Lisbeth and Peter were hovering about in order to see Marjory after breakfast, anxious to know how their presents had been appreciated. Marjory's thanks left no doubt upon the subject. Both the presents were just what she liked and wanted.

Lisbeth eyed her critically.

"Yon's a fine new frock," she said. "But what way is't yer hair's no hingin' the day? Are ye no gaun to yon governess leddy?"

"Yes, but I never thought of letting my hair loose; it isn't Sunday."

"Na, but I would hae thocht ye micht hae dune it just this first day, an' yer birthday too. Yer hair's some bittie langer than Miss Blanche's, I'm thinkin'," replied Lisbeth, with satisfaction in her tone.

"Aweel," remarked Peter, "it's no the ootside o' her heid Miss Marjory's thinkin' o' the day, but the inside o't—to fill it up wi' buik-larnin'."

"Puir bairnie, I just hope yon governess winna be ower strict wi' her at the first.—Mind an' tell Peter an' Lisbeth if she's no kind to ye," said the old woman earnestly. She was more than half jealous of this new authority over Marjory's doings.

The girl laughed joyously. "Don't you be afraid, you dear old things. I want to learn lessons, and I'm quite sure Miss Waspe will be kind."

Dr. Hunter walked with Marjory to Braeside on this first morning. She never forgot it. The slight chill of early autumn was in the air, here and there the leaves were turning gold and red, and a faint mistiness hung over the landscape. Here and there the gossamer threads so busily woven since yesterday stretched across their path, and Marjory liked to feel them touch her cheek as she broke through them. The doctor and she walked in silence, Silky in attendance; and Marjory's heart was beating quickly as they neared Braeside. This day of days, so eagerly longed for, had come at last; but what would it bring with it? This feeling of apprehension grew into an acute pain at last. Her ignorance of the things which most girls of her age were well up in assumed the most alarming proportions to poor Marjory, and she almost wished that her heart's desire had not been granted, that she could have been content with things as they were. She felt herself on the brink of a new world, and she feared to take the step across. She remembered Peter's story, and how the voice had called to young Malcolm that faith and a brave heart would carry him across the yawning chasm. She, too, must be brave and go to meet the unknown.

When they reached the gate at Braeside, Dr. Hunter said, "Well, Marjory, you'll be all right now. Good-bye." And he stooped to kiss her.

Dismayed at the thought of going into the house and into that dreaded schoolroom alone, she caught her uncle's hand and said pleadingly, "Won't you come with me, Uncle George?"

Then for the first time the doctor noticed her pale face and quick-coming breath, and he was touched by her confidence in him.

"Of course I will," he said heartily. "I'll go with you right into the lion's den, or rather, in this case, it's the Waspe's nest, eh?"

Marjory laughed a little, which was just what the doctor wanted; and as they walked across the park to the house he chatted and joked with her until she felt much better.

Mrs. Forester and Blanche were at the door to meet them. Blanche, in high spirits, skipped down the steps, calling out, "Many happy returns of the day, without lessons. Come on upstairs to the schoolroom," she cried, giving Marjory a hug, "and see what's there. I shall simply burst if you don't come quickly."

"May I come too?" asked Dr. Hunter.

"Yes," said Blanche. "Father and mother are coming too."

The little party went upstairs to the schoolroom. Blanche threw open the door with a flourish of triumph, and what Marjory saw caused her heart to beat faster than ever. The doctor rubbed his eyes and asked comically, "Am I dreaming? Is this a real schoolroom and a real governess?"

It was indeed a pretty picture that the door had opened upon. There were flowers in every available place in the room; and as Miss Waspe came forward, smiling a welcome, the sun just caught her fair hair, turning it to gold, and making her look like a spirit in a fairy bower. On the table there were roses, and where the books ought to have been was something which made Marjory's eyes grow big with wonder. It was nothing less than a new saddle—a small side-saddle; and Marjory, fascinated, watched Mr. Forester walk to the table and take it up; and then—oh! what could it mean?—he came towards her, saying, "This is something for you, Marjory, from Mrs. Forester and me. I hope you like it. Brownie seems to approve of it."

Marjory felt as if she were dreaming. How often had she wished she might learn to ride—more often than ever since Blanche's coming! She could hardly find words to stammer out her thanks, but her kind friends could see that she was surprised and delighted beyond measure.

Then Blanche came to her, holding out a dainty silver-topped riding-whip.

"Here," she said; "this is my present. Only I don't believe you will ever use it; it will only be for show. Won't it be lovely going for rides together? Oh dear, how thankful I am to-day has come at last! This has been the very hardest secret I ever had to keep; and it's been such a business, first getting Brownie measured and then breaking him in to the saddle, all without you knowing. It was generally done while we were bathing, and I used to be very slow dressing on purpose." And, laughing merrily, she gave Marjory another hug.

"Let me too wish you many happy returns of the day," said Miss Waspe kindly, "and many happy days in this room, which Dr. Hunter thinks is not a real schoolroom," laughing. "It may not always look so festive as it does to-day, but then this is a birthday, you see."

The dreaded moment was over, Marjory had entered the new world, and never again would she regret the old one. She felt no fear when Blanche and she were left alone with their governess, for something had told her when she looked into Miss Waspe's eyes that she had no cause to be afraid. Nor had she. Miss Waspe understood girls and their ways; she loved them, and she had unlimited patience. Moreover, she was all eagerness herself to begin to teach her new pupil, and she promised herself many an interesting hour. She found that what Marjory had learned she knew thoroughly. She could read fluently and with intelligence, at figures she was quick and accurate, and she wrote a good hand. A little judicious praise was a great encouragement to Marjory, and the lessons begun that day were a source of delight to governess and pupil alike. Nothing seemed to come amiss to Marjory, and she progressed by leaps and bounds until Miss Waspe began to fear that the busy brain might wear out the body, sturdy though it was. But the girls had plenty of time for play and for exercise, and Marjory's health, so far from being any the worse for her studies, seemed rather the better.

Blanche had already learned to ride, and Marjory had little difficulty after a few lessons from Mr. Forester's groom, so the girls had many a lively gallop across the moor or along the country roads.

The weeks flew by, and very soon, as it seemed to Marjory, the Christmas holidays began. None too soon for Blanche did they come, for she was by no means so devoted to her studies as Marjory was, and, fond as she was of her governess, she could watch her drive away to the station without compunction, knowing that three short weeks would see her back again, and lessons with her.

The friendship between the two girls had grown stronger every day. They shared everything—hopes and fears, pleasures and pains—and they were inseparable companions. Marjory's was the leading spirit. It was she who planned their expeditions and proposed each day's doings. Blanche looked up to her friend as being much stronger in every way than herself, and admired her accordingly, while Marjory would have gone through fire and water, as the saying is, for Blanche.

One day, soon after the holidays began, the girls went for a walk to a pond about a mile out of Heathermuir, to see if it would bear for skating. There had been continuous frost for some days, and as the pond was a shallow one, Dr. Hunter thought it was quite safe for them to go. Mrs. Forester could trust Marjory to take Blanche anywhere, but as she had not yet learned to skate, the girls had promised that they would only go to see in what condition the ice was. If it would bear, they were to come back to Braeside for lunch, and afterwards Mr. Forester would go with them and give Blanche her first lesson.

As they were walking along, a collie came bounding up to Silky, and then to Marjory, wagging his tail, as if delighted to see her.

