What is the secret of her charm? I think it is this: that Marjorie is “a little child” in all the strange and beautiful connotation of the word. All the poetry Wordsworth has taught us to find in childhood goes to the making of Marjorie—with something more added:— “Loving she is, and tractable, though mild, And Innocence hath privilege in her To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes.” The exquisite lines to six-year-old Hartley Coleridge might have been meant for her— “whose fancies from afar were brought; Who of her words did make a mock apparel, And fitted to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol,” with a difference to make her dearer. The children in Wordsworth “trail their clouds of glory” in a region into which we may only gaze from afar. Too rare is the atmosphere for our breathing; and we look at them a little wistfully, from another plane, feeling ourselves shut out from their “solitude” which to them is “blithe society.” Of that enchanted region of childhood, Marjorie alone has tried to make us free. The thrill the mother feels when her little one takes her into her confidence is ours to feel when we read Marjorie’s three diaries. That, I think, is what makes her so inexpressibly dear. In Kirkcaldy, in 1803, Marjorie was born of good stock both in the paternal and maternal line. A grandfather who had fought for “Bonnie Prince Charlie” at Culloden on the Fleming side, and a grandfather who had distinguished himself in surgery, on the Rae side, were fit progenitors for romantic and clever Marjorie. Her Highland descent is well justified; for Marjorie, humorous, vivid, impulsive, high-spirited, and generous is a Celt to her finger-tips. Her face, too, as shown in Isa Keith’s sketches, has the Celtic characteristics, especially the deep-set eyes, with their indications of thought and humour, and the funny little mouth that could, one feels, coax and pout equally well. The Fleming nursery, when Marjorie made her first appearance in it, had already two occupants, five-year-old William and two-year-old Isabella. The presiding genius of the place was a certain Jeanie Robertson. Nurse Jeanie was very particular about teaching her young charges their Catechism, and Willie, at two years’ old, did her so much credit that she was fond of showing off her young theologian, for the benefit of some militia officers stationed in town. Jeanie put the questions in broad Scots, beginning with: “Wha made ye, ma bonnie man?” For the correctness of this, and the three next replies, Jeanie had no anxiety, but her tone changed to menace and her closed “nieve” (fist) was shaken in the child’s face as she demanded: “Of what are you made?” “Durrt” was the invariable reply, delivered in an uncompromising tone. Whereat Jeanie would cuff him, soundly. “Wull ye never learn to say ‘dust,’ ye thrawn deevil?”