Then, as she complied: "When first I came here, ten years ago, your father and mother were very kind to me, and I grew so attached to them and theirs, that I wanted nothing more. I felt no need of the ties other men have or make, because I had--you." Then his tone grew tender. "Do you remember how you used to come round and climb into my study window for your lessons, when the boys began to go to school? You were a bit forsaken then, Marjorie. And then, when you were good--as you weren't always--how a little pony accompanied me on my rides, and then when the pony and the child who rode it had each grown bigger, one day they both disappeared. The child went to school, to come back, nearly grown up, with music oozing out of her fingers' ends. Well, Marjorie" (he had risen, and his face was paling, his self-control vanishing, as he stood looking down on her), "I have waited a long time for that little girl--who has yet seemed always mine--I want her for my wife. Will you go with me, dear, if I go?" Marjorie gazed blankly into his face. "I? Of course, it is me," she said slowly. "I don't know--I didn't think--how can I leave--everybody?" her voice faltered. She rose suddenly, putting aside the hand that would have stayed her. There is nothing so cruel as a young thing who has no notion of her power and of the devotion she has stirred. "I didn't think," she said, cuttingly, "that you wanted payment. I thought--I thought----" And then, not trusting her voice further, she sprang away from his detaining hand, and fled. CHAPTER V. MARJORIE'S TROUBLE. "Dear Marjorie,--You gave me no answer yesterday, and I am afraid I took you by surprise, and perhaps shocked you. A girl is a tender thing, I know. Will you send me just a little line of hope and forgiveness? I love you--how dearly you cannot guess--and I want you to be my wife. But I will press nothing against your will, and I have written 'No' to the offer of that living. I think you will like to stay near home. Whatever you decide, whether you say 'Yes' or 'No,' believe always that my love is too great to change, and that I am ever your attached friend,--W. ST. J. WARDE." * * * * * Marjorie was reading this letter with an expression which certainly did not augur well for its writer. She had been seeing to household matters for her mother, and had sat down with an armful of boys' clothes to mend, when the note had been handed to her. "I do not know what to say to him, mother. I wish--oh, I do so wish he hadn't done it." "He is a good man, Margie," her mother said simply. "A man, I think, to make you happy." [Illustration: "He is a good man, Margie."] "Happy, mother? I am happy now. What should I do next door? I should always be running in to see you. And how could you get on without me?" "We shall manage. And next door with Mr. Warde would be so much nicer than a long way off with someone else. It would scarcely be losing you."