"That's the Morisons' dog," she said; "the boys must be home. Perhaps they're coming to the pond too."

"Oh, bother," said Blanche; "it won't be a bit nice having strange boys there while I'm learning. I don't like boys much, they are so rough and rude. I do hope they won't stay all day on the pond."

Marjory stole a glance behind. Sure enough there was a boy, but only one, coming along the road.

"It's Alan Morison, the youngest one, all by himself, and he's got skates," she said, making a grimace at Blanche as she imparted the information.

"Well, of course he has as much right on the pond as we have, and it's horrid of me not to want him, but I don't. What is he like?"

"I haven't spoken to him much. He doesn't care for girls, and neither does his brother; they both said so. They generally call out rude remarks after me. They think all girls are silly."

"Well, we don't want them to like us, I'm sure," replied Blanche; "we can do quite well without them; and these ones sound horrid from your description."

Marjory, afraid she had said too much in disparagement of the boys, hastened to say, "Oh, I don't suppose they would be rude to you; but they've known me ever since I was a baby, you see."

Footsteps could be heard behind them now, and very soon a mocking voice called, "Carrots, Car-rots." At first the girls took no notice, walking along in their most dignified manner; but when the boy came quite close and deliberately shouted "Carrots" into Blanche's ear, Marjory turned upon him like a fury, crying, "Don't you dare to say that again, or I'll knock you down."

The boy burst out laughing, and straightway repeated the objectionable word. Marjory wheeled round in a moment. "Take that!" she said, delivering a blow with her fist which sent Master Alan Morison flying. He lost his balance and fell to the ground. He was up again in a moment, blood flowing from a slight cut in his forehead. Marjory, aghast at what she had done, stood rooted to the spot, expecting him to return the attack; but, to her surprise, he looked at her admiringly and said, "I say, you know, that was jolly good. I never thought a girl could hit like that. I couldn't have done it better myself, and you're only thirteen. I was fourteen last birthday."

Marjory began, "I'm so sorry," but Alan stopped her. "I tell you it was jolly good. I'm glad you can hit; you don't seem so much like a girl.—I say," turning to Blanche and blushing crimson under his freckles, "it was beastly of me to call names after you." The boy shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as he made his apology.

"Yes, it was rather," replied Blanche, "but it isn't the first time boys have done it. I suppose my hair is carroty," ruefully, "but I think it is rather mean to tease me about a thing I can't help."

"I say, I'm awfully sorry," said Alan, more shamefaced than ever.

"Never mind," said Blanche graciously; "I'll forgive you this once. Come along; it's cold standing here apologizing and forgiving." And with a merry laugh she started on.

Marjory, ashamed of her part in the quarrel, asked Alan if his forehead hurt.

"No, it's nothing but a scratch, but I tell you," enthusiastically, "it was a splendid hit. Any fellow would have done the same if another chap had ragged his friend. I say," he continued bashfully, "would you two chum up with me? It's beastly dull for me at home now."

"Where's Herbert?" asked Marjory.

"Oh, he's at home, but he's no good to me now," kicking a stone with his foot, to the great satisfaction of the dogs; and then he continued, "Since he went into the sixth, he thinks of nothing but the cut of his coats and the shape of his collars, and whether girls think he's better-looking than the other fellows. It's positively sickening. And now we're at home he hangs about father, and won't do anything with me. He called me a 'kid' this morning, young silly ass that he is." Another stone went flying. "But look here," in a different tone and turning to Marjory; "you're not a bit like a girl if you can hit like that, and I should be awfully obliged to you if you would chum up with me. We could have jolly fun if you would."

"All right," said Marjory, sorry for any one who was lonely; "we'll be friends—that is, if Blanche wants to too; we always do everything together." And she looked at her friend.

Blanche was too sweet-natured to be selfish over this proposal; besides, she rather liked the look of this boy with his freckled face and honest eyes, so she said, "Yes, let's have a Triple Alliance, like we've been learning about in history, only much nicer," with a grimace; "it will be awful fun." And thus the friendship was begun.

When they reached the pond it appeared to be quite fit for skating, and Alan soon fastened on his skates and started off. They were pleased to find that there was no one else skating; in fact, they had it all to themselves. It was amusing to see the three dogs trying to follow Alan, especially fat little Curly, who rolled over several times in his frantic efforts to keep up with the grown-up dogs.

The girls watched Alan's movements with interest. He was a very good skater, and could do all sorts of figures on the ice, seeming quite at home upon it. He was shouting that he would teach them both all he knew, when suddenly there was an ominous crackling on the other side of the pond, and the dogs, who had gone over there unnoticed, began to bark and whine excitedly.

"Where's Curly? I believe he's fallen in," screamed Blanche, and she started to run across the ice.

"Go back!" shouted Alan. "Go round by the bank!" And in a moment he was off at full speed across the pond.

Curly was nowhere to be seen, and Silky and Neil, the collie, were barking furiously, leaping and splashing in and out of the water. Some one evidently had been trying the ice, and it had broken away from the edge, gradually cracking farther in. The big dogs had been able to scramble to the shore, but the little one, frightened, no doubt, by his unusual adventure, had been sucked in under the ice. The other dogs were making frantic efforts to reach him, but the pieces of broken ice prevented them, and poor little Curly was some distance in; and as the pond was shallow, it would have been difficult for them to swim, even if they could have got under the ice.

Alan saw at once what had happened, and judging by the dogs' efforts the probable whereabouts of Curly, with a reassuring shout to the girls, he began stamping in the ice, plunging knee-deep into the water each time. In a few moments he pulled out poor little Curly—a helpless dripping object, with no signs of life in him. Alan scrambled to the bank and laid the dog on the grass. He tenderly wiped him as dry as he could with his pocket handkerchief—a regular schoolboy's one of generous proportions—and by the time the girls arrived, breathless after their run, he was wrapping Curly in his coat.

"Is he dead?" cried Blanche, the tears streaming down her cheeks.—"Oh, my darling little Curly, why did I let you out of my sight?"

"I dare say he won't die," said Alan, feigning a cheerfulness he did not feel. "The first thing to do is to get him warm. Where's the nearest house?"

"The Low Farm is the nearest," said Marjory doubtfully, "if Mrs. Shaw—"

"Will let us in to make a mess of her kitchen," finished Alan. "She is a bit of a cross-patch, but we'll make her let us in. What's the good of a Triple Alliance if we can't fight? Come on, girls. United we stand!"

They ran off as fast as they could towards the Low Farm, Alan carrying Curly very close to him, so that the warmth from his own body might revive the little dog. Blanche kept asking if he seemed better, but the answer was always the same—he had not moved or shown any signs of life.

Once Marjory said, "I say, it was very good of you, Alan, and you're soaking wet, and you must be cold without your coat."

"Rot!" replied Alan, and Marjory said no more.



CHAPTER XI.

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.

"And thus the heart will break, Yet brokenly live on."—BYRON.

Mrs. Shaw saw the children coming, and wondered what could be the reason of this unusual visit. She went to the garden gate to meet them, and saw at once by Blanche's tear-stained face that something was wrong. They told her what they wanted, and she invited them in without hesitation, taking them straight to the kitchen, where a bright fire was blazing.

Alan unwrapped poor Curly, and Mrs. Shaw fetched a piece of blanket for him to lie on, and gave him a spoonful of brandy, Blanche holding his mouth open. They all watched him anxiously. He soon began to move a little, and in a few minutes he got up, stretched and shook himself, and then went to his mistress to be caressed.

