"Once, I might have done so--perhaps. Not now. My eyes have been opened. I have seen a man like Lord Richard Cramer, and I will marry no man of a meaner kind. How tall and straight and slender is his figure! How bold and manly his face! His gray eyes are full of quick, undaunted spirit, he is all nerve and fire, and I believe he could love as well as I am sure he can fight." "You need not take love into the question. Richard Cramer will be compelled to marry a rich woman. Your father says he is bound both by honor and necessity to do so." Marion buried her face in the mignonette, and did not answer; and Mrs. Caird, after a few moments' silence, said: "Be glad that your heart is your own, and do not give it away until it is asked for." "As if I would be so foolish, Aunt! I stand by Lord Cramer because people tell lies about him. I always stand by anyone wronged. I would even stand by Allan Reid, if I knew he was slandered without just cause." "That is very good of you. If Allan heard tell of your opinion, he would get someone to lie him into your favor." "He could not, because I would believe anything bad of Allan." Then Mrs. Caird laughed, and Marion wondered why. She had forgotten the exception just made in his favor. Her thoughts were not with Allan Reid. CHAPTER III DONALD PLEASES HIS FATHER "The songs our souls rejoiced to hear When harps were in the hall; And each proud note made lance and spear Thrill on the banner'd wall. "God sent his singers upon earth, With songs of sadness and of mirth. That they might touch the hearts of men And bring them back to heaven again." The Minister had said he would go and read awhile, and Mrs. Caird had heard him unpacking the box of books that had arrived. But at that hour he went no further than to arrange them conveniently on a table at his side. He was too utterly amazed at Mrs. Caird's admitting that she had read criticisms and reviews of books she considered objectionable for himself. He remembered then, what he had only casually observed during all the years she had dwelt with him, that Jessy Caird was never without a book in her work-basket. But he had noticed on all of them the cover and the mark of the public library, and had felt certain they were novels. And, as the children were at schools and she much alone, he had been considerate in the matter and not asked any questions. How could he suspect that such objectionable literature was lying openly among her knitting and mending?