking at Blanche.

"I say, Marj," said Blanche suddenly, "do you believe in ghosts?"

"No. Why?"

"Because," lowering her voice and speaking in a low, mysterious tone, "Crossley—that's our maid—told me that the people in the village say your house is haunted, that a light comes there in the middle of the night, and moves about in the old part. Have you ever seen it?"

"No; the old part is always shut up. I never heard about any light."

"Wouldn't it be fun if we could find out about it?" said Blanche excitedly.

"Yes. But how could you be there in the middle of the night? I might go and look some night."

"Not by yourself; you couldn't. Besides, it would be much jollier to be together. It would be so exciting finding out what it is, and so romantic. Mother says that all such stories can generally be explained by some quite ordinary thing; but still it's fun finding out, isn't it?"

Marjory agreed, but her busy little brain was trying to discover some possible explanation of the mysterious lights. She had no fears of the darkness. Her simple faith taught her that she was as safe in the dark as in the daylight, but she had many fancies—fancies that had come to her as she lay alone in her little bed watching the moonbeams playing across her windows, and listening to the whispering of the leaves outside. The darkness was full of mystery and charm to the lonely child, but fear had no place in her thoughts concerning it. What could these lights be—lights that moved about when every one else was asleep? Could they be the will-o'-the-wisp that Peter had told her about? Could they perhaps be angels with beautiful white wings and stars on their foreheads—guardian angels watching over the house while its inmates slept peacefully?

"Oh, I should like to see what it is!" she cried. "We must try some night, if only you could come and stay with me!"

"If mother and dad ever have to go to London for anything, then I might—that is, if Waspy isn't here."

"Oh, I do wish they would go! Wouldn't it be lovely if they did, and you came to stay?" And Marjory drew a long breath of delight at the thought of such a pleasure.

The girls had been talking so eagerly that they had not noticed the passing of the time, and it was quite a shock to them when a maid came to say that Dr. Hunter had come for Miss Marjory, and would she please to go at once.

Marjory gave Curly an affectionate good-night hug, and rushed downstairs with Blanche, afraid that her uncle might be angry with her for staying so long, it seemed such an unusual thing for him to come to fetch her. To her relief, however, he was all smiles when she appeared, and seemed quite interested in her account of the afternoon's doings as they went home.



CHAPTER VII.

Marjory's apology.

"Fix in your minds—or rather ask God to fix in your minds—this one idea of an absolutely good God."—KINGSLEY.

Marjory did not sleep very much that night, her thoughts were so busy. The events of the day kept crowding in upon her, the story of the lights in the old wing, and running through all was the disquieting thought that to-morrow she must go to the baker's daughter and say that she was sorry. It seemed to Marjory that it would be very hard, and yet she felt sure that it was the right thing to do. Had not Mrs. Forester said so? and had not her own conscience told her so? Still, she dreaded the doing of it, for Marjory was proud as well as very shy, and Mary Ann's unkind words still rankled in her memory. She had yet to learn that the punishment of offences against us, great or small, lies in other hands than ours, and that absolute justice is watching over the affairs of men—that each action, good or evil, bears its own fruit. Thinking over Mrs. Forester's words, a dim realization came to her of that great truth, which, once grasped, brings calm trust and faith—the truth which promises that obedience to the voice of conscience keeps the soul in harmony with its Creator, so that outward circumstances cannot really harm or hurt. Marjory was but a young girl, with no experience, yet she knew this voice—she knew that obedience to it or disobedience meant either happiness or unhappiness inside herself, as she expressed it; but to-night, for the first time, she felt something of that trust in perfect justice which gives peace within, and she gradually began to lose the feeling of resentment against Mary Ann, and to feel that what she had to think of, and was responsible for, was her own behaviour—she must answer for her own thoughts and words.

She set out bravely the next day with Mrs. Forester and Blanche. Her heart beat very quickly as the carriage stopped at the post office.

"Why, Mary Ann, if this is no Hunter's Marjory in the carriage with thae new folks frae Braeside," exclaimed Mrs. Smylie to her daughter as she saw the party arrive. "After a' I telt the leddy yesterday too."

Marjory came into the post office alone.

"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Smylie," she said shyly. "Can I see Mary Ann?"

Mrs. Smylie did not return her greeting, and without looking up from the stamp desk called to Mary Ann.

"What is it?" cried Mary Ann from the parlour behind the shop.

"Come an' see," was her mother's reply. "I canna tell ye."

Mary Ann came sauntering into the shop. When she saw Marjory she stopped and stared.

"Hallo!" she said mockingly. "Want some more of what you had last time?"

Marjory flushed, and then with an effort, and speaking very quickly, she said,—

"I've come to say I'm sorry I called you an ugly name, but I think you were unkind in what you said."

"Do you suppose I care whether you call me names or not?" And the girl gave a hard laugh.

"No; but I care. I am ashamed of myself."

Mrs. Smylie looked on and listened, curious to see how the affair would end.

"You are a queer little kid," said Mary Ann. "Any one can see you haven't been to school. No girl in our school would come and eat humble pie like this. Well, I believe I did say a lot of stuff just to rub you up, and if you're sorry I'm sorry too, so we'll shake hands—eh?"

The girls shook hands, and Marjory, again saying good-afternoon to Mrs. Smylie, left the shop.

Mrs. Smylie replied by a nod. She was a little disappointed at the turn things had taken. She rather enjoyed having a grievance, and Hunter's Marjory and her "tantrums" had been a fertile subject for gossip during the last few days.

"Ye needna hae gien in sae sune," she remarked to her daughter when the carriage had driven off.

"That was my business," replied Mary Ann, with a toss of her head.

"Hoots, lassie, ye needna haud yer head sae high wi' yer mither. I was but thinkin' ye micht hae held it higher wi' yon chit."

"I'll never be like her, not if I live to be a hundred and go to fifty schools—so there." And Mary Ann banged out of the shop, leaving her mother silent with amazement.

Mary Ann had something to think about. She had been quite taken aback by Marjory's apology, and for a little while the real Mary Ann had shown herself. She was not a bad-hearted girl in reality, but she had been spoiled by those who should have known better; and although every now and then, at moments such as this, her better nature would assert itself, it was gradually becoming choked and crushed by selfishness, conceit, and carelessness. Marjory had been inclined to envy the baker's daughter her privileges, but in reality Mary Ann was to be pitied rather than envied, for she had no one to guide and help her. Her parents' chief care was that she should be better dressed and better educated than her neighbours. This they felt they could accomplish; and having done so, they were content, and satisfied that they had done their duty by their daughter.

The days were full of pleasure for Marjory and Blanche. When the garden had been thoroughly explored, there were many beautiful places for Marjory to show her friend. She must go to the woods, to the moors, and to the loch. Dr. Hunter had a pretty little sailing-boat, and Marjory was an expert sailor, and was allowed to go out on fine days by herself, though never without permission, in case she should be overtaken by a sudden storm. The doctor made a study of the weather day by day, and was able to foretell it to a certain extent. Sometimes, on a day which looked to Marjory to be quite fine, he would forbid her going on the loch, and she would find that he had been right.

The days were not long enough for all the delights the girls would have crowded into them. Marjory always remembered the first Sunday after her meeting with the Foresters. It came round in due course, and she did not greet it with much pleasure at first.