Blanche hugged and kissed him with every expression of delight. She had hardly realized how precious her little pet had become until she so nearly lost him. But Curly had been in Mrs. Shaw's kitchen before, and when he considered that he had received enough petting, he calmly trotted off to a corner of the room where he had once had a very good dinner, and began sniffing and nosing about. No dish was there this time, and so he trotted back again and sat down, looking expectantly at the group of amused watchers. Mrs. Shaw went and got some bread and milk for him, and he was soon very busy with it, seeming none the worse for his adventure.

"Well, I must be going," remarked Alan.

"Oh no," protested Blanche; "it's too late for you to go home to dinner now. You must come to us. Marjory's coming."

"I meant to skate all day, and mother gave me some sandwiches."

"Sandwiches are but poor comfort on a cold day, Master Morison," said Mrs. Shaw. "I should be proud if the young ladies and you would have your dinner here—that is," she added, "if you don't mind having it in the kitchen. The parlour fire isn't lighted yet. I can send a message down to Braeside if you will stay." And she looked at the girls.

"It is very kind of you," said Blanche. "We should like to stay, if it isn't too much bother for you.—Shouldn't we, Marj?"

"Yes," replied Marjory, much surprised by this unwonted friendliness on Mrs. Shaw's part. "And don't you think Alan's clothes ought to be dried?"

"Rot!" said Alan again.

But Mrs. Shaw was a managing person. She felt Alan's legs.

"My goodness!" she exclaimed, "he's wet through. Come with me at once," and she dragged the unwilling boy into another room. In a short time they returned, Alan looking a comical figure, dressed in a pair of knickerbockers many sizes too large for him, and a man's flannel shirt and coat. Marjory at once decided that these garments must have belonged to the mysterious husband in foreign parts.

Alan looked red and uncomfortable after Mrs. Shaw's ministrations, but Marjory said, "That's better. Now come and sit by the fire," pretending not to notice anything peculiar in his appearance. To tell the truth, he was nothing loath to sit by the cheerful blaze, for he had begun to feel cold and miserable as soon as Curly was all right, but he would have done anything rather than say so.

Mrs. Shaw's kitchen was cleaner than some people's dining-rooms. There was not a speck of dust anywhere, and not a thing out of its place. Her guests were amused to see their dinner come straight from the various pots and pans on the fire; but never was a meal eaten with a better appetite, and after the first shyness wore off, the party was a very merry one.

Marjory noticed that Mrs. Shaw looked often at Blanche, and with an expression of tenderness which her face never wore for other people. Half sad, half tender, the look was, and Marjory wondered what it could mean.

After dinner was over, Blanche asked if they might go to the parlour and see the curiosities.

"I wonder if you'll get anything this Christmas," she remarked.

"Maybe," was the short reply.

Nearly every part of the world was represented in this little farm parlour. Here were corals and shells from the South Sea Islands; wonderfully carved ivory from India and China; a tiny nugget of gold from California; Indian arrow-heads, beads, and baskets. In fact, had she known it, Mrs. Shaw really possessed a good and valuable collection. Alan was handling what appeared to be a square block made of beautifully-polished wood, and he asked what it was.

"It's only a specimen block of various Australian woods," was the reply.

"But see, they're not glued together in any way. Perhaps it's a puzzle, and they all come apart." And he turned it over and over with boyish curiosity and interest.

"No, it's nothing but samples of woods. I've got a list of their names somewhere." And Mrs. Shaw went to a box to search for the paper.

Meanwhile Alan pulled and thumped, and at last one of the pieces composing the box moved. The rest was easily done; one piece after another came away, and there, right in the middle of the block, was a small velvet case.

"Look! look!" he cried excitedly. "Come and see, Mrs. Shaw."

They all crowded round while Mrs. Shaw opened the case. Inside it was a beautifully-painted head of a little girl.

"Why, it's Blanche when she was small!" exclaimed Marjory.

Mrs. Shaw stood as if turned to stone for a minute. Then she covered her face with her hands and wept aloud. The children stood silent, frightened by this outburst of grief, and not knowing what to do or say.

At last Blanche took courage, and gently touching the weeping woman's arm, she said,—

"Please, don't cry. What is the matter? We are so sorry."

"Oh, my dear! my dear! that is the picture of my own little girl who died long ago. I took to you from the first because of the likeness. I've never seen her father since she died. It all happened long ago, before I came here. She was a delicate little thing, and one day, while her father was at home, I went away for the day to see my sister. The child had a little cold, and I said to her father that she had better not go out. But she begged so hard to go that he couldn't refuse her, and they went out. They went into a shop for her father to buy some tobacco. The child began playing with a kitten. She was very fond of animals, and while her father's back was turned, she ran out into the street after the kitten. She was knocked down and run over by a van, and she only lived a few hours. Oh, my darling! my darling!" the poor woman continued, unconscious of her listeners, "the light of my life went out when you were taken, and I am only just beginning to learn the lesson of my grief." Then returning to her story: "I blamed her poor father for her death, and I sent him away. That was seven years ago. He has written to me, and every year he sends me a parcel of things. He buys me something at every port he touches—he's a sailor, you know, a captain now—and I've never sent him a word of thanks, not one single word; and now this! This little box came last year, and I never even troubled to read this paper about it. Think how he planned it as a surprise for me, and what he must have paid to have it done. God forgive me! for I've been a wicked woman." And she wept afresh, rocking herself to and fro.

The children were awestruck by this recital. Alan took the paper from Mrs. Shaw. On the front page was a list of the various woods, as she had said, but inside were instructions for the opening of the puzzle box.

"What was your little girl's name?" Blanche ventured to ask.

"Rose," sobbed the woman; "and she was just as sweet as her name; but I made an idol of my child, and that is why God took her away."

"Mother says," said Blanche shyly, "that when God takes little children He makes them very, very happy—happier than their own fathers and mothers could make them."

"Bless you, my dear, for your comforting words! Yes, I feel sure she is happy, and I know she would wish me to forgive her father, but I never could bring myself to do it till now. I'll write to him this very night, and ask him to come home when he can. To think of him planning this box, with her blessed picture inside it, all for me that's been so unkind and cruel!" And Mrs. Shaw sobbed again.

"Please, Mrs. Shaw, don't cry any more," begged Marjory. "It will be lovely when he comes home, and everything will be all right."

Mrs. Shaw pulled herself together, wiped her eyes, and stood up, saying, "I am a foolish woman to worry you young folks with my troubles. Come and look round the farm."

All thought of skating was given up for that day. Alan put on his own clothes, which were dry again, and the party went out to explore the farmyard. Silky and Neil were patiently waiting outside, and made a great fuss when the children appeared, Blanche with Curly in her arms. After thoroughly examining every hole and corner about the farm, the members of the Triple Alliance said good-bye to Mrs. Shaw, thanking her profusely for all her kindness, and then started homewards, going together to the Braeside gate. Before they parted Alan said,—

"I say, look here, you two; should you mind if I asked you not to tell about this morning? It was a jolly good hit, and all that, but I shouldn't like Herbert to know about it. He'd chaff me so, and tell the fellows." And his face flushed crimson at the thought.

"More secrets," said Blanche. "I'll promise not to tell any one but mother. I simply can't keep a secret unless I tell her."

