"What's he been doin', Margie?"

Ages had passed, so it seemed to Marjorie, since the departure of Mr. Warde, when Sandy's question reached her ear. All the boys were standing round, looking at her with inquisitive concern. Marjorie, a limp heap, inattentive, unready to listen to them, was a new experience. Ross and Orme had tender hearts, not yet hardened by contact with an unsympathetic world. The latter had dug his elbows into his sister's knees, and was looking up pitifully into the far-away eyes that did not even yet see him. Conscious of the blankness, Orme felt moved to whimper; Ross thumped with sturdy fists the limp knees which, hitherto, for baby weaknesses had provided firm support.

"What's he been doin', Margie?"

As the question reached her far-away consciousness, Marjorie came back to reality with a sudden start. Mr. Warde had forgotten that the boys were still in the garden, so occupied was he and so quiet were they. But as the tea-hour approached, first one, then another, finally all four pairs of eyes had been cautiously lifted above ground to survey the situation.

Something, perhaps, in Mr. Warde's appearance, some intuition of unwonted agitation in the interview going on under their eyes, had warned David against intrusion, and he had held Sandy back until the visitor was gone.

"Seems you're all struck of a heap, Margie," said David now. "Has he been scolding?"

"Not exactly," faltered Marjorie; she could not meet the inquiring glances bent on her from all sides. She felt sore and shaken; and the familiar faces brought back to her recollection the full meaning of the interview through which she had just passed. What had she done? what had she said? With a shock she realised that she had agreed to become Mr. Warde's wife. Her whole soul shrank.

"Ain't we goin' to have any tea?" Sandy inquired, his mind bent on an opportunity for the acquisition of stores.

"Is it tea-time?"

"Bell went ever so long ago."

"Didn't you hear it, Margie?" Ross inquired, much impressed at such absent-mindedness.

"No, Ross. Go in, all of you, and get clean," Marjorie ordered, glancing from one to another, feeling less like a victim under the eyes of her judges now that they too were in a position to be criticised.

"'Stead of eatin' much," Sandy had exhorted beforehand, "you've got to save."

If Marjorie had not been so occupied with her own perplexities, she must have noticed, first, the ravenous appetite of the four; next, the rapidity with which the bread-and-butter and cake disappeared. All the pockets were bulging when Ross was deputed to say grace, but the little boy's face looked very disconsolate indeed. Regardless of Sandy's frowns, after struggling through the formula, in accents of lingering unwillingness, he added—

"Ain't had a good tea—me hungry as hungry."

"Me, too," said Orme hopefully.

Marjorie glanced suspiciously round on the faces of her brothers, and then at the empty board. Even so preoccupied as she was, she could not but suspect that some means, other than natural ones, must have been used to banish all that food. And when the same thing happened the next afternoon also, when a more than usually varied abundance graced the table in honour of Barbara's visit, she spoke.

"I can't think," she was beginning to protest, when, to Sandy's delighted relief, Mrs. Lytchett was announced as being in the drawing-room, and asking specially for her.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Marjorie, her mind travelling back to all her misdemeanours. "What can it be? I hope not the cycling."

But it was. There was an amused flash in her mother's eyes, while Mrs. Lytchett's lips looked as though they were carved in stone, so very determined was her aspect.

"I hope it isn't true, Marjorie, what I hear?" she said in aggrieved tones.

"What is that?" asked Marjorie.

"Three of those horrid bicycles passed me this afternoon close, whirling by at a furious pace. I had been to the Deanery, to tell Charity how sorry the Bishop was to miss her music. She wasn't in; and passing the garden entrance—the garden entrance—ah, I see it is true!"

For Marjorie's aspect was unmistakable. It was one of guilt. She did nothing, but sat down in a somewhat limp manner in the chair near which she stood, and looked blankly at her inquisitor.

"So I asked; I could scarcely believe my eyes. That young footman was lounging near; I suppose he was waiting for the bicycles, wasting his time. And he said you have all been riding a long time."

"Not so very long," Marjorie answered in excusing accents. "Only about a month."

Mrs. Bethune laughed, though she looked at Marjorie anxiously. When they were not too bitter, she enjoyed the humour of the encounters between Mrs. Lytchett and Marjorie. Generally the latter showed fight; but all that day she had been unusually quiet.

"I thought you knew how much the Bishop and I hated the horrid things."

The tones were deeply reproachful.

"I thought—he—had changed," Marjorie stammered.

"No; he will never change, neither shall I"—in accents of certainty. "The Bishop thinks them most unbecoming. How did you learn? I hope that young footman——" She paused, unable to put into words the suspicion she had conjured up.

"We learnt—Mr. Pelham showed us—in the Deanery garden. It isn't difficult."

"I am sorry you didn't think more of your position in Norham before setting such an example. And they cost so much!"

"Mine was a present," murmured Marjorie, unwontedly gentle.

"A present! From Mr. Pelham?"

"It came with Charity's."

"From the Dean. Oh! that is different."

Marjorie's memory went back to the sunshiny afternoon under the chestnuts at the Deanery, when the two new glittering machines—just arrived from the maker—had been brought out to Charity's tea-table.

"One for me!" she had exclaimed, reading the label in delight. "How kind of the Dean!"

But when she thanked the Dean, in pretty gratitude, a little later, he had disclaimed the gift.

"Who sent for it for me? Can it really be for me? Not Mr. Pelham, surely?" (for it was he who, at the Dean's request, had ordered Charity's). He, too, disowned being the giver.

"But you know?" Marjorie asked.

"Yes, I know. The giver is one who has every right to give you pleasure."

Something in his manner put her on the track, and she remembered that the Bishop had been in the garden when the purchase had been talked about. When she saw him next, he did not disavow her thanks.