First of all came clean clothes, and amongst them a stiffly-starched petticoat. This was one of Marjory's pet aversions. It crackled as she walked and made her feel self-conscious. Then there was the best frock to be put on, which always seemed several degrees tighter than the everyday ones. Then came breakfast, an hour later on Sundays, to distinguish it from week days. Another distinguishing mark was the absence of the usual porridge and the presence of a plate of drop scones, a favourite dainty of Marjory's which Lisbeth always made for Sunday.

Dr. Hunter always devoted himself to his niece on Sunday mornings. He did not usually have much to say at breakfast during the week, but on Sundays he always made a point of inquiring about her doings, her garden, her pets, her sewing, and anything else he could think of. He always came down in his black clothes, and they had a slight odour of camphor, which the careful Lisbeth used to preserve them from moths. Marjory ever afterwards associated the smell of camphor with Sunday mornings at Hunters' Brae. The doctor, like Marjory, never wore his best clothes unless he felt absolutely obliged to, and sometimes for months together they only came out once a week. There was camphor in Marjory's wardrobe too, but she was careful to keep as many bags of lavender as she could amongst her clothes, to fight the camphor, as she told Lisbeth; and on the whole the lavender had the best of it.

Seated at the breakfast-table, Marjory always knew what was coming. As soon as they each had a cup of coffee and something to eat, the doctor would say, "Well, Marjory, how's things?"

It was always the same question, and it usually received the same answer. Marjory would feel very shy and awkward, and say, "All right, thank you," and nothing more. She never could think of anything that she felt would be interesting to her uncle. Week after week she would resolve to try to be less awkward, but when the time came it was usually only by a long list of questions that her uncle could get any information from her. On this particular Sunday morning she sat waiting for the inevitable question. It soon came. "Well, Marjory, how's things?"

Marjory made a valiant effort, and at last she gave her uncle a different reply. She looked up and said, "Better, thank you, uncle."

"Better, eh?" he said, with a twinkle in his eye. "That's good, if better can be good!"

"Everything's so different since Blanche came," Marjory went on, "and now that I'm going to have real lessons."

"It certainly has been an exciting week for you. First you quarrelled with that frizzle-pated Smylie girl, then with your old good-for-nothing of an uncle, then you met Blanche, then you made up your quarrels, Blanche came here, you went there, and so on." And the doctor smiled.

Marjory answered the smile, thinking how nice her uncle looked when he smiled, and wishing that he would do it oftener.

The smile was simply a response to her own effort in trying to understand her uncle better. She had been blaming him for his seeming indifference to her, when in reality she herself had been very much at fault. Of late the doctor had begun to feel that it was no use trying to win Marjory's confidence, she seemed to keep herself so aloof from him; but since she had faced him in the study, first like a little fury demanding to be sent to school, then pale and trembling, asking for his pardon, he had felt that he knew something more of the real Marjory, and he, too, had determined to try to preserve this better understanding.

Soon after breakfast they started off to church. It was a walk of about a mile, and Marjory and the doctor always went together. Silky always knew when Sunday came round. He would sit quite still by the gate and watch them with serious, longing eyes, but he never offered to accompany them. He made it a rule, however, to go to meet them on the way back. He always sat waiting by a certain milestone, and as soon as they turned the bend of the road beyond it, he would go bounding towards them, frisking and wagging his tail, and barking excitedly.

The walks to church were not altogether pleasant ones for Marjory, as a rule. Her best clothes were always rather a worry to her, and she was obliged to wear gloves. Lisbeth was in the habit of seeing them start off. She took great pride in the doctor's appearance on the "Sawbath," and surveyed him critically from the crown of his shining silk hat to the sole of his well-polished boots. She never failed to set Marjory's hat straight, to give sundry little pats to her frock, and to what she called "sort" her hair. Marjory wore it in a plait all the week, but on Sunday it was allowed to hang at its will, and Lisbeth loved to see the wavy black mass which reached to the girl's waist, though she would not for worlds have told Marjory so, in case it might encourage her in the sin of vanity!

Another bugbear of Marjory's was the little bag which Lisbeth always insisted upon her carrying. Everybody had a bag for their books, she said, so Marjory must have one too; and Sunday after Sunday in they went, with a clean handkerchief and, it must be confessed, a sweetie. These sweeties were kept in a bottle in the study, of all places. It was never allowed to get empty, and Marjory often wondered if the doctor took them to church too. There was a certain moment, when the congregation was settling itself to listen to the sermon and there was a general rustling of clothes and clattering of feet, when the sweetie found its way to Marjory's mouth. She would begin by determining to make it last as long as the sermon, but, alas! it would become thinner and thinner, and finally disappear altogether before Mr. Mackenzie had got to "thirdly."

Besides the drawbacks of the best clothes and the bag there were usually many admonitions from her uncle, such as, "Marjory, turn out your toes. Hold up your head, child. Turn out your toes, I say," or, "O Marjory, do not swing that bag"—all very necessary, no doubt, but they had the effect of making the girl self-conscious. Thinking about her head, she would forget about her toes, and vice versa, and her uncle would be apt to think that it was obstinacy on her part and to tell her so, and then there would be sullen silence till the church door was reached. But to-day it was not so. Half-way to church they joined the Foresters, and Marjory and Blanche walked together behind their elders, so that their deportment could not be criticised.

Blanche gave Marjory the cheerful news that as there was to be a children's service in the afternoon, Mrs. Forester was going to beg for Marjory to be let off writing the morning sermon if she wrote the afternoon one instead.

"I don't suppose uncle will say yes, though," objected Marjory.

"Oh yes, he will; people always do to mother."

"How different it would be!" sighed Marjory. "I'm sure I could understand it better if I didn't have to keep thinking about writing it out."

"And mother's going to ask Dr. Hunter to come to tea, and you will come home from church with us. Won't it be nice?"

"Yes; but I don't believe he will let me." Blanche's face clouded. "Oh," she said, disappointment in her tone, "why not?"

"I've never been out anywhere on Sunday."

"But this is different—it isn't like going to a party; and we have such nice Sundays, and I do want you to come. I love Sundays, and I always look forward to them; don't you?"

"No," replied Marjory candidly, "not much."

Blanche looked sympathetically at her friend.

"Well, of course yours don't seem to be quite so nice as ours; but you'll see they'll be different now."

Blanche was right. Mrs. Forester won the day, and to Marjory's intense satisfaction, as they went in at the churchyard gate her uncle told her that she need not write the morning sermon if she would do the afternoon one, and that she was to be allowed to go to tea at Braeside after the service.

The Heathermuir church was an old one; its pews were of the straight, high-backed kind, and once inside them their occupants could see little of their surroundings except the minister, whose desk was raised above the level of the floor. With no temptations to look about her, and relieved of her weekly task, Marjory gave her whole attention to Mr. Mackenzie, trying to understand his meaning instead of mechanically taxing her memory, parrot-like, with his words. She watched the noble old face with its lines of kindliness and patience, the eyes now liquid with pity for the sorrowful wrongdoer, now flashing with indignation as he spoke of the unrepentant and the careless, then softening again as he expressed the hope that their hearts might be touched, and the belief that they too would win forgiveness from a loving Father.

Parts of the sermon were not to be understood by a child such as Marjory—it was addressed to men and women—yet her eyes never left the preacher's face, the sweetie had been quite forgotten, and she carried away with her a mind-picture of a Being full of love, sorry when His children do wrong, just in His punishments, but all-forgiving when they are truly repentant and try to make amends.

