I do not know
whether he is alive or dead, but I know this--he is dead to you." And
his voice rose with passion. Then, after a pause, he said rather sadly,
"Can't you be content, Marjory? Have I not done my best for you? I had
hoped that you were happier lately."

Marjory was touched by the feeling in his voice. "So I am, uncle, much
happier; but I can't help thinking and wondering about things
sometimes," she said wistfully. "No one can be exactly like a real
father and mother--at least, not quite," she added quickly, fearing to
wound her uncle afresh.

They finished their walk in silence, each busy with thoughts which,
could they have read each other's minds, would have filled them with
astonishment. The little storm blew over as other storms had done, but
Marjory could not forget what Mary Ann had told her about the letter.

Next day, when she went to Braeside, Marjory spent rather a painful
quarter of an hour with Mrs. Hilary Forester. Blanche and Maud had gone
out for a walk, and Marjory was shown into the morning-room to wait for
them. There she found the lady, sitting in a capacious armchair by the
fire, toasting her feet upon the fender, displaying elaborately-embroidered
stockings and many rustling frills.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Forester," said Marjory shyly.

"Mrs. _Hilary_ Forester, dear child," amended the lady. "Blanche's
mother is _Mrs._ Forester, having married the eldest son, and one must
be exact, you know."

"I beg your pardon," said Marjory, covered with confusion.

Blanche's Aunt Katharine looked at her critically. "I suppose your
mother plaits your hair in that pigtail to save trouble, but they are
not worn in town, you know."

"My mother is dead," said Marjory stolidly.

"Dear, dear, yes, of course, now I remember Rose--that's Mrs. Forester,
you know--Rose did say something to that effect, but my memory fails me
so often; it is a great affliction. Well, it's a good thing your poor
father has you left to comfort him. My darling Maud is my one comfort,
I'm sure, while her father is away in those dreadful foreign places.
Perhaps I spoil her a little," complacently; "but then I dare say,"
playfully, "that your father spoils you."

"I haven't got a father either," said poor Marjory dully.

Mrs. Hilary carefully adjusted her gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and looked at
Marjory over the top of them.

"Well, to be sure, I certainly understood--at least I thought--but
there, my memory does fail me at