usy had no particular love for Marjorie. Marjorie was downright in
manner, plain in face, no flatterer. Susy came out of the cottage
slowly, looking behind her, as she did so, at the singing canary.

"Come here, Susy, come quickly; I want to say something to you."

"Yes, Miss Marjorie, what is it?"

"What were you saying to your mother just now? I overheard you in the
passage. What was it all about?"

"I don't remember, miss, I'm sure."

Susy's color had changed from red to white.

"Where were you, miss, when I was talking?" she said after a pause.

"I was in the passage, waiting for Eric. You must remember what you
said. Your mother was asking you to show her something. Something you
said Ermengarde had given you."

"Oh, I remember now, miss. Miss Ermie do give me things now and then."

"But you said she gave you this, whatever it was, yesterday."

"I couldn't have said yesterday, Miss Marjorie."

"You did, Susy; I heard you."

"I couldn't have said yesterday, really, miss."

"But you did, Susy; you said yesterday as plain as possible. You said
'she gave it to me yesterday'; those were your very words."

"I must have meant another day, miss; I'm careless in my words, often
and often."

"What did she give you, Susy? Do tell me."

"Only a yard of blue stuff to make a frock for my doll."

"But how could a yard of blue stuff be pink white and all sorts of
colors?"

"Well, miss, I suppose I meant my doll. She's pink and white enough,
I'll show her to you, if you like, and then you'll believe me. Shall I
run and fetch her to show you, miss?"

"Oh, if you are as sure as all that, you needn't trouble," said
Marjorie.

She left the cottage without even waiting to bid Susy good-by. Eric
was still lounging about, waiting for her, and Marjorie ran up to him,
all her usual spirits once more shining in her face.

CHAPTER VIII.

FATHER'S BIRTHDAY.

The great event of the year at Wilton Chase came in the summer. It
came just at the time when all the children could enjoy it--when they
were all at home and together.

This event was Mr. Wilton's birthday. It had been his custom, as long
as any of the children could remember, to devote this day to them. He
was their willing slave, their captive to do what they pleased with
during the long hours of that summer day.

Aunt Elizabeth, who hated being brought into close contact with what
she termed "unfledged creatures," generally left the house for that