In the afternoon Marjory sat in the Braeside pew with Mrs. Forester and Blanche. Again the preacher's theme was love—"the greatest thing in the world"—love to the Creator, and, through it, love to all His creatures great and small. The old man told how love can smooth rough places, can right wrong, can win battles; how love and kindness attract love and kindness in return, and how a loving thought, word, or action is never lost. The words she heard that day sank deeply into Marjory's mind. They were full of hope and encouragement for all, and she felt something of that spirit which prompted the poet to sing so joyously,—

"God's in His heaven; all's right with the world."

Service over, they walked back to Braeside. It was a pretty walk across a bit of moorland, through the heather and bracken, here and there a moss-grown rock, here and there across the path a tiny trickling stream with stepping-stones.

"Did you have to ask the doctor very hard to make him let Marjory come, mother?" asked Blanche as they walked along.

"Not very hard," replied her mother, smiling. "I explained to him that we always keep our Sundays quietly, enjoying the day of rest, but that at the same time we like it to be bright and happy; and when I told him that the pleasure of our friends' company would greatly add to the brightness and happiness, he said 'yes' for Marjory, and promised to come himself."

When they arrived at Braeside they found the doctor already there. Mr. Forester and he had established themselves under a shady tree on the lawn, both looking the picture of comfort, smoking their pipes, and talking together like old friends.

Marjory felt almost bewildered by the turn things had taken. Truly they were different, both for herself and for her uncle.

Tea was brought into the garden, and they all had it together, the girls waiting upon their elders. It was all so peaceful and happy that Marjory found it hard to tear herself away when the time came, but she consoled herself with the thought that there was to-morrow to look forward to now. Hitherto she had always disliked Monday. It was the day for the washing to be counted, for one thing, and Lisbeth was always rather flustered in consequence, although the counting of it was all she had to do, as a woman from the village came to do the actual washing. Then there was the sermon to write and her wardrobe and drawers to tidy. Lisbeth was very strict about the tidying. All these things gave Monday an atmosphere prosaic in the extreme in Marjory's opinion. Now it would be different; she could look forward to it because there would be Blanche to compare notes with. She would make haste and finish her duties, and then they could go off into the woods or on to the moor, as free as air, and with no one to interfere with them. She went to bed full of these plans, and feeling her heart overflowing with gratitude to the great and loving Father who had given her such happiness.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE SECRET CHAMBER.

"'Tis now the very witching hour of night."

SHAKESPEARE.

Next morning, directly after breakfast, Marjory went as usual to her room to signal to Blanche. Blanche was already at her window, waving wildly with a handkerchief in each hand, which meant might she come up at once. Marjory, all eagerness and excitement, waved back "yes," wondering what could be the reason for such an early visit. She was just going to run down the garden to meet Blanche when she heard Lisbeth's voice calling, "Hae ye coontit yer claes, Marjory? Jessie's waitin'." She hastily collected her things together, and wrote, not in her best writing, the list which Lisbeth always insisted upon, and which Marjory always argued was quite unnecessary, as the clothes were washed at home, and there was no other girl of her size at Hunters' Brae. Lisbeth remained firm, and every week the list was made. Marjory was just adding the last item when she heard Blanche's voice downstairs asking breathlessly where she was. "Coming!" she cried, and rushed downstairs, two steps at a time, to find Blanche capering up and down with excitement.

"Such news!" she cried. "Something so exciting to tell you. You'll never guess."

"What is it? Please don't make me guess. I can't wait." And Marjory caught hold of her friend's arm, trying to make her stand still and tell her news—a difficult task, for Blanche was almost beside herself with excitement, and was also bent upon tantalizing Marjory. But Marjory's arms were stronger than Blanche's, and she succeeded in making her stop dancing about.

"There now, tell me," she cried, when Blanche was fairly pinioned between her arms. "I shan't let you go till you do."

"Oh dear; then I must tell you, I suppose. Well, Marjory, what do you think?" very slowly and provokingly. "Mother—says—that—"

A shake from Marjory produced the end of the sentence more quickly.

"Oh!" and Blanche's laugh rang out; "don't, Marjory. Mother and father want to go to London for a few days, so can I come and stay here?"

A shriek of delight was Marjory's reply, and the two girls were executing a kind of war-dance round the hall, when suddenly the study door opened, and the doctor put his head out. He had a book in his hand, and was wearing his spectacles, which always made him look more formidable. Marjory wished that the floor might open and swallow her; but it was no use—they were fairly caught.

"Dear me," said the doctor when he saw them, "what is all this disturbance about?"

Blanche ran forward.

"Please don't scold Marjory," she said; "it is all my fault. I came to tell her something very exciting, and we were both so pleased that we quite forgot we oughtn't to make a noise. You see, there isn't anybody learned like you in our house, so I haven't got into the way of remembering not to disturb you. I am very sorry." And Blanche looked confidingly at the doctor.

He smiled and pushed his spectacles up on his forehead.

"You haven't told me this exciting piece of news, though—the wonderful information that was the cause of this disturbance of the peace."

"Mother was coming to tell you—that is, to ask you about it. It depends on you, you see." And Blanche looked up into the doctor's face.

Marjory stood by, a silent listener. She quite expected a scolding, and was amazed at Blanche's boldness.

"Well, suppose you tell me, now you are here."

Blanche looked again at the doctor. She was afraid that this might not be a very good time to make her request. She could not quite tell by his face what he was thinking, but she took courage and said,—

"Father wants mother to go to London with him for a few days, and she says she will if you will be so good as to let me come and stay with Marjory."

"What! A noisy little person like you!" The doctor was only in fun, but Blanche's face fell, and her eyes slowly filled with tears.

Marjory spoke up. "O uncle, she isn't really noisy. I made just as much noise as she did; and if only you will say yes, we will promise to be very quiet.—Won't we, Blanche?"

"Yes," faltered Blanche.

"Tut, tut," said the doctor; "I don't want you to be quiet; it isn't natural for young things. Yes, my child; come and stay as long as you like, and make as much noise as you like. I was only teasing you, but you didn't like my little joke," laughing.

"Oh, how good you are!" cried Blanche, and she put her arms round the doctor's neck and kissed him, her tears leaving little wet places on his cheeks.

Marjory looked on in wonder. How could Blanche dare to be so familiar with her uncle? she thought; and, stranger and still more unexpected than that, her uncle seemed to like it. She watched him take out his handkerchief and wipe the wet places, also his own eyes, and then take off his spectacles and polish them vigorously, asking Blanche meanwhile which day her parents would be leaving. It would be the next day, Tuesday, she replied; and the doctor told Marjory she had better see Lisbeth at once, and ask her to make the necessary preparations. Marjory gave her uncle a grateful look, which was meant to make up for the formal "Thank you, uncle," which was all that she could find to say.

The girls went to the kitchen, where Lisbeth was working. Lisbeth having set the laundrymaid to work, was once more her usual smiling self, and was quite pleased to hear the news. She made no difficulties, and promised that Jean should put a second bed into Marjory's room, as that was what they said they would like best.

As they left the kitchen Lisbeth called to Marjory to be sure and not forget to tidy her wardrobe and drawers, and to see that there was room for Miss Blanche's things.

"Isn't she a dear old thing?" exclaimed Blanche, when they were out of hearing. "She seemed quite pleased for me to come. Some servants are so cross if there is anything extra, that it makes you feel quite uncomfortable."

