Hunters Marjory | Page 2

her face as she spoke.
Marjory stole another glance at her, and she thought she had never seen
or imagined any one so sweet and pretty as this girl.
"Blanche," she thought--"that means white; I know it from the names of
roses 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