Hunters Marjory | Page 9

friend of mine in London, who knows your uncle, and met your father long ago, said to me, 'A fine fellow was Hugh Davidson. I always feel that he may turn up again some day.'"
Mrs. Forester did not repeat other words said at the same time--namely, that "Hunter was always jealous, and would see no good in him;" but she felt justified in telling Marjory what she did, for she well knew how the girl would treasure the words, and how they might often comfort and encourage her.
"Oh! that is good," said Marjory. "I do thank you for telling me." And she squeezed her friend's hand.
"Now you must try to be very patient and hopeful. If God sees fit, be sure that He will give your father to you for your very own some day. In the meantime you must do all you can to be the sort of girl that a father would be proud of; and, Marjory, I have been thinking that your uncle might say the same of you as you do of him. You are fond of him, really, aren't you?"
"Yes, of course," assented Marjory.
"Well, do you ever tell him so?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Oh, I shouldn't dare to."
"Nonsense! I suppose you would quite like it if he were to put his arms round you and call you his dear little Marjory?"
"Yes." Marjory was quite sure that she would like it very much, but she could hardly imagine such a thing happening.
"Well, do you ever go near enough to him to let him do it if he wanted to, or do you simply give him your cheek to kiss, morning and evening, and nothing more?"
"Yes, that's just what I do," confessed Marjory, laughing.
"Then perhaps your poor uncle thinks that you consider yourself too big to be kissed and hugged, and so he doesn't do it. You can't blame him, you know; if you just give him a little peck, and run away, you don't give him a chance. You take my advice: try to be a little more loving in your manner towards him, and it will soon make a difference. Perhaps you don't like a stranger to speak so plainly to you, but I have heard so much about you that I don't feel like a stranger at all. But I must be going now. Dr. Hunter has invited Blanche to come to tea with you to-morrow, and I hope this will be the beginning of a brighter life for you, my child. Good-bye, dear," kissing her.--"Come, Blanche; we must be going now."
The girls bade each other good-bye somewhat shyly, while Silky looked on approvingly, wagging his tail, as if he knew that in some way these strangers had been good to his mistress; and when they were gone he turned to Marjory and rubbed his soft, wet nose against her hand as if to say, "It's all right now, isn't it?" Marjory returned the dog's caress, and walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the house.
CHAPTER III.
UNCLE AND NIECE.
"If thou art worn and hard beset With troubles that thou wouldst forget, Go to the woods and hills! No tears Dim the sweet look that nature wears."
LONGFELLOW.
One thing showed itself very clearly to Marjory's mind--she must tell her uncle at once that she was sorry for what she had said, though how she was to bring herself to do so she did not know. She had never had to do such a thing before, and now that she was calm again it seemed impossible that she could have spoken those wild words. She realized how these feelings against her uncle had been gathering force for a long time. Very slowly, very gradually they had grown, to arrive at their full strength as she listened to Mary Ann Smylie's tormenting suggestions. She had grown to hate even the name by which she was known in and about Heathermuir. Why did people call her "Hunter's Marjory"? Why couldn't they give her her own name--her father's name? Some of these feelings still rankled in her heart; but she was truly sorry for her outburst, and made up her mind to tell her uncle so. She determined to go at once to his study; and, once inside it and in his presence, perhaps she would know what to say and do. So accordingly she went and knocked at the study door. There was no answer. She knocked again louder, and still there was no answer. Then she opened the door cautiously and looked in, thinking her uncle might be asleep; but no--the room was empty. Disappointed, she turned away, and going towards the kitchen, called,--
"Lisbeth, where's Uncle George?"
The reply came in shouts from the distant kitchen,--
"He's awa to the doctor's. He winna be in to supper the nicht, and ye're to gang awa early