"Dear Marjorie,—You gave me no answer yesterday, and I am afraid I took you by surprise, and perhaps shocked you. A girl is a tender thing, I know. Will you send me just a little line of hope and forgiveness? I love you—how dearly you cannot guess—and I want you to be my wife. But I will press nothing against your will, and I have written 'No' to the offer of that living. I think you will like to stay near home. Whatever you decide, whether you say 'Yes' or 'No,' believe always that my love is too great to change, and that I am ever your attached friend,—W. St. J. Warde."

Marjorie was reading this letter with an expression which certainly did not augur well for its writer. She had been seeing to household matters for her mother, and had sat down with an armful of boys' clothes to mend, when the note had been handed to her.

"I do not know what to say to him, mother. I wish—oh, I do so wish he hadn't done it."

"He is a good man, Margie," her mother said simply. "A man, I think, to make you happy."

"Happy, mother? I am happy now. What should I do next door? I should always be running in to see you. And how could you get on without me?"

"We shall manage. And next door with Mr. Warde would be so much nicer than a long way off with someone else. It would scarcely be losing you."

"Do you want me to go, mother?" asked Marjorie, struck by her mother's tone.

"Not in one sense, dear; but you will go. It is natural for girls to marry. You will marry, I hope; it is the happiest life, with a good man you can look up to."

"But do I look up to him? I think we—Charity and I—often laugh at him."

"But you can laugh, and yet look up, or life would be very dull. Who do you go to when you want to know anything that father can't teach you?"

"To Mr. Warde," acknowledged Marjorie.

"And when you want to go anywhere?"

"Yes; but only because he has a carriage—and we haven't."

"And when you want to see the picture galleries?"

"He can go; he always has time. But all that doesn't mean that I want to marry him," she added.

"But it is just that. You already look to him for most of your pleasures. That is a long way towards loving him. You would find him a very kind husband and friend."

"Oh! mother, what must I do?" entreated Marjorie, the tears coming into her eyes. "He has spoilt everything. It is Charity's garden-party this afternoon, and I shall be so uncomfortable. Couldn't you go, mother, in your chair?"

Mrs. Bethune's face changed.

"I could, dear. Yes, I will go; perhaps it will be difficult for you." She sighed softly; she was hardly as yet reconciled to her helplessness in public, in spite of the cheery spirit which enabled her to bear suffering with such courage.

Mrs. Bethune's spirit made her the idol and confidante of her boys. Her fun was unquenched, even when the fire of life would seem to have gone out for ever; after the terrible fall, when, to save the infant in her arms, she had laid herself upon her back for life. The baby—Orme—was found unhurt, folded round, so it seemed, by the broken body of his mother. Ross, the most thoughtful, she averred, of her six sons, once said to her:

"Mummie, you do laugh mor'n anybody. Is it 'cos you can't walk?"

"Yes, little son, perhaps it is; to make up, you know."

And Sandy, butting his bright head into her knees one day, inconsolable about something, was won to laughter by, "Sandy, laugh! Look at me!"—and he had looked. And the irresistible witchery of the beautiful dark eyes had cured his woe. She was always the sunshiny centre of the house, and only her husband, or Marjorie in rare moments, guessed how sometimes the bright spirit quailed.

The Dean was popular in the county. When Mr. Pelham came into the Deanery garden somewhat late, he found Mrs. Bethune's chair under the chestnut trees, a centre of laughter and conversation. Marjorie was standing by her mother, with a wistful look on her face, he thought at first sight, wondering at its expression. Love, when presented first to a girl brought up as Marjorie had been, comes as a great shock. That it should be Mr. Warde of all men who should cause her this disquiet filled Marjorie with a sense of the unsatisfactoriness of the world. It disturbed things that had seemed to her as settled as the hills round Norham that this old friend should want to be her lover.

Before going to the Deanery she had sent a little note in answer to his letter, in which she had said—

"There is nothing to forgive. But you must not think of me like this any more. You have always been so kind to all of us that it grieves me to say 'No' to anything you want. Still, it must be 'No.'"

She hoped he would not be present at the Deanery. It was his turn of duty at the cathedral. She would bring her mother away early, before he arrived. The afternoon was quite spoilt for her.

And then Mr. Pelham had come up, and she had introduced him to her mother with a tremulousness and agitation quite unlike her usual serenity.

"You have been very good to my boys," Mrs. Bethune said gratefully.

"Your boys have been very good to my little girl," he answered, admiring the delicate beauty of the face, scarcely looking older than the unquiet one of the tall daughter beside her.

"They're very enterprising," their mother said. "I hope she will not come to any harm with them. They're apt to give us surprises."

"I wonder if you will give me some advice about her," he went on, drawn by some magic in the dark eyes to appeal to their owner for sympathy, "if I may consult you. It is about clothes," he said, smiling. "My nurse is kind and careful, but surely a baby in the country does not really need expensive dresses from a Regent Street outfitter. I should be so grateful if you would tell me where you get those pretty things your little boys always look so nice in."