"Lisbeth's not a bit like that. Besides, anybody would be glad to have you," said Marjory, looking at her friend with intense admiration, of which Blanche seemed quite unconscious.

"Yes," she said, "people are very kind. Mother says there are far more kind people in the world than unkind ones."

Marjory looked at the sweet face beside her, and thought that it would be a very unkind person indeed who could be unkind to Blanche. Then she said, rather sadly,—

"Uncle George seems quite a different person with you."

"O Marj, he's a dear old thing. I felt sure he was directly I saw him. I can't think why you are so afraid of him."

"I am," with a sigh.

"I'm sure you needn't be. Think of him just now. He was busy in his study, and we made all that noise, and he wasn't a bit cross. Most people would have been, even if they had only been writing a letter; and daddy says that Dr. Hunter's work is most important and valuable, and that he is a great man. You must be very proud of him, aren't you?"

"Yes; only I don't quite know what it is that he does."

"Neither do I; but, anyway, he is very clever. Daddy says so, and he says he considers himself very fortunate in being able to know Dr. Hunter."

This was quite a new aspect of affairs to Marjory. She had been used to the idea that she and her uncle were rather shunned than otherwise by other people, that her uncle was a stern old man with whom no one wanted to be friendly. But now that a man like Mr. Forester, from the great far-away world of London, should consider her uncle's acquaintance a privilege—this was indeed something new, and it gave Marjory food for thought and speculation.

Mr. and Mrs. Forester went to London, and Blanche to Hunters' Brae. Marjory and Peter fetched her in the pony-cart, and she brought Curly with her, as she could not bear to leave him for other people to look after. Silky was delighted with the puppy, and allowed the little fellow to take all sorts of liberties with him. It was a pretty picture—the big dog fondling the small one and playing with him.

Lisbeth had done as she had promised, and a second bed had been put up in Marjory's room. Such a pretty room it was—the best in the house, and looking out upon the garden. It was pretty by reason of its shape—long and low, with beams across the ceiling, and casement windows—and not from any extra decoration or those many knick-knacks which most girls contrive to collect around them. There were dainty white muslin curtains and covers, everything was spotless, but there were no ornaments or trifles lying about. On the bookshelf were Marjory's Bible and Psalm-book and a copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress"—no other books. These were all that the doctor considered it necessary for Marjory to have. There was a glass bowl on the chest of drawers, which was kept filled with flowers all the year round, and that was the only ornament in the room. Some might have thought it bare, but it had a simple charm of its own, with its spotless whiteness and its faint odour of lavender, stronger when the wardrobe or the drawers were open.

Marjory had been struck by the difference between Blanche's bedroom and hers when she had paid her first visit to Braeside. There the walls were covered with pictures of all sorts and sizes, the table was littered with silver toilet articles, photographs and trinkets, and the bookshelf was filled with books. Most of these things were presents from her father and mother, or from relations or acquaintances, and spoke for themselves of the difference in the lives of the two girls—the one solitary and simple in a remote country place, the other in the midst of friends and relations in the rush and hurry of a great city.

"How sweet your room is!" said Blanche as they went in.

"It isn't like yours, though," replied Marjory doubtfully. "You have such a lot of pretty things."

"Oh, but I love this!" cried Blanche enthusiastically, sniffing the lavender-scented air and walking to the window; "and what a lovely view! I could sit and look out all day."

They decided to wait till the next night to watch for the ghost, for they thought it would be better to pay a visit to the old wing in the daylight first, and to explore it thoroughly, so that they should both be well acquainted with the staircases and the various rooms. They spent some time in discussing their plans, and Blanche's cheeks flushed and her eyes grew bright as they talked them over.

"Isn't it exciting?" she cried. "I do hope the light will come, so that we shall be able to see it. I hope I shan't feel frightened when the time comes, but I don't think I shall with you, Marj. You don't seem to be afraid of anything."

"Except Uncle George," amended Marjory.

"Yes; and I can't think why. Fancy being less afraid of a thing that might be a ghost than you are of a real flesh-and-blood uncle, who is really quite a dear old man!"

"It does seem silly," admitted Marjory, "but it's no good pretending it isn't true, because it is."

They went to the old wing next morning. It consisted of a large square hall, from which led a wide staircase to a gallery above, and two or three other rooms on the ground floor. From the gallery led several narrow corridors, with many turns and corners, steps up and steps down, which were traps for the unwary visitor. It was seldom that any one came to the old wing; its tenants were rats and spiders. Birds built their nests in the crumbling walls, and it smelt damp and musty, as if it had seen no sunlight for many a day.

The girls' footsteps and voices echoed through the empty rooms and passages. The old place had a fascination for Marjory, and yet she could never go through it without a shiver of something like awe. What had these mouldering walls seen? What tales could they tell if they could speak? Then her heart would swell with pride at the thought that she came of a long line of Hunters who had lived here and made the name famous. She, too, must do her part. Sometimes she would wish that she bore the old name; then she would rebuke herself for the thought, which was like treason to that unknown father of hers.

They went carefully through each room. There was nothing unusual in any of them; old boxes, pieces of broken furniture, rusty bits of iron strewed the place. One thing took Blanche's fancy. It was in a tiny room opening out of one of the large ones, and was so big that it almost filled it. It was an immense chest, studded with nails, and ornamented with handsome brass hasps.

"It's like the chest in the 'Mistletoe Bough,'" cried Blanche. "Do let's try to open it."

But try as they would, they could make no impression upon it. It was locked, and to break it open would require greater strength than theirs.

"I do wish we could get it open," said Blanche, when at last they gave up trying. "Do you think Peter could do it?"

"He doesn't much like coming here," was the reply. "He always says the old walls might fall in at any time; but since you told me about the lights being seen, I've been thinking that perhaps he has heard about them too, and that's why he won't come here if he can help it. But we can ask him. What is the 'Mistletoe Bough'? Is it a story about a chest?"

"Haven't you heard it?" asked Blanche, surprised. "I believe I can repeat it to you. Let's sit on the old box and pretend it is the one."

They scrambled up on to the chest, regardless of dust and cobwebs, and Blanche began,—

"'The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,'"—

and went on through the ballad.

Marjory sat entranced, listening to the story of Lord Lovel and his bride, and the fateful game of hide-and-seek, which ended in the lovely lady being shut into the old oak chest, which none of the distracted seekers thought of opening, and which did not disclose its grim secret until many years afterwards, when at last it was opened.

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Marjory. "Fancy being shut up in a box like this! I wonder if this one has a spring lock. I wish we knew what is inside it."

They made up their minds to ask Dr. Hunter about it, and went on with their investigation of the rooms, until both felt that they knew every door and passage in the place.

Blanche was of the opinion that it would be of no use going to look for the ghost until after midnight. The time passed very slowly after they went to bed. They talked in whispers, Blanche telling all the ghost stories she had ever heard, which came chiefly from servants and from her young cousins in London.

"But mother says," she repeated several times, as if to reassure both herself and Marjory, "that there is nothing more to do us harm at night than there is in the daytime; that everything belongs to God, and so we are just as safe in the dark as in the light. But I don't feel the same at night as I do in the daylight; do you?"

"Well, I'm not afraid of the dark," said Marjory, and this was quite true. She was fearless with regard to all natural things; storms, gales, all Nature's moods she could meet without flinching. Animals of all kinds had no terrors for her; neither had the dark—that land of blackness peopled with horrors for so many children. It was only in her dealings with her fellows that fear entered, and with her uncle especially.

