ke
himself, longing for and dreaming of things that seemed beyond her
reach.

In the first weeks after his sister's death Dr. Hunter derived much
consolation from the thought of the child. He had named her Marjory
after her mother, and took it for granted that she would be just such
another Marjory--fair-haired and blue-eyed--and he pictured her growing
up gentle and quiet, as her mother had been. Certainly the infant's
eyes were blue at first, and there was no hair to be seen on her head to
trouble the doctor's visions by its unexpected colour; but slowly and
surely it showed itself dark--black as night--crisp, and curly like her
father's. The eyes deepened and deepened till they too were dark,
liquid, and shining, with a look of appeal in them, even in those early
days.

To say that Dr. Hunter was disappointed would be a most inadequate
description of his feelings. He was dismayed at first when he realized
the total reversal of his expectations, and finally enraged to think
that this living image of the man he disliked, and whom his conscience
at times would insist he had wronged, would be constantly before him to
remind him of things he would prefer to forget.

But these feelings passed, and the child soon found her way into her
uncle's heart--the heart that was really so big and so loving, though
the way to it might be hard and rough. The little toddling child knew no
fear of her stern old uncle; it was only as she grew up that shyness,
restraint, and awkwardness in his presence took possession of Marjory.

Dr. Hunter had looked after her education himself. She had been a
delicate little child, and he had not troubled about any lessons in the
ordinary sense of the word for some years. He wished her body to grow
strong first, so she had spent her days in the garden, on the hills, or
on the lake with him; she had learned the ways of birds and flowers and
animals, and meanwhile had grown sturdy and healthy. Her uncle had not
allowed her to make friends with any of the children in the
neighbourhood; he himself was intimate with none of his neighbours
except the minister, Mr. Mackenzie, and the doctor, Dr. Morison. The
minister had no children, and the doctor's two boys were at school, so
that Marjory only saw them occasionally in the holidays. She had no
playmates of her own age, and the children of the village looked upon
her as an alien amongst them, regarding her almost with dislike,
although it was not her faul