"Irishman!" cried Alan promptly. "Well, tell your mother if you like; and Marjory can tell her uncle, and nobody else. Do you agree?"

"I don't know that I shall want to tell," remarked Marjory, flushing in her turn. "It wasn't such a very nice thing for me to do."

"Well, I'm jiggered," said Alan inelegantly; "I thought the first thing a girl would want to do would be to go and blab about it all over the place." And he regarded Marjory as if she were a natural curiosity.

"And yet," she continued, "I suppose I ought to tell, because I think you behaved so well about it, making friends after it. And then think what you did for Curly."

"Ra—ats! Good-bye, and long live the T. A.!" cried Alan, running off towards home.

It was nearly four o'clock when they said good-bye at the Braeside gate, and it was rapidly getting dark. Marjory went quickly up the hill, fearing a reprimand from her uncle for being out so late. The day had been an eventful one, but its excitements were not yet over. As she hurried through the wood, she heard a sudden crackling and rustling amongst the fallen leaves and twigs, and a man came from behind a tree and stood facing her.

"Don't be frightened, miss," he said in a low voice. "I'm a stranger here, and I want to ask if you can tell me where Dr. Hunter lives."

"He lives in that house up there," replied Marjory, pointing towards Hunters' Brae; "and this is his ground," she added, as much as to say, "What are you doing here?" Then she continued, "Do you wish to see Dr. Hunter?"

The man took no notice, and resumed his questioning.

"Isn't there a house on his property called the Low Farm? and can you tell me who keeps it?"

Marjory wondered who this man could be. His manner was straightforward, and from what she could see, his face was honest; still she felt somewhat suspicious. There had been rumours lately of poachers being about. Perhaps he was a thief, and would go to the Low Farm when all the men had gone home from work, and Mrs. Shaw would be unprotected. She reflected that if she withheld the information the man would probably get it from some one else, and she decided that it would be better to answer his questions, but to let him believe that Mrs. Shaw's husband was at home, so she replied,—

"The Low Farm is down at the bottom of the hill, a little to the right, and people of the name of Shaw keep it."

"Oh," said the man, as if taken aback, "there is a Mr. Shaw then?"

"Oh yes," replied Marjory, delighted that her bait had taken, as she thought. Then she said quickly, "I must be going now."

"Good-night, miss, and thank you for the information. Please don't say you've seen me, if you can help it."

Marjory thought that the man's voice sounded hard and fierce, and, somewhat frightened, she hurried away without a look behind her. A sudden thought struck her as she ran through the garden. Could this stranger possibly be her father? Her absent father was continually in her thoughts; often and often she pictured to herself various ways in which he might return to her. This man had begun by asking for Dr. Hunter. For one wild moment the impulse to turn back was upon her, and then she told herself that it was impossible. She did not know many people, but she felt sure that this man was not quite like her uncle, or Mr. Forester, or Dr. Morison. Surely her father was not a rough-spoken man like this! Besides, would she not have known him at once? No; probably her first theory was the right one, and this was some poacher or thief—and yet he did not seem quite like a bad man either. It was a mystery, and she wished that Blanche or Alan had been with her.

Dr. Hunter was not at home for tea; he had gone to the minister's, Lisbeth said, but would be back for supper.

When supper-time came Marjory gave her uncle an account of the day's doings, but did not mention her encounter in the wood.

"You've had a most exciting day, on the whole," he said. "I didn't know you could box, though; surely Miss Waspe doesn't teach you that as an accomplishment!"

Marjory laughed rather shamefacedly.

"No," she replied; "Peter showed me, but only a little. He says he was very good at it when he was a boy."

"So you knocked over this fourteen-year-old boy like a ninepin. Well, to be sure, I am surprised." And the doctor eyed his niece quizzically over his spectacles. "You're quite a dangerous young person to meet on a country road."

"Well, he called Blanche's hair 'carrots,'" said Marjory, flushing.

"Just like a boy. If he were a dozen years older he would be writing sonnets to that same hair." And the doctor laughed.

Later on he said, "I heard from Mackenzie to-day that there is great excitement in the neighbourhood about poachers. The men are going out to-night to see if they can see anything of them. Mackenzie asked me to join them, but I'm getting too old for that sort of thing. Mackenzie isn't going himself, but I could see he was pretty keen about it. Of course these fellows are a nuisance, and perhaps if I preserved I should feel differently, but I must confess to a sneaking sympathy with them as it is. Don't you tell Forester or Morison, Miss Marjory." And the doctor laughed again.

But Marjory was thinking of the man in the wood What if he should be suspected and taken? Somehow, although she had been suspicious of him, there had been something in his manner, a true ring in his voice, which belied her fears, and she felt that she would be sorry if he got into any trouble. It was some hours since she had seen him, and he had probably gone away by this time; but she felt uncomfortable about him, and as soon as the doctor had finished his supper and gone to his study, Marjory put on a cloak and slipped out.

It was a cold, frosty night, and there was no moon—just a night for poaching work, Marjory decided. She had shut Silky in the house, in case he might bark and attract attention, but once or twice she wished she had brought him. She crept down the garden, and through the gate into the wood, stopping now and then to listen. The night was intensely still, and there were no signs of life; the silence was broken only by the crunching of the frosty ground under her feet, until—listen!—what was that? There was a sound as of some person or some animal in pain. Oh, surely it was not some poor little rabbit or hare, or perhaps a dog, caught in a trap! She must go nearer and see what it was. She walked on in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and there, lying on the ground, was the figure of a man—the man she had spoken to that afternoon. This was dreadful. Marjory had not known that a grown-up man could cry; his whole frame was heaving with convulsive sobs, and he murmured something she could not understand. She felt at a loss in the presence of such bitter grief, and did not know what to do or what to say. At last she took courage and said gently, "Can I do anything to help you?"

The man sprang up, startled by Marjory's voice.

"Nothing can cure my trouble," he said bitterly. "But how come you out here this cold, dark night? I can't see you, but I know by your voice that you are the young lady I spoke to this afternoon."

"I came out to tell you that the keepers and some of the gentlemen are out after poachers to-night, and I—I thought—" Marjory stammered.

"You thought I was one of them," finished the man, with a short laugh. "No, I haven't come to that yet, but I thank you for your kind thought. It's a long time since anybody troubled as to what would become of me." And his tone was very bitter.

"But you must be hungry and cold. Won't you come and have some food?"

"No, and thank you kindly. I am lodging at Hillcrest village, a matter of only two miles from here, and I'd best be getting back. But don't you worry about me, miss. I'm a rough man, but, thank God, I've been able to keep straight and honest. I'm in a tight place just now, but I'm sorry you should have found me as you did."

"I was once very miserable here in this same place," said Marjory shyly, "and then something happened which made my whole life different. Perhaps it will be the same with you."

"I'm afraid not; but I mustn't keep you here in the cold. Thank you kindly, miss, for what you've done for a stranger. May I ask you not to mention having seen me here? I have a good reason."

Marjory could no longer feel suspicious of the man, but at the same time she could not help wondering why he should wish to keep his movements secret.

"Very well; I won't speak of it," she promised, wondering if she were right in so doing.

"God bless you, miss, and good-night to you."

