Anonymous

Meeting no one, Marjorie and Mr. Pelham hastily ascended the spiral stairs.

Issuing on to the leads, Marjorie glanced hastily round. Together they hurried, till, under the little turret, they stood beside the, as yet, unawakened group. It looked very pathetic in the morning greyness, the little huddled-up party, which the sun had not yet reached.

The man's frame trembled as he stooped—doubting, fearing, his keen eyes noting the care which had been bestowed upon his little child. Not much of her was visible—only a rosy cheek, under the tangle of hair which lay across David's knee. The boy's body had sunk slightly as the muscles relaxed in sleep; and he and Sandy were now propped together. Both of them were jacketless: Sandy's little body was covered only by his vest.

David's hand lay protectingly across Barbara, over whom his jacket lay outspread. She was warm and rosy; so were the two babies curled up under the little coat—a scanty covering—of which Sandy had divested himself.

Marjorie sank down beside Sandy. He looked white and wan, and there was a look of disturbance and unrest on his sleeping face. His head rested uncomfortably against David's shoulder. Solicitously, she gathered his unprotected little body into her warm arms; and at her movement he opened startled blue eyes upon her.

"Is it mornin'?" he asked; then quickly, "Is the fam'ly safe?"

"How could you, Sandy?" Marjorie asked, tenderly kissing the impertinent little nose turned up to her. And that was all the reproach Sandy ever heard.

"Didn't mean to, Margie," eagerly. "The door got locked 'fore we got down. How did you guess we were here?" he went on, the fascination of the "game," now that he again felt safe and irresponsible, filling his imagination. "Was it the signal?"

He listened much gratified, as Marjorie described how the fluttering sash had caught her sight.

The children woke one by one, Barbara climbing into her father's arms to be divested of her strange night-clothes. She returned the coat to its owner, with a gracious "Barbedie's done."

Sandy and David listened amazed to the warmth of Mr. Pelham's thanks.

"You have been good to my baby. I shall never forget it, never. You are two little men."

With hurrying, trembling fingers, Marjorie tidied up the children—some impulse making her wish her mother's first sight of them to be wholly without alarm. Barbara refused to leave her father's arms, so her rescued sash was tied on under his eloquent eyes. Now that they had once delivered their message, they were masterful and compelling. Marjorie's fell before them; but something in the quiver of her lip, and the wanness of her face in the sunlight, under his closer scrutiny, made him hasten to speak. He caught her fingers, and they lay for a moment pressed close against his breast.

"Mine, Marjorie! Mine now," he said. "Dearest, do not shrink," he whispered, turning hurriedly to see what was producing the startled change in the kindling face before him. Mr. Warde stood in the doorway surveying the little scene.

With just a glance at the two, who for the moment had forgotten everyone but themselves, he stooped and picked up Orme—a disconsolate, woe-begone baby, whose ideas would need much readjusting after this eventful night.

The others followed, pitter-patter down the stairs, and along the gravelled path. But it was Marjorie who entered first through the open door into her mother's presence.

Mr. Bethune still sat beside his wife's couch. He put up a hand to hush the intruder, but Marjorie saw beyond him the wide, questioning eyes and the wave of colour rushing into her mother's face. She did not know that she herself—radiant, sparkling, with a look upon her face only to be seen on a maiden's face in presence of her beloved—was sufficient herald of good news. It scarcely needed her words.

"All quite safe, mother," even if Sandy's rush past her restraining hand had not told the tale.

The children entered like a conquering army. Mr. Warde slid Orme, murmuring satisfaction, down on to the sofa beside his mother, and watched with an unaccountable pang at his heart as she gathered them all into her arms. The parents accepted David's rapid "Didn't mean to, father," and his explanation of the mishap which they had never counted on—too glad to see them safe, too accustomed to their enterprise, too certain that what they said was true, to give the scolding they perhaps deserved.

As the news of their safety spread, sympathisers flocked in. Like a young turkey-cock lifting up its crest, Sandy stood a captive at Mrs. Lytchett's knee, his jacket held tightly in her firm grasp.

"I hope your father's going to whip you," she said severely.

"Ain't," said Sandy.

"Then he ought. Do you know you've nearly killed your mother?"

Sandy's glance crossed the room, his conscience giving a repentant twinge.

His mother's laughing, merry eyes met his, and repentance fled.

"Let me go, please," giving his jacket a tug. "I want to go to my mother." Sandy always said "My mother" when he wished to be impressive.

Mrs. Lytchett watched him insinuate his small body to his mother's side, where he stood defiant, only the mother guessing all that the clinging clasp of his fingers round her arm was meant to say.

Marjorie came down to say that the little ones were safe in bed; and David and Sandy walked off beside her with uplifted heads.

With the house still, and the children of which it had been bereaved once more within its walls, with the need for exertion and control giving place to a languor which would not permit sleep, Marjorie felt a load like lead descend upon her. In spite of visions that came to her wakeful senses, of ardent eyes and a tender tone, although her fingers tingled still with the warm clasp of those stronger ones, she was very unhappy. On her bed, alone with rushing thoughts, staring with wakeful eyes on to the green bravery outside her window, she thought over all that had happened, and knew that she had played a sorry part. An engaged girl—she had let another man make love to her. Marjorie shrank as she realised her action.

"What have I done? It came to me upon the roof! Oh! why didn't I find out before? What can I tell Mr. Warde? How can I tell him that I never cared for him a bit? Is it I—can it be I, who have behaved so badly? But I must tell him, straight away. Not a minute longer than I can help will I be so double-faced."

