"It is a nice letter. I expect they will find he will give them leave, if they behave themselves. But they have been playing tricks on the workmen--and on his servants, as I gather." "They are always in mischief," said their mother, and her tone was not the tone of one who lamented. "But they are not generally rude. I am afraid they have heard the things that are being said against this man. Perhaps Marjorie had better go with them? He will not be rude to her?" "No. 'This man,' as you call him, is one of the Pelhams of Lente. Yes, she can take them. Mrs. Lytchett was suggesting to me just now that she was growing up, and that she ought to have some lessons----" "I wish Mrs. Lytchett would mind her own business!" flashed out the mother. "Marjorie is as well educated as she is, though I should be sorry to see her so meddlesome." Then her ill-temper vanished, and she smiled serenely. "Marjorie was writing a sonnet on Love whilst you were at church. She seemed quite equal to the composition, but lacked facts." "Marjorie's lack of facts doesn't often curb her imagination," her father said. "I do not think it was her education that Mrs. Lytchett thought wanted improving--though it does--but her deportment, whatever that is, and--and manners." "She carries herself like a queen," asserted her mother, "even though she is thin and awkward yet. And her manners--should you wish them altered, father?" "She is ours, my dear," he said tenderly; "and I think her simplicity natural and charming. But perhaps she has said something--she does sometimes--to Mrs. Lytchett." "She does often. Mrs. Lytchett was here yesterday. I know she is good, but she is irritating, John. She condoled with me about your litter, and wondered if I couldn't arrange a room for you up in the attics. And she said she was sure all the boys were behaving badly in church on Sunday afternoon--and why didn't Marjorie sit between them, instead of at the end of the pew, where the corner was a temptation to her to lounge? And then she made a set at the stocking basket, and criticised the darning, and pitied us dreadfully for so many boys, all with knees, as well as red heads. And then Marjorie broke out. She thought the heads were beautiful, also the knees, and that the boys behaved in church like saints; and that you'd be miserable in the attics without me--though she could understand that with a nagging woman always about a man must have somewhere to hide himself." "I hope Marjorie won't turn into a virago," her father said anxiously, after a pause. "That was rude, even if it were true. She is cramped here--it is a cramping place; and we are to blame--we put too much upon her." He sighed, and rose to take his wife's cup, and then stretched himself before the fireless grate. "She has a dangerous gift of imagination. Will she ever be satisfied with Warde? I have told him he may speak now. But she is a child still, she has no idea----" he paused.