The man strode away. She could hear his footsteps crackling through the undergrowth as she turned back towards home. Suddenly she was aware of approaching steps; in a moment the wood seemed full of dark figures, and she could hear men's heavy breathing. She started to run, but before she could reach the gate strong arms caught hold of her, a lantern flashed into her face, and the voice of Mr. Forester cried, "Hallo, Marjory! what are you doing here?"



CHAPTER XII.

MARJORY KEEPS A SECRET.

"She doeth little kindnesses Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low esteemed in her eyes."

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Marjory had not thought of the possibility of the search-party being so near, and Mr. Forester's sudden appearance quite bewildered her for a moment. The men came crowding up, looking curiously at her.

She tried to free herself from Mr. Forester's grasp.

"No, you don't, my lady," said he, laughing, and tightening his hold upon her arm. "Having found you, I am responsible for you; besides, I don't approve of girls wandering about in the dark like this without giving an account of themselves."

"I'm not accountable to you, anyway," replied Marjory, her temper rising.

"Highty-tighty! so we're going to ride the high horse, eh? Well, I consider it my duty to take you home and report upon your unlawful doings." And, still holding Marjory's arm, he began to walk towards the house. Silky, hearing the strange footsteps and voices, barked angrily; and Dr. Hunter, disturbed by the unusual commotion, came out of his study. Seeing that the dog seemed anxious to go out by the garden door, he opened it just as Mr. Forester and Marjory reached it.

Mr. Forester had only been teasing Marjory, and had not really meant to get her into trouble. He had intended to see her safely home and then to leave her, but it was too late now.

The doctor, much surprised, called out, "Hallo, Marjory! where have you been, and who's this with you?—Why, Forester, how do you do? Come in. But what is the meaning of it all?"

"The truth is," said Mr. Forester, laughing, "that I've been out with the keepers after poachers, and this," pointing to Marjory, "is the only one we've found."

"But what was she doing out by herself at this time of night?" asked the doctor.

Marjory said nothing. Her uncle looked at her, and Mr. Forester, thinking that he had better leave them together, passed on into the dining-room.

"I should like to know," said the doctor sternly.

Marjory, pale and tearful, remained silent.

"Did you go out to see after Brownie, or any of the animals?"

"No."

"Come, Marjory, I insist upon knowing the reason for this freak. The truth is, I have let you have too much liberty to come and go, and now you will not give an account of yourself."

Marjory raised her head, and looking at her uncle with fearless eyes, she said,—

"I would rather not tell you why I went, but I don't think you would be angry if you knew; it wasn't anything wrong."

Dr. Hunter looked steadily at his niece, but she did not flinch. There was a look in her eyes, half appeal, half defiant challenge, which reminded him of her father. Just so had he looked during their last stormy interview.

"Very well, my child; I believe you," said the doctor. He had never known Marjory to tell a lie, and he could trust her. Still, he could not help wondering what secret she was keeping from him.

He was turning away with a sigh, when suddenly he felt the girl's arms about his neck, and her wet cheek pressed to his. "Thank you, uncle dear," she murmured; "you are very good to me."

He returned the caress very heartily. Surely, indeed, if slowly, the better understanding was growing. They went into the dining-room to join Mr. Forester, the doctor's arm still round Marjory's waist.

"Smoothed it all over, eh?" asked Mr. Forester, smiling. "It's extraordinary the way the girls have of making their own tales good; isn't it, doctor? There's my Blanche now—she can simply twist me round her little finger, and make me say yes when I mean no, little beggar that she is," laughing.

"Blanche is a good girl, and so is Marjory," said the doctor.

"There now; didn't I say so? That young witch has simply made you think that to slip out on a dark night, get caught for a poacher, and then refuse to give any explanation, is the action of a pattern girl. Poor deluded old man!" And Mr. Forester shook his head and spread out his hands with a gesture of despair. "I tell you, these girls will make a fellow believe that the blackest of black is in reality the whitest of white, if only he will look at it in the right way—their way, of course."

"Don't you mind, Marjory; he's only teasing. We understand each other, don't we? Run away to bed and leave him to me. You have had an exciting day, and you must be tired and sleepy."

Marjory was tired, but she could not go to sleep. She was unable to forget that man and his trouble. What could it be? Then, too, there was Mrs. Shaw. She had learned to-day the cause of the stern expression in those dark eyes and of the sometimes bitter tongue. There must surely be a great deal of trouble in the world. Marjory was very sensitive to the pain of others; her heart went out at once to any one who was suffering; no matter who or where, she felt she must try to help them.

As she lay thinking about the stranger, a sudden light flashed across her brain. What if he were Mrs. Shaw's husband? He might have come just to see the place his wife lived in and the sort of people she worked for. Feeling sure that she would not forgive him, perhaps he would not try to see her, not knowing how her feelings towards him had changed. Marjory sat up in bed, her heart beating fast as in imagination she traced out this theory. The longer she thought about it the more sure she felt that it was the right one. It would explain the man's piteous grief and his bitter cry that nothing could ever help him. What was to be done?

It did not take her long to decide that she would go to Hillcrest village the next day, see the man, and boldly ask if he were Mr. Shaw; and then, if her theory proved correct, she would tell him what she knew—namely, that his wife had determined to write and ask him to come home. How she would love to play the good fairy to these people, and to see them happy after all their troubles!

Then her thoughts turned to her own affairs. She never ceased to long for her father, although her life was much brighter and happier than it used to be. Night and morning she prayed that he might be given to her. She would lie awake picturing their happy meeting, and sometimes the visions that she conjured up in the night were so lifelike that she would wake in the morning almost expecting them to prove realities. But the days and weeks went by, and nothing happened to bring any nearer that longed-for day when he should come.

Next morning Marjory signalled to Blanche that she would like to ride with her, and the answer came that she would be ready at eleven. Marjory asked Peter to saddle Brownie early, so that she would have time to go to Hillcrest before calling at Braeside.

Arrived at the village, she rode up to the post office, as being the most likely place at which to gain information with regard to a stranger, and asked the woman if she knew of any one lodging in Hillcrest. "Yes," was the reply; "there was a man staying at 'English Mary's' down the street."

Arrived at "English Mary's," Marjory made her inquiries.

"Yes, miss," replied the woman, "I did 'ave a lodger 'ere yesterday, but 'e up an' went this mornin' bright and early. Most respectable 'e seemed, miss; but 'e come in last night in a orful pickle, 'is clothes torn an' 'is face bleedin'; you never saw sich a sight as 'e was, miss. I was glad to get rid on 'im; the p'lice would 'ave bin the next thing, I s'pose. Paid 'is way though, 'e did, and 'e didn't make no bones about the bill."

"Did he leave his name and address?" asked Marjory, as soon as she could get in a word.

"Bless you, miss, I didn't want no address; the less I knows about 'im the better, strikes me. But 'is name was 'Iggs—so 'e said; but that might 'ave bin a halibi, for all I can tell—you do read sich things in the papers nowadays. Might I ask if you was wantin' any odd jobs done, miss? My old man's out o' work, an'—"

"Oh no, thank you," said Marjory, cutting the woman short; "I only wanted to inquire." And she turned Brownie's head in the direction of Braeside. "Good-morning. I'm much obliged to you."

Marjory was bitterly disappointed at the failure of her peacemaking mission, for she had set out almost certain of success. She wondered whether the man was really a bad character, and whether he had been set upon by the keepers, and so got his clothes torn. So it wasn't Mr. Shaw after all. It was very disappointing, and Marjory sighed. She smiled, however, as she thought over English Mary's voluble explanation and her queer language. The King would hardly recognize it as his.