They listened to the church clock at Heathermuir chiming the hours and half-hours. They watched the moon rising, glorious in its fullness, till it flooded their room with light. At last the clock boomed out its twelve echoing strokes. The time had come!

Each put on a dressing-gown and slippers, and then they started upon their enterprise. Marjory went in front, carrying a lighted candle. Very gently she opened the bedroom door and stood listening. There was not a sound to be heard. Silky looked questioningly at his mistress, as if wondering what her business could be at this time of night, and why she was thus disturbing his slumbers. Marjory beckoned to Blanche, and as she came out of the room, pushed the dog in, whispering, "Good dog, Silky. Be quiet and keep watch till we come back." Then she cautiously shut the door.

They crept along the corridor on tiptoe, every creak of the boards as they went causing their hearts to beat quickly. They had to pass Dr. Hunter's bedroom, and Marjory fancied that she could hear some movement within. Full of apprehension, she hurried on, Blanche following close at her heels.

Once in the old part of the house, they could breathe more freely, feeling safe from discovery by any of the other inmates.

The deserted hall looked shadowy and mysterious as they passed through it, the pale moonlight casting weird shapes across its walls. Blanche caught Marjory's sleeve. "Look!" she whispered, pointing to a window where something like an arm and hand, with fingers outstretched, was waving up and down.

"It's only the branch of a tree," Marjory whispered back.

Everything looked so eerie and unfamiliar in the moonlit darkness that Blanche began to wish she had not come; but as the expedition had been her suggestion from the first, she felt in honour bound to proceed.

Up the stairs they went, and round the gallery. Not a sign of anything unusual did they discover. There was no light, no sound of any kind. Something flitted across Blanche's face; she gave a little stifled scream.

"Oh! what can that be?" she panted.

Marjory turned and held up the candle. It came again, and she saw what it was.

"It's only a bat," she said reassuringly; "it won't hurt you."

"A bat!" echoed Blanche. "Oh, how horrible! They bite, don't they?"

"Oh no, they are quite harmless. Dear little soft things they are when you see them in the daylight, although they aren't pretty."

"O Marj, I don't like it; you won't let it come near me, will you?" And Blanche clung to her friend.

"No, you needn't be frightened; I'll keep it away."

Marjory could not exactly understand Blanche's fears, but she saw that they were real. She could see nothing to be afraid of in a tiny little bat, but the feeling that she was able to protect some one weaker than herself made her very tender towards her friend.

"We'll go back if you like," she whispered.

"No, no," replied Blanche breathlessly; "let's go on, now we've come so far."

On they went. They passed the door of the room which contained the old chest. Nothing was to be seen; but, turning a sharp corner at the end of one passage leading to another which was apparently a blind alley, they stopped suddenly.

There before them, at the end of this passage, was a faint seam of light, hardly perceptible. There it was, looking as if it came from under a door, but they knew that no door was there. Where could it come from? They looked all round, but could find no clue to the mystery. Marjory shaded the candle with her hand, in case the light might in some way be reflected from it; but no—there was the straight narrow seam, shining as before.

They crept along the passage until they stood in front of the wall. They felt cautiously for a handle, but there was none—no sign of anything in the shape of a door or entrance of any kind.

A thought struck Blanche.

"Perhaps it's a secret sliding panel," she whispered. "I've read about them in books. They go by a spring in some way. You have to press in one place, and it slides back. Shall we try?" she said, breathing fast, her eyes large with mingled fear and excitement.

"Yes, if you're quite sure you're not frightened. It might do you harm to be frightened," said Marjory, whispering very softly. "I could take you back and come again by myself."

"No, I'm not frightened—at least, not much—and we must try. What can it be?"

They began to press cautiously against the wall above the crack which showed the light. They tried for some time—it seemed hours to them—when suddenly, neither of them knowing who had touched the spring, there was a sharp click, the panel flew back, and a flood of light shone out upon them. Blanche's theory had been correct. It was a secret door, designed by some bygone Hunter in dangerous times.



CHAPTER IX.

PETER'S STORY.

"We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm wind; We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the anvil. Thou leadest, O God: all's well with Thy troopers that follow."

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.

Dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, the girls stood as if petrified. All they could see at first was a tall figure dressed in what seemed to be a long black gown, and wearing a cap on its head. It appeared to be surrounded by a cloud of vapour which gave off a sickly odour. As the mist cleared away, which it did in a few seconds, and as Marjory's eyes became accustomed to the light, she saw, to her surprise and terror, that the black figure was no other than her uncle, Dr. Hunter. Was he indeed mad, as Mary Ann had told her? What could he be doing here in the dead of night?

On a table in front of him lay piles of bones, some large, some small. There were skulls too, of different shapes and sizes, and in one corner of the room was a skeleton on a stand. What did it all mean?



Instead of thinking about her own share in the escapade and its probable consequences, Marjory's mind was occupied by speculations as to her uncle. She felt Blanche's arms clinging round her, but was only roused to the remembrance of herself when her uncle said, "What is the meaning of this, Marjory?" His voice was cold and stern, and all her old fear of him rushed upon Marjory with tenfold force.

"We—that is—I," she stammered.

"Speak out, child," said the doctor.

"We wanted to find out what the light was," she said, with a great effort.

Blanche was sobbing by this time, and as she had not provided herself with a handkerchief, she was hiding her face in Marjory's dressing-gown. Two queer little figures they looked, their hair hanging about their faces, and their bare ankles showing beneath their dressing-gowns.

Something in their appearance must have tickled the doctor's fancy, for he actually laughed and said,—

"You're a pretty pair of monkeys, I must say, and you've just managed to spoil an experiment I have been working on for weeks."

"O uncle!" cried Marjory in dismay.

"I'm"—sob—"very"—sob—"sorry" came from poor Blanche. This was a most unexpected ending to their romantic expedition.

"Well, the only thing is for you two young people to come with me to my study, and then I shall consider what is to be done with you."

The words were sternly said, but Blanche looked up and caught just the suspicion of a twinkle in the doctor's eye, and, as he busied himself putting away some of his apparatus, she whispered to Marjory, "He's not cross."

Marjory, however, did not feel by any means reassured. How could he be anything but angry? Had he not just told them that they had spoiled his experiment? She dully wondered what their punishment would be—wondered whether Blanche, being a guest, would share in it. Could a visitor be punished?

"Now then, Mischief, in front," said the doctor, having put away his things; "give me that candle."

Marjory delivered up the candle with trembling hands, and the two delinquents passed out of the strange apartment, having no heart to look round at its curious contents. The doctor held the candle high to light the way, and they went in silence along the passages, down the wide staircase into the old hall, and from thence to the study, a strange little procession, the old man in dressing-gown and cap, and the two girls in their night-clothes.

"Now then, sit down and tell me all about it," commanded the doctor when they had reached the study. "Marjory, you're responsible; you must do the talking."

Hurriedly and in a low voice Marjory told how Mrs. Forester's maid had spread the story about the strange lights seen at Hunters' Brae; how Blanche and she had determined to try to find out their cause and see for themselves if there were indeed a ghost in the old wing; how they had laid their plans beforehand, and how at last they had come upon the lighted crack in the wall.

"Well," said the doctor, rubbing his hands, "you've found the ghost, and he is a pretty substantial one, eh? Marjory, you deserve a whipping for being so thoughtless as to bring a delicate little thing like Blanche out of her bed at this time of night."

