“My little darling!” Marjory said, holding her close, “as if there was anybody, but a monster, that would not be kind to you.” Another time it would be Fleming who would be the expositor. “Mr. Charlie should hurry hame,” the old servant said, shaking his head. “I’m no a man of many words; but, Miss Marjory, he should hurry hame.” “I hope he is coming, Fleming, as fast as winds and waves can bring him.” “Lord! what’s the good of that telegraph?” said Fleming. “If a body could travel by’t, when they’re sair wanted, it would be worth having--instead o’ thae blackguard messages that plunge a hail house in trouble without a why or a wherefore. Ay, he should hurry hame.” “Why do you say so?” asked Marjory, more anxious than the others. “Because--humph!” said Fleming, pausing, and looking round upon them. “Miss Marjory, a’ the world’s no young like you, and heedless. I have my reasons. You ken nothing about it--nothing about it. Eh, but I hope he’ll hurry hame!” “He thinks my father is growing weaker,” said Marjory to Fanshawe, as they continued their walk round that bit of velvet turf which crowned the cliff, “and I think so too.” “Not more than he has been always--that is since I came,” said Fanshawe. “Yes, more. And he has grown so gentle too--so gentle. Think of his saying I would be kind to Milly--making a merit of it! It goes to my heart.” “He was very cross this morning,” said Fanshawe, off his guard. “Cross! I am sorry I trouble you with such subjects,” Marjory replied at once, with intense dignity. “Of course family details are always unimportant to strangers. Have you heard of a boat that will do for yachting? We do so little boating on the Firth, for ornament; it is all for very use.” “You would not have me make myself useful to the world in a fishing coble?” said Fanshawe, ruefully, making a hundred apologies with his looks. And then Marjory would laugh both at herself and him, and there would gather a dangerous blob of moisture in either eye. Thus it will be seen this moment of waiting was not a solitary moment. It had come to be habitual with them to take that “turn” two or three times round the lawn, after breakfast, and again in the twilight after dinner, when the evenings were mild. It had been Mr. Heriot’s custom always. His “turn” was part of the comfort of his meal. He had given it up, but somehow the others had resumed the habit. Mr. Charles would go once round with Milly before he disappeared to his tower, and then Milly would steal into her favourite corner by the open window, and the other two, sometimes not quite amicably, sometimes indifferently, sometimes with absent talk of all that might be coming, strayed round and round the mossy turf again. Insensibly to herself Marjory had come to look forward to that “turn.”