Hunters Marjory | Page 2

and hyacinths. I've seen it on the labels. And she is just like her name--like a beautiful white rose with the tiniest bit of pink in it."
"Come now, Marjory dear," coaxed Mrs. Forester; "won't you take us for friends, and tell me a little about this trouble of yours? Won't you let me try to help you out of it?"
"No, you can't help me; nobody can. It's very kind of you," stammered Marjory, "but it's no use."
"Suppose you tell me, and let me judge whether I can help you or not." And Mrs. Forester took hold of one of Marjory's little brown hands and stroked it gently.
The soft touch and the gentle voice won Marjory's heart at last, and she said brokenly, between her sobs,--
"It's about--learning things--and going to school--and uncle--won't let me, and--and he won't tell me about my father, and I don't belong to anybody."
"Poor child, poor little one, don't cry so. Try to tell me all about it. I don't quite understand, but I am sure I shall be able to help you."
Bit by bit the story came out. The poor little heart unburdened itself to sympathetic ears, and the girl could hardly believe that it was she--Marjory Davidson--who was talking like this to a stranger. She felt for the first time in her life the relief of confiding in some one who really understands, and she experienced the comfort that sympathy can give. She felt as though she were dreaming, and that this gentle woman, whose touch was so loving and whose voice was so tender, might be the mother whom, alas! she had never seen but in her dreams.
Marjory's mother had died when her baby was only a few days old, 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 word of personal complaint.
But Mrs. Davidson slowly lost her strength. She faded away as a beautiful fragile lily might, and Hunters' Brae was once more left desolate--yet not quite desolate, for there was the baby girl; and, thinking of her, the doctor resolved that she should take her mother's place with him. He would devote himself to her, he would try to avoid