Marjory cowered in her chair. Would her uncle really resort to such stern measures? Surely girls were never whipped!

But Blanche stood up and faced the doctor with flushed face and shining eyes.

"You will be very unjust if you whip Marjory," she said. "It was all my fault from the beginning. I told her what Crossley said about lights being seen, and I suggested that we should try to see the ghost; and then mother went away and I came here, and it all fitted in so nicely, and—" Here Blanche broke down again. "Please, please don't whip her; I never thought you would be so cruel." And she put her arms round Marjory as if to protect her from her uncle's vengeance.

The doctor could keep a straight face no longer.

"You foolish children," he said, laughing, "do you suppose for one moment that I should be likely to whip either of you? Come here."

They went obediently and stood in front of him, and then, wonder of wonders, he put an arm round each, and drew them down till he had one on each knee.

"Now listen. I think it would have been wiser and better if you had told me about the village tales. I could have explained them to you—at least partly," he added with a smile. "I shouldn't have told you all the secrets that you have found out for yourselves. Instead of telling me, however, you lie awake for hours, then you creep about, shivering and shaking, half frightened out of your wits, perhaps catching colds and coughs and all the rest of it, and you find that this wonderful ghost is nothing but a foolish old man who thinks that he can do what better men than he have failed in doing"—this with a sigh. "I will tell you why I have kept that room and its contents a secret from the rest of the household. One reason was that I didn't wish to frighten any one with my skulls and skeletons, my bones and bottles. Another reason was that I wished to be absolutely alone and uninterrupted when making my experiments; and yet another reason—I wished no housemaid, zealous with her duster, to enter my domain. When it is cleaned," with a smile, "I do it myself. What, then, could be better for my purpose than the secret chamber in the old wing? Hitherto I have been undiscovered; but now," in comical dismay, "two long tongues will be wagging over what they have seen, and my secret is mine no longer. You've spoilt my secret, and I've spoilt your ghost, so we're quits."

"We won't tell," said both the girls eagerly—"at least," added Blanche, "I won't, if you'll let me tell mother. She keeps all my secrets, and she's a very safe person."

"Very well; you can make amends by keeping what you know to yourselves. Tell your mother, by all means, Blanche."

The doctor's arm tightened round Marjory. She, poor child, he thought, has no mother in whom to confide. Marjory felt the pressure, and drew a little closer to her uncle. It was very comfortable sitting on his knee. She was tired and had been really frightened at the result of the adventure, and she leaned contentedly against him. In a moment his lips were on her hair and the protecting arm had drawn her very close.

"Dear little girl," he murmured—"my little Marjory."

Then for the first time Marjory began to cry.

"Oh dear," said the doctor, "more tears! What an old ogre I must be. Don't cry, Marjory. Cheer up."

"I'm not crying," asserted Marjory, the tears streaming down her cheeks; "I only feel nice."

"I think you each need a handkerchief," said the doctor mischievously; and he went to a bureau which stood in a corner of the room, and took out two handkerchiefs of a bright Oriental pattern. He presented one to each of the girls.

"Gaudy, but not neat," he misquoted. "Still, you must own that they are better than nothing," he said significantly. "Now, as you ladies have invited yourselves, I think we'd better have a little supper together—eh?"

So saying, the doctor went to a cupboard in the wall, and took out a small spirit-lamp, on which he proceeded to set a kettle to boil. He brought out cups and saucers of delicate china and an antique silver teapot.

Marjory watched these operations in amazement. Next came milk and sugar from the cupboard, and finally a tin box containing some of Lisbeth's famous shortbread.

"I always keep supplies here," he explained, "because playing ghost is hungry work. Now then, ladies, make yourselves at home. No, Marjory; this is my party. I prefer to make the tea myself, and to pour it out. Let's play we're all dressed in our best, and let's enjoy ourselves as we couldn't if we were."

The girls laughed, their recent tears were forgotten, and they did justice to the doctor's impromptu banquet.

"I shall have to 'wash up' two of the cups and saucers," remarked the doctor, with a smile, "or Lisbeth will hear of my party; but I'll do it to-morrow when the coast is clear. Meanwhile, I'll lock them up in the cupboard," which he thereupon proceeded to do.

"I have greatly enjoyed your company, young ladies, but I cannot honestly say that I hope you will come again at one o'clock in the morning. Now I'm going to escort you back to bed. Go very quietly, so as not to wake anybody."

Thus ended the girls' search for the Hunters' Brae ghost. The adventure had been an exciting one, though not quite in the way which they had expected.

Her uncle's caress had been a revelation to Marjory, and she thought of it again and again. How true Mrs. Forester's words had been! Had she not said that the doctor would be sure to respond to any advance of Marjory's if only she would try, and had he not kissed her and called her his dear little girl, just as Mrs. Forester had suggested that he might? Her uncle seemed to Marjory to have changed into a different person, but in reality the change was in herself, for she was looking at him in another light—she was trying to see him through love's spectacles.

Mr. and Mrs. Forester were away for a few days only, and the time passed very quickly for the girls, there was so much to see and to do at Hunters' Brae. They summoned courage to ask the doctor about the key of the old chest. He replied that he did not think he had it, and did not suppose that there was anything inside the box, but he promised to look amongst his keys for one that might fit. They were afraid he would forget, but he was as good as his word, and gave them several old keys to try, none of which, however, would open the mysterious box. Dr. Hunter told them that it had been there ever since he could remember, but no one had ever paid any particular attention to it. To him it was merely an old box, valuable by reason of its age; but to the girls it stood for romance and mystery, an oracle that might speak volumes of past history could it only be opened.

They paid many visits to the old wing, and tried all means of opening the chest, but to no purpose, and they were obliged to leave it for the time being. Blanche boldly suggested a locksmith, but the doctor, unable to see any necessity that the box should be opened, pooh-poohed the idea.

"Nonsense," he said, rather sharply. "I won't have any workmen tampering with it. Don't let me hear any more about it."

The doctor wanted to keep things as they had been, and did not approve of any alterations in the house, and he was probably afraid that the box might be injured by any attempts to open it forcibly. After this the girls stopped talking about it, but continued to think about it a good deal.

July slipped away and August came. Mr. Forester had invited some friends for the shooting, and the Twelfth saw quite a large party assembled at Braeside. Dr. Hunter forbade Marjory to go while the strangers were there. He gave no reason for so doing. He did not wish her to go, and that was enough. He expected Marjory's implicit obedience, without question on her part or explanation on his. The truth was that the doctor was afraid that some casual stranger, seeing Marjory, and perhaps hearing her story, might put two and two together, as the saying is, and convey to Mr. Davidson the information which had been so long and so carefully withheld.

Marjory felt rebellion in her heart, and for a day or two returned to her old sullen mood with her uncle. Blanche came and begged that her friend might be allowed to go just once to a picnic luncheon on the moor, but the doctor was firm in his refusal. He himself was invited to dine at Braeside, but he declined the invitation, courteously but firmly. So there was nothing to be done but to submit. Blanche came to Hunters' Brae as often as she could, but Marjory was very glad when the visitors went away, and she was able to go in and out at Braeside as before.

