It was he who set on foot the literary and drawing guilds, arranged concerts, and was the universal handy man for games and social festivities to all the county round Norham. He was about thirty-five, and had a chivalric devotion to Mrs. Bethune and her children, since, as a young man, he had first come to Norham. Marjorie was so accustomed to this that she did not see what was manifest to other eyes, on her return from school in Munich. She took all his kindness as a matter of course, having no more relation to herself individually than the Bishop's or the Dean's. Since her return, he had been sedulously pursuing his courtship in every way that occurred to him. This gentleman was standing beside her under the lime-tree at the top of the garden, where Marjorie could superintend the pursuits of her two youngest brothers. They were now busily engaged underground. For a whole week every minute of David's and Sandy's leisure had been spent in digging a deep hole in the corner of the garden devoted to their use. Thence, with infinite patience, passages had been scooped, and the mound of earth thrown up against the wall had come in useful as a toboggan ground. The little boys had received strict orders that morning that all the earth in the passages of the "cave," which, in a frenzy of labour, the two schoolboys had burrowed out before breakfast, was to be removed before their return in the afternoon. As it got deeper, steps had been conveyed from the house for the descent of the hole. The utility of division of labour had been impressed upon the children. Orme was to fill the baskets; Ross, being surer of his equilibrium, was to carry them up and empty them. If the work was not done, and done properly, the babies would have to play elsewhere; no longer would their presence be tolerated by their elders. Marjorie was enjoying a new book, whose alluring cover was fit index to its contents. Now and then, between the pages, dark eyes looked at her in a strange and wonderful fashion. When this occurred, she would lift her own, and gaze dreamily over the currant bushes, her breath coming quickly, the colour fluctuating in her cheeks. Upon one such moment Mr. Warde had intruded. "I thought I would come in and talk to you about your sonnet, Marjorie," he said, looking about for a seat. There was nothing handy except a cleft log--used by the boys as a block for chopping sticks. On this uncomfortable seat Mr. Warde poised himself. [Illustration: The man, looking at her, thought he might take hope.] "But that wouldn't be fair, would it?" asked Marjorie. "Oh! we judged the poems yesterday. I didn't propose to alter anything. Mrs. Adeane's is the best, and Lady Esther's next. But--your usual imagination was wanting this time," he said gently. "I thought it was bad--it seemed so prosaic," Marjorie said humbly. "You see, father's advice always is, not to let imagination go further than it knows."