Marjory found the study of the King's English very interesting. As Miss Waspe presented it to her, it was not contained in a lifeless grammar-book, the terror of many schoolgirls' lives, but it was a wonderful living medium of expression—a means by which she could translate her ideas and imaginings into musical phrases, and which enabled her to understand the spoken and written thoughts of others. Miss Waspe had a way of dressing up hard facts and tiresome rules in the most attractive clothing, and like the dog who unconsciously and gratefully swallows a pill in a succulent tit-bit, her pupil assimilated both with excellent results.

Blanche said to Marjory one day, "I can't think how you can like that horrid grammar. If I was a boy, or, according to it, were I a boy, I should call it a beastly grind; but as mother doesn't like me to use boys' words, I have to call it a horrid nuisance or some other tame thing like that. Anyway, I feel it is a b-e-a-s-t-l-y g-r-i-n-d, so there."

"I don't wonder your mother doesn't like you to use boys' words; you're much too pretty," replied Marjory. "They are far more suitable for me, because I am big and rough-looking, like a boy, and you are just like a piece of thin china—like that Dresden shepherdess in the drawing-room. You couldn't imagine her saying anything ugly."

"Why do you always make out that you're not pretty?" asked Blanche indignantly. "I think you're better than pretty, you're grand, with those great big stormy-looking eyes and your lovely wavy hair. I've never seen such long hair."

Marjory laughed. "And what about my wide mouth, and my long nose crooked at the point?"

"Well," admitted Blanche, "your mouth may be large, but it is a nice shape, and your lips are beautifully red, and your nose is really only a very tiny bit crooked; and so, Miss Marjory," triumphantly, "there's no reason at all why you should be allowed to use boys' words if I mustn't."

"I don't really know many; you see, I've hardly spoken to any boys except the Morisons."

"I knew lots in London."

"It does seem queer to think that you have lived in great big London and know all about it, while I have never been farther away than Morristown."

"Perhaps you'll come to London with us some day. Wouldn't it be fun? I wonder how you would feel."

Marjory thought over this conversation as she rode down the hill towards Braeside. She sometimes longed to go away and see something of that great world she had begun to realize of late. Her lessons were enlarging her ideas. Geography fired her imagination with its tales of far countries—their tropical beauty, or, it might be, their ice-bound grandeur, High mountains, terrible volcanoes, placid lakes, swift-flowing rivers—all these spoke to her of a wonderful world outside her own; and she longed to spread her wings and to fly out and away into its vastness. She often wondered how her uncle, who knew about all these things, could be content to stay year in and year out in one place, spending nearly all his time within the four walls of his own study, and her heart would go out to that unknown father of hers with his roving disposition; how well she could understand it! She would weave romances, with him as hero and herself as heroine—romances which always had the same happy ending; and then she would finish up by wondering if she would ever see him, and whether he would be the least bit like her pictures of him.

Marjory's thoughts wandered back to the man, and the mystery surrounding his appearance and disappearance. What did the woman mean by "halibi"? She supposed it must be a slang word, so it would be no use looking in a dictionary; perhaps it meant pretence.

She reached Braeside just as Blanche's pony was being taken round to the door by the groom, and to her surprise Alan Morison was there too, mounted on a horse which was rather too big for him. He rode towards Marjory with a somewhat sheepish expression on his face.

"I say," he said, "I hope you don't mind my coming with you. I ran over this morning to see what you were going to do, and Blanche said I might come." And he looked doubtfully at Marjory.

"What Blanche says, I say," she replied heartily.

"Right you are, then." And Alan looked relieved.

Blanche soon came out, a trim little figure in her neat riding-habit. She called out "good-morning," and waved her hand to Mrs. Forester, who had come to see the start; but Marjory saw at once that there was something wrong—she even fancied that there were traces of recent tears on her friend's cheeks. Blanche in tears was a sight which put Marjory up in arms at once, and she was prepared to do instant battle with their cause, be it any person or any thing.

They started off in silence, after having agreed upon the direction of their ride, Marjory waiting for the explanation which she hoped would soon come, and furtively watching her friend. She was glad to see that the pale cheeks were gradually gaining colour from the exercise in the keen frosty air.

At last the explanation came.

"I say, isn't it perfectly horrid? Aunt Katharine and my cousin Maud are coming to stay. They've invited themselves because Uncle Hilary is away. They'll be here for Christmas; nothing will be a bit nice, and it'll spoil all our fun. They're coming the day after to-morrow. Mother says she is very sorry for me, but I mustn't be selfish. I don't like Maud much; she is older than we are, and she's a stuck-up thing," vehemently.

Here indeed was a blow. The three had planned many a happy day together, and this addition to the party seemed likely to be a disturbing one.

"How old is she?" asked Marjory.

"She's fifteen, but looks older."

"But will she want to come with us if she's as old as that?" suggested Alan.

"Oh yes, that's just what she likes—to come and lord it over other people, and have everything her way. Just because she's been on the Continent and been to theatres she thinks she knows everything. Aunt Katharine gives her anything she wants, and Maud makes other people do it too."

"How devilish!" said Alan emphatically.

"O Alan, don't swear," said Blanche, aghast.

"That's not swearing, bless you."

"I thought that anything about the devil was swearing."

"Oh no, I don't think so," put in Marjory. "Peter often talks about the 'deil,' and he's not a bad man."

"But somehow 'deil' doesn't sound as bad as devil," argued Blanche. "I think it is a horrid word; it frightens me."

"Very well, I won't say it again," said Alan consolingly. "But look here; we must make some plan of campaign as to our doings when this cousin of yours comes poking her beastly nose in. If there's anything I can do to annoy her, I'm your man. I'm a regular corker at all sorts of tricks, from apple-pie beds to booby traps. A little ragging sometimes takes all the side out of fellows at school, and it might work with her. Anyway I'm at your service, and it would be a good thing if we could turn her out a decent girl."

"We'll never do that," said Blanche decidedly.

"We'll see," replied Alan, with a world of determination in his tone; and then they started off at such a gallop across the moor that all disagreeables were forgotten for the time being.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE OLD CHEST.

"What could be the wealth the casket held?... Perhaps the red gold nestled there, Loving and close as in the mine; Or diamonds lit the sunless air, Or rubies blushed like bridal wine. Some giant gem, like that which bought The half of a realm in Timour's day, Might here, beyond temptation's thought, Be hidden in safety; who could say?"

HENRY MORFORD.

Marjory obtained permission from her uncle to invite Blanche and Alan to spend the next day with her. It would be the last before the arrival of the unwished-for visitors, and they wanted to make the most of it. They decided to have a rat hunt in the morning, and in the afternoon Marjory intended to ask the doctor if they might try again to open the old chest. She thought Alan might be a help.

Marjory did not much like the idea of killing even a rat. She was not quite sure that it was right, but Peter had no such compunctions.

"Vermin o' the land, an' mischeevious reptiles they are, an' the mair deid rats we see the morn's mornin' the better pleased Peter'll be," said the old man as they were planning the hunt.

Alan kept a ferret, which he offered to bring, and he thought he could borrow his brother Herbert's fox-terrier, which was a famous ratter.

"That's a' richt," agreed the old man. "An' I can get the loan o' anither dog frae the village, an' atween them a' they should create a bit disturbance amang they lang-tailed rascals."