These were the happiest weeks the girl had ever known. The two friends spent long sunshiny days together, but though it was very delightful to ramble about with Blanche, and to show the town-bred girl some of the sights and pleasures of the country, Marjory secretly longed for the eighteenth of September and the commencement of those lessons she so ardently wished for. It was quite certain that Blanche had no such longings, for she constantly expressed her satisfaction in the extra week of holidays, and wished it were longer. Blanche was a good and industrious scholar during lesson times, but she was honestly glad when they were over, and sorry when they began again. She had not that thirst for knowledge which was almost a pain to Marjory, and for her part she was inclined to wish that these lovely summer days might last, if not for ever, at least for a very, very long time. She would be quite content to do nothing but roam with Marjory about the park and gardens, to visit Mrs. Shaw at the Low Farm, and to wander about the house at Hunters' Brae, examining its many treasures. There was the loch, too, and its pleasures of boating and bathing. Every day she went with her mother and Marjory to bathe in the cool, clear water, and Marjory was teaching her to swim. Then, in the evenings, sometimes the doctor would take them for a sail, and she would sit wondering at the clever way in which Marjory carried out his orders, pulling this rope, slackening the other. It all seemed most bewildering to Blanche, and she admired her capable friend the more. These holidays were full of delight. Lesson hours would come again all too soon for Blanche.

September set in wet. Leaden skies and steady rain enveloped Heathermuir in a mantle of gray. Marjory, accustomed to all weathers, went out and about as usual. The first wet morning when she signalled to Blanche, the reply was, "Can't come; you come here." So she went down to Braeside and tried to persuade Mrs. Forester to allow Blanche to come out, for they had looked forward to hearing Peter's story on the first wet day. But Mrs. Forester was just as firm as the doctor had been during the visiting time; she would not allow Blanche to go out in such rain in case she should catch cold. Marjory suggested goloshes and a waterproof, but Mrs. Forester remained unpersuaded. It was not until the rain had continued for several days, and Blanche had grown very weary of her imprisonment, that at last her mother allowed her to go to Hunters' Brae. It was decided that she must drive both ways, and if she went into the garden, it must only be to the wood-shed and back, and she must wear a cloak and goloshes. Blanche felt a little ashamed of all these precautions before Marjory's sturdy independence of the weather, and was rather afraid that her friend might laugh at her for a "mollycoddle." But that spirit of protection, with which Blanche's delicacy had inspired Marjory, prevented any such expression on her part, and made her only anxious that Mrs. Forester's instructions should be carefully carried out.

They gave Lisbeth a message for Peter, reminding him of his promise, and saying that they would meet him in the wood-shed after dinner. When they went there they found the old man sawing wood and apparently very busy.

"You have dreadfully wet weather here, haven't you, Peter?" said Blanche, by way of opening the conversation.

The old man stopped his sawing and looked at her.

"I wouldna exactly say it's dreadfully wet," he replied. "It's maybe just a wee bittie saft, but no for to say wet."

"O Peter!" remonstrated Blanche. "Not wet, and it's been simply pouring cats and dogs for four whole days, and mother wouldn't let me come out. I hope it isn't often like this."

"Na, na, missie, only whiles."

"Well, I hope 'whiles' don't come very often, then," laughing.

"What are you going to tell us about to-day, Peter?" asked Marjory, anxious to begin the business of the afternoon.

"Me tell ye? What hae I to tell?" And the old man began his sawing again.

"Do be nice and begin, Peter darling," coaxed Marjory. "You promised, you know."

"Ay, to be sure, I begin to mind something aboot some story ye was wanting." Peter's eyes twinkled.

"Of course you remember. Now please begin, and don't let's waste any more time."

"Gin I dae that I canna saw wood," objected Peter.

"Nobody wants you to saw wood; you can do that afterwards."

"Weel, weel, I suppose ye maun hae yer way."

The girls settled themselves on a wooden bench, Marjory with her arm round Blanche; and Peter, turning a basket upside down, sat upon it, laying the saw across his knees, and fingering its jagged edge as he told his tale. His Scots was a little difficult to follow, and Marjory whispered translations to Blanche every now and then.

Peter began: "This story is ca'd the 'Leddy's Grove,' an' it has twa morals to it." Peter was always very careful to point out the morals to his tales. "One is," he continued, "that revenge is no for us to meddle wi'. 'Vengeance is mine,' says God Almichty. And the other is, that though each day may be fu' o' unknown dangers, we maun go forward wi' faith an' courage, an' a' will be weel wi' us. Noo I'll begin.

"Lang, lang syne, before ever there was Hunters at the Brae, so ye may ken hoo lang it is, there was war atween England and Scotland. Lord Ronald o' Glendown—which, as ye ken, Miss Marjory, lies no sae far frae here—he an' his eldest son, the young Ronald, went awa to fecht, leavin' his wife, the bonnie Leddy Flora, an' his youngest son at hame i' the castle wi' but a few servants.

"For mony a day the leddy waited patiently, wi' mony prayers for the safety o' her dear ones. At last a messenger brocht tidings o' a great battle. He didna richtly ken whether the victory lay wi' us or wi' the English; he only kenned o' mony fine men killed or sairly wounded.

"Hearin' this, the Leddy Flora gaed to the watch-tower i' the castle keep, her son, the young Malcolm, beside her. Frae this tower they could see a' round for mony miles. They watched an' waitit, an' at last they spied a company o' men marchin' towards the castle. They were the men o' Glendown, for their colours could be seen. The Leddy Flora sent a prayer o' thanksgivin' to the skies, for weel she kenned that the men wouldna come withoot their lord. Fu' o' joy, she hurried awa to gie her orders for the reception o' the returnin' warriors. But, wae's me, what did she see as she went to the castle door to welcome them? The men hadna come back withoot their lord an' his son, but it was their deid bodies they were carryin' hame. Eh, but it was a sair sicht to see the leddy weepin' gin her heart wad break. E'en the great, rough men couldna hide their tears; an' nae shame to them ava, for a strong heart should hae its saft spot. Then, efter a while, the leddy raised her heid an' said, 'Men o' Glendown, they hae dee'd a glorious death, fechtin' for his Majesty the king an' for their country. 'Tis the death they wad hae chosen, fechtin' face to foe. Let us a' be thankful for God's mercy. They micht hae been cast into prison, an' put to a shamefu' death, but this is glory an' honour to them.' An' again she wept, coverin' her face wi' her hands. The young Malcolm, too, was weepin', no because his heart was afraid but because it was sair.

"Then ane o' the men up an' spoke. 'Not so, my leddy. 'Twas a foul blow that killed my lord an' his son, an' it was gien them by a hidden enemy. We was marchin' hame victorious, Lord Ronald ridin' awa to the front, wi' young Ronald by his side, when a' in a moment an airmed man on a horse sprang frae a thicket an' thrust my lord i' the back wi' his sword. He fell withoot a groan. Young Ronald, he drew his sword like a flash o' licht, but it was too late; the murderer's knife plunged deep into his brave young heart. We rushed to the spot, my leddy, but the murderer had an unco swift horse, an' he rode awa like the deil towards the Abbey o' Glendown. We could see that he wore a bit sprig o' green oak i' his helmet, an' a scarlet ribbon round his airm.' The Leddy Flora's eyes flashed fire as she heard the story, an' when it was dune she cried, 'Which are o' ye a' will gang an' gie this coward his deserts?'

"Nae man spoke till he wha had telt the tale said in a low voice, 'My leddy, yon's a man possessed by the evil one, or he couldna ride sae swiftly, an' his horse is as black as the very deil himsel'; no mortal man could follow him.'