At her usual hour she dressed and went downstairs. The empty breakfast-room added strength to her resolve. Pausing but for a moment on the doorstep, to catch at her slipping courage, she ran down the flagged path of the Court, and knocked at Mr. Warde's door.

Mr. Warde, like herself, had been wakeful. Marjorie's face on the roof had been a startling revelation. And yet he had to confess to himself that in his inmost heart he had gauged rightly her love. Even in the dawn, whilst he had rejoiced at its expression, a cold hand had seemed to pluck it away. And now—he had seen her kindling face—he had seen the mounting flush, he had seen the love-light in her dark eyes, in that glance when he had surprised the lovers. It was a very different girl who had borne his caresses, when for a few moments she had leant her tired body against his strength.

He realised it all. She loved Antony Pelham; she only bore with him.

Entering Mr. Warde's house, the door at the end of the hall leading into the garden stood open before her. Many a time in her childish life, Marjorie had sought her friend by way of the study window. Some impulse now made her seek that mode of approach. It was a French window, not quite open to the ground. She had to mount two steps, and step over a low framework, which in former days her small feet had found a sufficient barrier.

The window was wide open. Marjorie tapped upon the pane. Mr. Warde was sitting at his bureau, and she could not see his face.

"May I come in?"

As the loved voice fell upon his ear, the man rose, and pushed the letter he was writing aside.

"Like old days, Marjorie," he smiled, coming forward to meet her, but his face looked pale and drawn.

Something in hers, something to him admirable in the courage which had prompted her visit—for he knew why she had come—some desire to save her pain made him say:

"I was writing to you, Marjorie."

"Yes?" Her troubled eyes sought some comfort from his.

"But now you have come—it was good of you to come, Marjorie—I did not like to disturb you, or I would have saved you. Sit there in the old place—your chair has never been moved."

But instead, Marjorie moved restlessly to the window, and looked out upon the trim luxuriance of the rose-filled garden. Her courage was oozing fast in face of his kindness and the old associations.

"I came to tell you," she said slowly, "that what I said the other day was wrong. I have found out—that I cannot——"

"I know, Marjorie. No need to say it," he said softly.

"I have behaved very badly," she went on. "I let you think I cared for you. I did not know—then. I never did care. I never can—I know now." Unconsciously her tone took a note of triumph, which made her hearer wince. He forced himself to reply:

"It was a mistake, dear. I realised that it was only a chance—that you were but a child whom I have loved very dearly. That is it, Marjorie. That is how it is between us."

She lifted her foot over the threshold of the window, and the straying rose-branches fell about her. She looked very slight and young, as she stood there for a moment, the sun burnishing the bright tendrils of her hair into a halo round her face. The man's soul went out in a sigh of longing as he saw the beauty of the picture—saw her standing as he had dreamt she would stand, his own loved possession, in her home.

"I think you will be happy," he forced himself to say; "I think Mr. Pelham——"

She put up her hands to ward off his speech, and her face grew scarlet.

"Good-bye," she said softly.

There was a rustle of soft drapery, a hasty footfall, a blank. The window was vacant. The man stared at it, still for a moment possessed with the vision of her presence. Then he turned, and looked painfully round the luxurious room.

All was there that man could want—every expression of a cultivated taste. As he looked, his loneliness—the loneliness that would never now be satisfied—fell in desolation round him.

The adventurers were gathered on the lawn on a rug and cushions Marjorie had found for them. After a long sleep, as school was out of the question for that day, they had spent some hours in shovelling the earth back into their hole.

"Never knew such a funny fing in all my life!" Sandy had exclaimed during this process. "It all came out, and on'y 'bout half will go in. How do you splain that, Dave?"

"Don't want to explain," said David, jumping in and stamping vigorously. "It's got to go, whether it will or no."

"It's like a grave," Sandy said, observing him. "On'y there's nothing buried. You'll get buried in a minute, Orme, if you don't look out."

"Me s'ant."

"You will. There!" as a clatter of earth fell over and around the busy baby. "Didn't I tell you so?"

Orme looked round, his chubby moon-face a surprised interrogation. Then as fast as he could trot, he went off to his mother. To her he imparted the information that the "'ky had fell, an' it was a dirty 'ky."

It was after they had tired themselves with digging that the four had sought Marjorie and a fairy story. In the middle of this, when the prince and the heroine were engaged in a customary understanding, Marjorie suddenly broke off in her narrative and relapsed into thought.

"Seems, Margie, as if you felt dreffle 'bout something," said David.

Marjorie did not reply. Her thoughts had ascended the hill, and there was a dreamy, unseeing look in her eyes.

Almost every day Ross and Orme go and stamp upon the mound of earth in the corner of the garden, the monument of the boys' enterprise. Ross does it out of hatred, and Orme in the hope of bringing down the "ky."

But to Marjorie that mound tells a tale of love, found and won—and mistakes buried, happily before it was too late. Sometimes her young brothers wonder at some unlooked-for expression of affection, and look at her reproachfully, resenting the sudden kiss. Sandy one day said to her—

"Why did you kiss Orme—sudden—like that? He ain't gooder than usual—an' he's dirty."

"Yes, I like him dirty. He reminded me——"

She stopped at the sound of a step.

"'Minded you? Your cheeks get redder an' redder the nearer Mr. Pelham comes. 'Minded you—what?"

"Of that dreadful night," she whispered.

But it was no "dreadful" reminiscence that shone in the welcome of her uplifted eye.

THE END.