Alan looked at Marjory and grinned, remembering yesterday's conversation.

Poor Peter's heart had been sorely tried by the depredations of his long-tailed enemies. The hen-house, the barn, even the apple storehouse had been visited by them with disastrous results, so he rejoiced at the prospect of the coming conflict. The next morning, a stout stick in his hand and war in his eye, he stood awaiting the arrival of the party. Silky had been tied up, so that the ratters might have a clear field for action.

Marjory went down the hill to meet Blanche, and they arrived upon the scene just as Alan, punctual to the appointed time, came up with his ferret in a small bag, and his brother's dog, Jock, on a leash.

"He's awfully keen," Alan explained. "He only had half his usual last night, and nothing this morning; so I put him on the leash in case he might go tearing off after some rabbit, and I couldn't get him back again."

There was some hitch about getting the other dog; it could not be found when the time came. Alan was secretly pleased that Jock should have to fight single-handed, for then all the honour and glory would fall to his share.

As for Jock, he was indeed keen. He seemed to know that there was excitement in store for him, and he was pulling and straining at the leash, jumping up and down, and giving little short yelps and barks.

"We'll try the barn first," ordered Peter, the commander-in-chief.

Alan handed Jock over to Marjory, and they went to the barn as directed. Alan put his ferret into a well-used hole.

"Let go!" he shouted to Marjory.

Jock was let loose, and the fun began. It was a most exciting time—scratching, scrambling, racing, leaping. In and out of barns and outbuildings went Jock, his heart in his work. The ferret, too, did his duty quite nobly. The spectators, waving their sticks and shouting encouragement, ran and scrambled too.

Old Peter, capless, his hair and beard streaming in the wind, danced and capered like a boy whenever Jock appeared victoriously shaking a rat between his teeth. The girls, too, kept in the thick of the fight, Marjory forgetting all her doubts in the excitement of the moment.

One very large rat gave Jock a great deal of trouble. In and out of the barn it went, Jock in full cry after it, through the hen-run, scattering the flustered fowls screeching in all directions, round and round the yard it leaped rather than ran. At last it ran up the side of a large empty barrel and went over the edge in a second. Quick as thought Jock sprang after it; then came a terrific scrambling and scratching, a vicious scream from the rat, a yelp of pain from Jock, and, last, a moment's silence before the scrambling was renewed. They all went and peeped over the edge of the barrel, and there was Jock with the big rat in his mouth, making frantic efforts to scale the sides of his prison.

"Well done," shouted Alan in delight. "Isn't he a game little beast?" And he stretched over the top to give Jock a lift.

In his efforts to reach the dog he overbalanced, the barrel tipped over and rolled from side to side, and for a few minutes all that could be seen was a kicking tangle of boy, dog, and rat, for Jock would not let go his prey.

Peter stood shouting with laughter, holding his sides, and quite helpless, and the two girls were much in the same condition. Marjory was just trying as best she could to stop the barrel rolling and to help Alan out of it, though she was so weak with laughing that her hands seemed to have no strength in them, when the doctor's voice said, "Come, children, didn't you hear the dinner-bell?"

They all, including Peter, straightened up as if by magic. Dinner already! They had never given it a thought. They stood irresolute, a queer-looking company, while Jock glanced around the group, as much as to say, "What's the matter with you all? Just look at my lovely rat."

The doctor stood leaning on his stick, contemplating his guests. Alan was the worst. His face was scratched, and blood and dust together had streaked it in a most unbecoming way; his clothes were torn, his cap was gone, and his never very tidy hair stood in a shock above his forehead. The girls, too, showed unmistakable signs of the fray. Their hair ribbons were gone, wisps of straw and hay were sticking to their clothes, and their cheeks were scarlet with exercise and excitement. Even Jock had one eye bunged up, but he was the coolest and most unconcerned of the party. He saved the situation by trotting across to the doctor, laying the rat at his feet, and then looking up at him with his only available eye, as if for approval.

The doctor could not resist this appeal. He stooped and patted the dog, saying kindly, "Well done, little man." And then turning to the children, "Now then, you three graces, be off with you. Go and wash yourselves clean, if you can, and don't keep me waiting any longer for my dinner. A hungry man's an angry man, you know." And he sent them off with a flourish of his stick.

When they came to the dining-room the change in their appearance caused the doctor's eyes to twinkle, but he made no remark. Alan's face positively shone with soap, for though the application of it had made his many scratches smart, he had manfully persisted in the most vigorous cleansing operations. He had soaked his hair with water to make it lie down, but there was one lock in the region of the crown of his head which had refused to accept his ministrations. The girls, too, had smoothed their hair, brushed their clothes, and composed their countenances. All three looked as solemn as judges as they took their seats.

Marjory was afraid that their unpunctuality boded ill for the chance of getting the doctor's consent to their trying to open the old chest. They sat demurely, taking their soup in silence. After a little while sounds were heard like the fizzling of ginger beer in hot weather, and at last Blanche burst into a peal of laughter. Marjory looked anxiously at Dr. Hunter to see what he thought of this disturbance, but to her relief and surprise he was laughing too. Really her Uncle George was getting much nicer than he used to be, she thought.

"Well, Blanche, what's the joke?" he asked.

As soon as she could speak she replied,—

"It's Alan; he does look so dreadfully funny—one bit of hair sticking up, and the rest all plastered so smooth and meek-looking, and his face—oh dear!" And she laughed again. "I'm sure he was never meant to look so solemn."

Alan instinctively put up his hand to try to persuade the offending lock of hair to keep its proper place, but as soon as he took away his hand up jumped the hair again. He blushed deeply, realizing that the attention of the party, and especially of the doctor, who, to him, was a most awesome personage, was fixed upon himself; but in the end he joined in the laugh against his appearance as heartily as the rest.

Thus the ice was broken, and conversation began to flow, soon developing into a graphic account of the rat hunt.

"I saw Peter careering about like a youngster," said the doctor, laughing. "He'll be sorry enough to-morrow when he's as stiff as a board, but I believe he enjoyed the fun as much as any of you." And he laughed again.

Marjory thought that this would be a good opportunity for her to make her request.

"May we try again to open the chest, please, uncle?" she asked.

"What chest, child?"

"Why, the oak chest in the old wing. We do so want to see what's in it."

"Nonsense, Marjory. I tell you it has been there ever since I can remember, and there's nothing in it as far as I know." Seeing the disappointment in the young people's faces as he said this, he relented, saying, "Well, well, I suppose I must let you have your way. You may try if you like, but I won't have you using any tools. It's a fine old piece of wood, and I don't want it spoiled."

They readily promised not to do any harm to the box, and as soon as dinner was over they hurried off to the old part of the house, Alan feeling rather flattered by Marjory's suggestion that he might be able to find some way of opening the chest.

There was no sign of any lock except the one in front, which they had tried before, and in which none of the keys would turn. The lid fitted firmly and smoothly, and so tightly that its joining with the box was hardly visible. It was a magnificent specimen of cabinet work.

"Of course it may have a spring," said Marjory, "if only we knew where to find it."

At this suggestion they all set to work to push and thump and press, but as before their efforts were of no avail.

Marjory wondered to herself whether the same ingenious person who had contrived the secret door upstairs might have made this box.

"Suppose we turn it round, and see what the hinges look like," said Alan.

They managed to drag it out from the wall, bringing with it masses of black cobwebs and the dust of many years.