"The leddy wrung her hands, despairin'. Then young Malcolm said stoutly, 'Let me gang, my leddy mither; I'm no feared for man or deil. I will be the avenger o' this cruel deed.'

"'Thou, my son?' questioned the leddy. 'Nay, thou art but a laddie. I canna let thee gang, my only child.' An' she cast her airms aboot him.

"But the lad gently freed himsel' frae her loving airms, sayin', 'It is my duty.' An' then he turned to the men an' commanded them to bring him his feyther's sword an' shield, an' he askit his mither to gie him her blessin'.

"Then the leddy cried, 'God bless thee, my son. Gae forth, Lord Malcolm o' Glendown, an' avenge the death o' thy feyther an' thy brither. The murderer's bluid be upo' his ain heid.'

"It was strange that sae gentle a woman should be sae set upo' bluid an' revenge, but this was lang syne, when folks didna ken o' the justice o' God, as we dae noo.

"Lord Malcolm set oot. He rode mony miles until he saw the black horse at last, an' a man ridin' on it wi' a sprig o' green i' his helmet an' a scarlet ribbon upo' his airm. The young lord spurred his horse, an' pursued his enemy, an' was comin' up wi' him, when suddenly horse an' rider sprang up i' the air, it seemed some distance, an' then doon to the earth again. When he cam to the place young Malcolm was sair dooncast to find before him a great, big, wide, yawnin' gulf, wi' a roarin' torrent at the bottom, an' sheer rocky sides that nae human bein' could scale.

"'Wae's me,' said the lad, 'for I canna follow him. An' what can I tell my mither that she doesna ca' me a coward this day?'

"The young lad gazed across the chasm, an' as he looked he saw a shinin', misty light, an' in it the form o' a beautiful woman, an' he bared his heid an' bowed before this veesion.

"'Fear not,' cam a voice, clear and strong like the sound o' a trumpet—'fear not to leap across this gulf. Faith an' a brave heart will carry thee safely to this side. Come.' And she beckoned wi' her hand.

"The lad set his horse to the leap. One moment an' he was i' the air, anither an' he was safe upo' the ither side. Then the voice said, 'Whither awa sae swiftly?' An' the boy replied, 'I'm gaun to revenge the murder o' my feyther an' my brither. I'm seekin' a black horse an' its rider. Can ye tell me which way he went?'

"'He is gane where thy vengeance canna follow him,' replied the voice; an' then the figure raised its airm, pointin' to the heavens, an' the voice went on, 'I am Fate, a messenger o' Justice, to whom vengeance belongs. I ca'd yon coward to the leap as I ca'd thee. He leaped to his death, an' thou hast leaped to safety, but no to revenge; that is for wiser hands than thine. Gang where his body lies, an' pluck the oak an' the scarlet ribbon frae him to show thy mither.' The lad did as he was bid, an' then the woman cam close to him an' laid her hand upo' his brow, sayin', 'Thou art a brave lad, an' I, Fate, do promise thee that thou shalt gang fearless a' thy days, an' they shall be mony.' I' a moment she was gane, an' there was naething to be seen o' her, nor o' the body o' the wicked man, nor the wide gulf; an' Lord Malcolm found himsel' upo' the road to the Abbey o' Glendown, but he still carried the sprig o' oak an' the scarlet ribbon. An' upo' the very spot whaur the gulf had been there grew a wonderfu' grove o' hawthorn trees, the finest i' the countryside. Folks ca' it the 'Leddy's Grove,' an' it is there till this day for a' to see, an' on the coat o' airms o' the Glendown family ye'll see the sprig o' oak an' the scarlet ribbon. Young Malcolm galloped hame an' telt his tale to his mither just as I hae telt it to you, young misses."

With appropriate looks and gestures the old man had told his story, his listeners sitting as if spellbound, motionless except for a whispered word of explanation here and there from Marjory. Both gave sighs of regret as his last words died away, and Marjory cried,—

"O Peter, that is one of the best you've ever told; it is simply splendid!"

"Do you think it's really true?" questioned Blanche eagerly. "Did such things as these really happen long ago?"

"I'm tellin' ye the story as my mither telt it to me. Her feyther telt it to her, an' wha's to ken whether it's true or whether it's no true." And, as if to dismiss the subject, Peter got up from his basket and resumed his sawing.



CHAPTER X.

MARJORY'S BIRTHDAY.

"I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie."

CRASHAW.

The eighteenth of September dawned at last. The sun shone in at Marjory's window, waking her to her birthday, as if impatient for her to begin this new year of her life.

She was soon up and dressed—dressed very carefully, in case the eyes of the governess should find anything amiss; but she would have been critical indeed could she have done so, for, when Marjory's toilet was completed, she looked the pink of neatness: Her abundant dark hair was plaited smoothly and tied with ribbon, new for the occasion, and she wore a new frock of soft, warm material, for the autumn days were chilly now and giving warning of the coming winter.

Marjory looked at herself in the glass very anxiously—a most unusual proceeding on her part. As a rule she spent little thought upon her personal appearance, but to-day things were different. She found herself wondering what impression Miss Waspe was likely to have of her at first sight. This was characteristic of Marjory, who was over-sensitive with regard to other people and their opinions of her. In this case it was not, "Shall I like Miss Waspe?" but, "Will Miss Waspe like me?"

Marjory always looked forward to her birthday. Her uncle never forgot to give her some gift in remembrance of the day; in fact, he made it a rule to give her two presents. She often wondered why he did so, but had never found courage to ask his reasons. The truth was that this was a curious way the doctor had of trying to satisfy that conscience which would continually prick him with regard to Mr. Davidson, and the second gift represented Marjory's father.

To-day was no exception to the rule. As Marjory went half eagerly, half shyly to the breakfast-table, there, by her place, were several parcels. The first she opened was a nice leather satchel for carrying her books to and from Braeside. This was from her uncle. Then came another with the words "To Marjory" written on it in the doctor's handwriting. It looked like a small square box, and as she took off the paper wrappings it proved to be a leather case containing a pretty little gold watch and chain. Her initials and the date were engraved on the back of it.

Dr. Hunter came in just as Marjory was examining this new treasure, and as she ran forward to thank him he said,—

"Like it, Marjory? That's right. But I think I am a foolish old man to give a watch to a young thing like you, for you'll only go and drop it down the first rabbit-hole you and Silky go scratching into; but I thought it might be useful in keeping you up to time with that governess of yours. No excuse for being late, eh? The date too—an important one, isn't it? Well, my child, I wish you many happy years."

Of the other parcels, one was raspberry toffee from Lisbeth, and the other, a curiously shaped one, was from Peter, and contained a trowel. Its somewhat prosaic appearance was relieved by the handle being decorated with Marjory's initial inside a heart of uncertain proportions, executed by poor old Peter's shaky hand with a red-hot skewer.

"Dear old Peter!" exclaimed Marjory. "He must have noticed that my old one is worn out. How good of him!"

"Come, child, eat your breakfast," was the doctor's only comment. Marjory's enthusiasm was quenched in a moment, and she sat down in silence. Dr. Hunter was anxious that Marjory should have a good breakfast before starting for Braeside. He spoke abruptly, giving no reason for his admonition, and Marjory thought he was cross—whether with her or with Peter and his present she did not know; anyhow he was cross, and her old thoughts and feelings against her uncle came crowding in upon her. "Yet," the better voice whispered, "do not these gifts show that he has thought of you and prepared for this day? Surely that was good and kind of him."