"Even when they are grubby?" laughed the mother. "I do not know where they could be bought. My nurse, and Marjorie, and I make them."

"Then, if you do, surely my nurse ought to have time. I do not like my baby's over-dressed look; at least, white satin seems to be out of keeping with mud-pies and digging. She is great on digging just now."

"Quite so," said Mrs. Bethune. "If you will send your nurse down to see me, I will have a talk with her."

The Duchess of Norham, a very great person indeed now came up to greet Mrs. Bethune. She was not one who troubled about dress. To-day, in her grey silk, and round hat, she was the most plainly dressed woman on the Deanery lawn. Charity, by her side, was an effective contrast, in soft, shimmering pink.

"Glad to see you out again, my dear," she said to Mrs. Bethune. "And this is your girl come back to you—grown past all knowledge. I hear wonders about her music," kindly. "Charity, may I take her away for a few minutes, presently? I want to hear this music Mr. Warde extols so. Where is he?" looking round.

Marjorie's cheeks, in spite of her usual self-control, turned scarlet. But the Duchess's gaze was arrested by the look on Mr. Pelham's face. He, still standing with a hand on Mrs. Bethune's chair, was looking at Marjorie with a surprised appeal in his expression, as if he, too, was wondering at her sudden flush.

"Oh!" thought the Duchess, "I imagined it was Charity. Was I mistaken then? Not about the girl, if those rosy cheeks are to be trusted."

"Why isn't Mr. Warde here?" she asked of Marjorie, who, in obedience to her gesture, turned with her towards the house.

"He is at the cathedral. It is his week."

And the Duchess thought she guessed rightly the reason of the agitation she detected in Marjorie's voice.

"The Blackton man will be unsuccessful," she settled. "But Charity is pretty enough to console him, and it will be a good marriage for them both."

This great lady was never more happy than when arranging marriages amongst her friends.

Marjorie did not dream how her sudden flush had betrayed her, and forgot lovers and the difficulties they caused when she sat down to the piano. But perhaps it was the perplexity in her mind that conveyed itself to the listener, through the plaintive melody ending in a staccato phrase which fell from her fingers.

The Duchess sat at a little distance, viewing with approval the delicate face, framed in its bright hair.

"Good, pure, true, and strong," she settled; "and," as a sudden conviction struck her, "she is beautiful, like her mother was ten years ago. Dressed"—her thoughts following along the same way as Charity's—"well, she would be a success. She is wasted on Mr. Warde. Shall I interfere?"

She was so deep in thought, working out a sudden plan, that she did not notice when Marjorie ceased playing.

Marjorie, glancing at her, asked softly—

"Was that too sad? Shall I try something else?"

But in a moment the Duchess rose briskly, and put her hand kindly on Marjorie's shoulder.

"No, my dear. I shouldn't like that spoiled by anything else. Mr. Warde is right. You have a gift. But a girl like you should not be sad or—or perplexed. Forgive an old woman. Is something troubling you?"

Marjorie looked up into the keen eyes above her.

"Not troubling," she hesitated, "only things are sometimes perplexing."

As she spoke her eyes travelled to the window, through which came the sound of low-voiced chatter and delicate laughter. The older woman, looking at the girl, saw a sudden arrested look come into her eyes and, following their direction, was again puzzled. Charity, standing by Mrs. Bethune's chair, was smiling up into Mr. Pelham's face. She had the manner of one who is pleased, and who wishes to please, and her pretty daintiness of pose and dress was very attractive. Mr. Pelham's whole attention, as he conversed, was given to her. In his courteous attitude were expressed, in the eyes of the two lookers-on, both deference and admiration.

"That girl has grown very pretty," the Duchess said, "and Mr. Pelham seems to think so. He is quite an acquisition here, though I am amused to hear you sniffed at him at first."

"Yes," agreed Marjorie, a little pang at her heart.

The keen eyes travelled back again to Marjorie's face.

"But your mother was prettier than any of you. The sweetest, merriest creature ever seen, with you babies at her feet. I am glad to see her so much better, able to do even this little, poor soul, poor soul!"

The sudden tears welled up into Marjorie's eyes at the appreciation and tenderness of the tone.

"And, my dear—forgive an old woman again—but I think I have guessed Mr. Warde's hopes for a long time, and he is a good man. There, there"—as Marjorie's face grew agitated—"nothing could have happened better. Your mother will have you at hand, and though she is so unselfish and brave, she has missed you sadly; and there is plenty of money."

Marjorie listened in silence, with a feeling as though chains were being bound round her. As she walked back by the Duchess's side to her mother's chair she strove in vain to recall her courage. In the eyes of the man who watched her, as she came towards him, the shadow on her face had deepened with that little excursion into the house.