and all
that the child had ever been told about her father was that he was away
in foreign parts at the time of her mother's death, and that he had
never been seen or heard of since. Many and many a time did she think of
this unknown father. Was he still alive? Did he never give a thought to
his little girl? Would he ever come home to see her?

The true story was this: Dr. Hunter had been devotedly fond of his
sister Marjory--the only one amongst several brothers and sisters who
had lived to grow up. Many years younger than himself, she had been more
like a daughter to him than a sister. On the death of their parents he
had been left her sole guardian, and she had lived with him and been the
light and joy of his home. The doctor might seem hard and cold to
outsiders, wrapped up in his scientific studies and pursuits, giving
little thought or care to any other affairs, but he had an intense
capacity for loving, and he lavished his affection upon his young
sister, leaving nothing undone that might increase her happiness or her
comfort.

All went well until she married Hugh Davidson, handsome, careless, and
of a roving disposition, as the doctor pronounced him to be. They loved
each other, and the doctor had to take the second place.

Mr. and Mrs. Davidson made their home in England for a few months after
their marriage; then he received an imperative summons from the other
side of the world requiring his presence. He was needed to look after
some mining property in the far away North-West in the interests of a
company to which he belonged. He bade a hurried farewell to his wife,
promising to be back in six months. She went home to her brother at
Hunters' Brae, and lived with him until her death. She never recovered
from the shock of the parting. Her husband's letters were of necessity
few and far between. She had no idea of the difficulties and hardships
of his life, and although she defended his long silences when the doctor
made comment upon them, still she felt it was very hard that he should
write so seldom, and when he did write that the letters should be so
short. Could she have seen him struggling through an ice-bound country,
enduring hardships and even privations such as are unknown to the
traveller of to-day; could she have seen all this, she could never have
blamed him, she could only have praised him for his faithful service to
those who had sent him, and the cheerful tone of his letters to her,
with no wo