“To-morrow!” he said, “who can say anything about to-morrow? are you or I so sure of seeing it that we should put off our duty? You are a silly thing like the rest. What is to hinder you to give a day to your work like the most part of your fellow-creatures? They go out to their day’s darg, be it storm or fine, with a sore heart or a light one. But the like of you must be kept from every fashious thing.” “I submit it to you, Thomas, whether that’s quite fair upon Marjory,” said Mr. Charles, “we’re all in sore trouble--sore trouble, and you worst of all, poor man! but as the Minister says--” “Confound the Minister!” said Mr. Heriot, “am I to be insulted in my own house by an auld fool, with his cut and dry phrases? I know my duty as well as he does. Marjory, go to your work, and see you do it, and let me have the papers, not later than to-night.” “I shall be ready,” said Marjory softly, as her father left the table. She was ready then, to tell the truth; it was but her reluctance to give him another blow that held her back. She was sorry for him to the bottom of her heart; had she been rich enough to satisfy those claims without carrying them to him, her path would have been easy enough. But she was poor--the eldest daughter, the trusted of everybody, was the only person in the house who had nothing. Her mother had been poor, so that Marjory had no fortune by that side; and Mr. Heriot’s sons had been expensive and cost him a great deal of money. Marjory would have something when he died, but so long as he lived she had her small allowance, and nothing more. Little Milly was in a much better position; she would have an independent fortune before she had nearly attained Marjory’s age. But Marjory in her mature womanhood, twenty-five, had nothing but fifty pounds a year for her dress; sometimes she felt it was hard, and this was one of these times. It was by way of escaping from herself that she turned to Fanshawe, who was a very close though silent observer of all that went on. She raised her eyes to him, and addressed him frankly with a look of confidence and friendliness which she had never shown to him before. “You were very late last night,” she said, “I saw you upon the cliff.” “Then that was your window,” he said, surprised into an admission, “I thought so--I had been walking up and down watching it. It looked like the protecting--light of the house.” He had been on the eve of saying “angel,” but stopped in time. “Not much of a protection,” said Marjory, still frank as she had never been before, “it was you who gave me that feeling. I had been working late and I was tired, and the very sight of you was friendly--you and the lighthouse together. You both shone out at the same time; though by the way, now I think of it, it was much too late for you to be out.” “How did you know it was Mr. Fanshawe?” said Mr. Charles, “in the dark _tous les chats sont gris_; and it was very dark last night.”