"I like to see you enjoying yourself, my dear," he answered in his kind tones. "I thought how bright and happy you both looked the other day. Only don't have any accidents."

"I don't think it was the Dean," Marjorie's truthful nature prompted her to answer now. "It was—the Bishop."

"And I asked him not! I begged him not to carry out his intention. Poor Norham!" with a sigh, "it has given in at last, and now you and Charity have started, every girl in the place will follow. I blame the Duchess."

When the visitor had gone, Marjorie stood for a moment at the window, anxiously watching Sandy speeding up the garden as fast as his legs could carry him.

"The boys have got some scheme on, I believe, mother," she said. "Dave and Sandy have been full of mystery all day, and Ross is pompous. I wish we weren't going to leave you alone to-night," she said tenderly.

"I like you to go with your father, dear—he will not stay for the music, so I shall not be alone long. And now—I must expect to lose you gradually, dear."

"Oh, not yet." With passion Marjorie pushed the thought away.

Many little hindrances occurred whilst she was dressing. One knock preceded the entrance of Sandy, an unwonted visitor at such a time. He looked eager and excited; but he stood fidgeting by Marjorie's dressing-table, watching the arrangement of her hair, and did not appear in any hurry to explain what he needed.

"Is all girl's hair done like that? What a bover it must be," he remarked after a little time. "I should like that tiny, squinchy, soft brush, Margie."

"What for?"

"To brush Barbie's hair. It's in a awfle mess."

"Well, take it," said Marjorie kindly. "And it's time you took her home. She goes to bed at seven, and you promised."

"Yes, but"—objected Sandy eagerly—"not to-day. Mr. Pelham said she might stay a bit longer. Is your bed or mine biggest, Margie?"

"Mine. What a funny boy you are, Sandy."

"Could I have a blanket off your bed, Margie? Nurse'll fuss ever so, if I take ours—an' I can't poss'bly do wivout one."

Marjorie's thoughts had passed away from her little brother and his needs; and the absent assent she gave was enough for Sandy. He dragged the blanket from the bed, and ran off, hugging it in his arms. He found always that directness was his best aid. Not often did Sandy beat about the bush.

Marjorie went down, cloak and gloves in hand, a dainty, graceful figure in her soft white dress. Her father was waiting for her, sitting in unwonted idleness by her mother's sofa.

Marjorie looked at them curiously as she crossed the floor, noting, as she would not have noted another time, that her mother's hand was clasped in her father's. Love, the love she had pledged herself to, was theirs. They loved each other well, it was easy to see; though, to Marjorie, it seemed impossible that her dignified father could ever have told his love behind a door.

Her aspect was stern, like that of a young judge, as she looked down upon them now. Somehow, to her, love's outward features were no longer fair.

"You look very nice, Margie," her mother said softly, looking at the tall, slim form, crowned by its cold pure face. "That dress is a success. Look, father."

Mr. Bethune turned his eyes upon his daughter, and smiled.

"Yes," he said; "she looks sweet and clean. She is like you, Alysson," his voice lingering and breaking, "in the old days."

Marjorie heard, wondering. Alysson! How sweet the name sounded with that caressing accent on its second syllable. This was the first time she had ever heard her father call her mother thus.

She walked beside him through the evening sunset, down the Canons' Court, to the music of the cathedral chimes; her cloak cast round her emphasising the youthful slenderness, which made her seem so tall. Mr. Warde, from the Deanery steps, watched them approach, his heart bounding with delight at her fairness. Only when they reached the door, a thought occurred to Marjorie, and she turned to her father in a little concern.

"I saw nothing of the children. I quite forgot them. Did you see them?"

"Mother said"—it was work-a-day "mother" now, not the tenderly breathed "Alysson"—"that they had gone off, she thought, with Pelham's baby."

"Oh! I hope so," said Marjorie, with a little cold thrill of prophetic fear. "How careless of me not to see! However, mother will see that it is all right."

Charity's London friends had been late in arriving, and dinner had been put back a little to give them time to dress. It was about half-finished, and the timepiece on the mantelshelf was chiming half-past nine, when Marjorie saw a footman speaking to her father at the other end of the table.

Mr. Bethune asked a quick question or two, and then rose and slipped away.

Marjorie wondered for a moment, and then again grew interested in her neighbour's talk. When Charity's signal drew the ladies into the hall, she was detained a second by the enveloping skirt of one of the ladies.

A colloquy was going on at the hall door. The soft night air streamed in, feeling cool and grateful to Marjorie's heated cheek. As she lingered, she caught the hurried words in a familiar voice—

"Tell Mr. Pelham, please, immediate! Mr. Bethune is gone to the police—but he is to go, and Miss Bethune, at once to Mrs. Bethune. Poor lady, she is——"

With a little cry, Marjorie was at the door.

"What is it, nurse?" she asked breathlessly. "Barbara?"

Almost with a note of triumph at the importance of her news, the woman said, "Neither Miss Barbara nor any of the young gentlemen can be found anywhere, miss. They have all clean disappeared. Oh, sir," in accents of direful import, as Mr. Pelham reached Marjorie's side, "Miss Barbara is lost!"

Down the steps, waiting for no wrap, sped Marjorie; and the twilight, now descending on the Canons' Court, closed her in. For a second, through the dimness, Mr. Pelham saw the hasty, flying figure in its soft white robe, and caught a glimpse of her face. It was a vision that burnt itself on his memory.

Mr. Warde leapt with him down the wide steps.

"We shall soon find her, never fear," he said kindly—he had only heard the end of nurse's message. "I will call my servants, and be with you directly."

[END OF CHAPTER NINE.]