"Have you never imagined, never thought about love?" he asked softly. "Often, lately," frankly. "I thought it was a very silly subject to choose." "Not silly, Marjorie. The loveliest poetry has been written about it, as it is the loveliest subject. Why 'lately'?" he asked. "To get ideas. They don't come, if you don't think--not to me, at least." "That way of putting it is new," he said, considering. "Well, Marjorie, I want you to think of it, to imagine all you can of what it means--the new brightness, the new beauty it gives to life; how it transforms all things, even the commonest, so that----" He paused. Marjorie was looking at him in wonder. Was it something in his glance that brought irresistibly back to her remembrance that look in Mr. Pelham's dark eyes, of which more than once that afternoon she had been thinking? She coloured brightly, and her beautiful eyes grew soft. "Ah! I see you know what I mean," Mr. Warde said gently. "Oh! I don't," said Marjorie confusedly. But the man, looking at her, thought he might take hope. He went on: "It is expressed in all beautiful music, as well as in the best literature and art. It appeals to everyone, because it is natural to all, and answers to something in the heart of every one of us. So you see, Marjorie, knowing you and your gift of imagination, I am disappointed at this bald little verse." "Father says it is dangerous imagining on nothing," Marjorie replied, plucking up her spirit. "First get facts, absolutely accurate. Then build on them." "Well, Marjorie, don't you realise that the facts are all about you, that I----Whatever's the matter?" A yell broke across the summer air, and Marjorie, springing up, bent over the edge of the crater-like hole. At the bottom lay Orme, his basket beside him, its contents upon him. In a second Marjorie had descended underground, and Mr. Warde was left gazing into space. When she emerged, Orme was in her arms, muddy tears bedewing his cherubic cheeks. "Fall'd," he announced, in a self-pitying tone, to the visitor. Marjorie reseated herself, her little brother's head upon her breast. As she comforted him, the man observing her grew more in love than ever. Marjorie, soft and gentle, unconsciously rehearsing Madonna attitudes, gave him a thrill of delight. Presently the boy, his conscience uneasy over neglected work, slipped from her knee, and, with muttered remarks on "er, nasty ground," descended again into its bosom. He had learnt the imprudence of engaging in another man's labour. Resenting the meaner part of filling the baskets for the more stolid and surefooted Ross to ascend and empty, he had been promptly punished for his ambition. His little soul was now sore with the injustice of things. "Er, nasty steps slipped poor Orme," he said to Ross, watching his careful ascent. "You not big anuff," Ross answered importantly. "Go and fill er basket. Do what David bidded you."