Alan's idea was a good one; but there were no hinges to be seen.

"I believe the lock and the hasps are nothing but false ones to put people off the scent," said Alan. "What a beastly mess," rubbing the cobwebs off his hands on to his knickerbockers. "I believe this is a puzzle chest, and it opens in some secret way like Mrs. Shaw's box. We're having quite a run of secrets."

How Blanche longed to tell Alan of the room upstairs! It was all she could do to prevent herself from speaking of it.

Hot and breathless from their efforts in moving the box, the three sat down to rest and to consult as to their next attempt.

"I don't believe there is a lock at all," Alan repeated, and he began once more to examine the lid of the chest. After some little time he suddenly exclaimed, "I believe I've got it; look here!" He showed the girls that the construction of the lid at two of the corners was slightly different from the other two. "It's something to do with these corners, I'll be bound," he cried excitedly. "Here it comes!"

The girls looked on with intense interest. The big brass nails at the two corners came out, it seemed, and one side of the lid came right off. The row of nails all round the rest of it were long enough to go through the depth of it, and they fitted into corresponding holes in the box itself, so that once the one side was undone the whole thing simply lifted off. It was a most ingenious contrivance, and calculated to baffle even the most clever and curious person.

The girls danced with excitement when they saw that, far from being empty, the trunk had all sorts of things in it. They had been very neatly and carefully packed amongst layers of paper. First came some dresses, amongst them a lilac-flowered muslin, which Marjory recognized as the very one which her great-grandmother Hunter wore in the big picture which hung in the drawing-room. It had probably been kept for that reason. The dress did not seem to have suffered very much from its long imprisonment. The ground of it had turned yellow, but the lilac flowers were as fresh as ever. It was made entirely by hand, and it had a very short-waisted bodice and a frilled skirt. Rolled up with it was a pair of silk stockings and some dainty satin shoes, all yellow with age.

With a feeling of awe the girls unfolded these treasures of a bygone day, as if they feared lest the owners of them might rise up and forbid them to go on.

"Fancy uncle never knowing that all these lovely things were here!" cried Marjory. "Oh, what's this?" as she lifted out a bundle wrapped in linen.

"I believe it's somebody's wedding-dress," said Blanche, as she helped to undo the wrappings.

It was a wedding dress, and there was a veil with it, and a wreath of myrtle. Fastened to the wreath with white ribbon was a lace-edged paper, with the following words written on it in a fine Italian hand, "Alison Grant married John Hunter, October 15, 1843."

"That's my grandmother," said Marjory. "Uncle George says she was very beautiful and very good. I expect she must have put all these things here. It seems funny, though, that she put her wedding dress away when it was quite fresh; it doesn't look as if it had been worn."

"Perhaps she meant to keep it for her daughter," suggested Blanche. "Old-fashioned people used to do that. My mother didn't. She wore hers when she went to parties, and then had it dyed and made into a petticoat!"

"My mother was the only girl of the family who lived to grow up, and grandmother died when she was a little girl, so of course nobody knew about the dress being here."

Alan was more interested in the next find, which was a complete court suit—silk stockings, buckled shoes, and all. Then came an old uniform, moth-eaten long before Dame Alison's careful hands had folded it away. Its gold lace was tarnished almost beyond recognition, and on it was a label written in the same delicate handwriting, "Worn by General James Hunter at the battle of Waterloo, June 18, 1815, where he was mortally wounded."

"Isn't it ripping?" exclaimed Alan. "I should have liked to see the old chap who wore this."

At the bottom of the chest were some fencing-sticks, a couple of old pistols, a box with some tarnished medals once the pride of a soldier's heart, a bundle of letters, and, last of all, a worn portfolio tied with ribbon; and inside was written, in the handwriting of Alison Hunter, Marjory's grandmother, "Chronicles of the Hunter family." She had evidently meant to arrange them in book form some day. There were old letters, newspaper cuttings, and a genealogical tree traced in the same fine hand. Inside the sheet of paper containing this there was another paper which appeared to have verses of some sort written on it. The light was growing dim, and Marjory could hardly decipher the words, "Copied from the County Records at Corrisdale Castle, through the kindness of Sir Alexander Reid, being ancient prophecies concerning the Hunter family."

Here indeed was a find. This piece of paper appealed more to Marjory's imagination than did the dresses or even the uniform. What a pity it was getting so dark! It must be near tea-time, and they must put away the things. They did so very reluctantly, laying them all back as they had found them, with the exception of the portfolio, which Marjory determined to carry off to her bedroom, where she could read its contents at her leisure. Alan showed her how to fix the lid of the box on again, and exactly how to undo the nails in order to take it off. Regretfully they left their treasure trove and went to tea.

Dr. Hunter did not appear until Mr. Forester came to fetch Blanche; but when he did come he was overwhelmed by excited descriptions of the wonders that had been found in the old chest.

As he and Blanche were leaving, Mr. Forester remarked, "Our fellows had a bit of a brush with a man the other night," with a meaning look at Marjory; "but he managed to give them the slip somehow, and made off, the thieving rascal."

Marjory coloured, but said nothing, and the doctor remarked cheerfully, "Well, well, he'll live to fight another day."

"Yes, and to poach too," said Mr. Forester good-humouredly. "I begin to think that Hunters' Brae favours these fellows," he called over his shoulder as he left the house with Blanche and Alan.

"Perhaps he's right—eh, Marjory?" asked the doctor in a bantering tone as he shut the door.

"He wasn't a poacher," declared Marjory stoutly; and then, realizing what a slip she had made, she bit her lip and coloured again.

"Oh, ho! then there was a man," said her uncle quickly. "The cat's out of the bag now. Ah, Marjory, there's no mistaking you for anything but a Hunter; it's in the blood, my dear. Good-night." And he went laughing to his study.

Marjory was very grateful to her uncle for his trust in her with regard to her escapade, and felt much relieved that even to-night, when the subject was revived by Mr. Forester, he had not questioned her. It made her feel that she could never wish to deceive him or to abuse his confidence.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE PROPHECIES.

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

SHAKESPEARE.

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

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

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

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

With great difficulty Marjory deciphered the following lines:—

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

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

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

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

"N.B.—Fulfilled after the battle of Culloden in 1746, when Colonel George Hunter was executed for his devotion to the cause of the Young Pretender.

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

"N.B.—Probably refers to speeches made by Alexander Hunter in the House of Commons against the taxation of the Colonies, in 1765, and to the Reverend John Hunter, a famous divine who lived in the reign of George the Second.

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

"N.B.—Perhaps this refers to that James Hunter who, through his reckless extravagance, sank deeply into debt, and was confined for many months in the old Canongate Tolbooth in the city of Edinburgh, during the reign of George the Third. His debts were paid by his elder brother, who sold a great part of his property for that purpose—notably that portion of his lands to the south of the loch, and that on which the mansion of the Murray family now stands."

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

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

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

A note followed:—

"It is a curious thing that among all the written descriptions and the paintings at my disposal I can find no record of a dark-haired daughter of the house; fair hair and blue eyes are the rule.—A. H."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not that I know of."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My mother is dead," said Marjory stolidly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XV.

TWELFTH NIGHT.

"And hopes, perfumed and bright, So lately shining wet with dew and tears, Trembling in the morning light— I saw them change to dark and anxious fears Before the night!"—ADELAIDE PROCTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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