ants to know if she did right. Bless her! she did more than fifty
girls in her place would have done. But come along, boy. It might have
been worse; she'll get over it all right. Come; you need a good square
meal after all this, and a little doctoring too." And he patted his son
on the shoulder affectionately, for he felt sorry for the boy's
distress.

He drove him home, and then, without waiting for anything to eat
himself, the good man was off again to Braeside to see if anything were
wanted there. He found that the girls were not much the worse for their
adventure--a little hysterical and excited, but that was all. He was
pleased to find that Maud, who had been the first cause of all the
mischief, had given a true and honest account of the whole thing, and
was now bitterly sorry for the part she had taken.

"Promise you won't scold Herbert," she pleaded; "it was all my fault. I
made him do it. He didn't want to himself; I know he didn't."

"Don't you worry about him; I've just taken him home to a good dinner,"
said the doctor, smiling. "And now I'm going back to dress those bruises
of his. He looks more like a defeated prize-fighter than the handsome,
elder son of a celebrated country practitioner that he was when he left
home this morning. I must do something for him before his poor mother
comes home," laughing, "or she won't recognize her son." And the genial
doctor hurried off again.

Dr. Hunter was surprised and disappointed when he saw that Peter had
come to the station to meet him, for he had expected Marjory; but when
he learned the reason, he was very much concerned--concerned and grieved
too, for he could not but gather from Peter's account that Marjory had
gone on the loch in spite of his prohibition. He remembered the girl's
face as she had given her promise--the dark eyes looking so honestly
into his, the expression of the mouth so firm and steadfast. He sighed,
and tried to make excuses for her in his own mind, but try as he would
he could only feel bitterly disappointed. He went straight to her room
when he arrived. Marjory met his look appealingly. "I couldn't help it,"
she murmured, as he sat down by the bedside and took her hand.

"Never mind to-night, child," he said gently, patting her hand; "you
shall tell me all about it to-morrow."

But Marjory, since her better understanding of her uncle, had grown very
sensitive to his moods and feelings, and she felt a shadow of
displeasure in spite of