David's eyes were glaring at the figure of his enemy, his face wearing an expression of deep disgust. Sandy had put on the air of jaunty unconcern with which he always met a difficulty. Ross, aged four, was looking distrustfully at the baby, whilst only on little Orme's cherubic face was there any appreciation of the situation. He gave an exclamation of delight, unloosed his hand from the relaxing grasp of Marjorie, and hurried over the grass, head foremost, as was his wont when in a hurry. This youngest Bethune, like his brothers before him, had a sociable disposition; and was apt at making friends of every person, especially every infant person, he came near. From the private study of the Bishop--whereto his way was by a friendly window--to the cottage hearths he occasionally visited through convenient open doors when on his rambles--Orme Bethune was a welcome guest. To him girl-babies were a special fascination. He made advances to this one immediately. Sitting down on the grass, to accommodate his three years to her two, he essayed to draw her nearer. She responded femininely. First she hid her face behind her father's legs. Then she unloosed his trousers and steadied her approach by the big brim of Orme's hat. With the other hand she rained blows upon his face. Bashing her dolls' heads was, with this baby, a preliminary to loving them. Finding this one to be flesh and blood, she crowed with glee, and sat down suddenly beside him. Mr. Pelham had advanced a step or two on beholding Marjorie, her face an unexpected marvel of youth and fairness, against the dark background of the trees. Then his eyes fell on David's scowling countenance; he stopped, and his face flushed. "Father has sent you a letter," Marjorie began. "Which of you has got it?" turning to the boys. "Not me," said David sullenly, his manner conveying that no power on earth could have induced him to touch it. "Nor me," said Sandy cheerfully. "Surely you brought it?" Marjorie asked, a certain severity in her tone. "You, Ross?" hopefully. Ross's face had just lighted up with the intention of making a trio of the charming duet on the lawn. He was slower than his more agile brothers--but sure, and none the less mischievous, for that his mischief was better matured beforehand. He opened his hands to show his innocence, and, murmuring "Me go find it!" he joined Orme. Marjorie's eyes were lifted in an appealing fashion, the prettiness of which she would have been the last to believe, to the dark eyes somewhat haughtily questioning hers. "My father wrote," she was beginning, when a skirmish and a squeal made her stop. Ross was rifling his little brother's pockets with an air of business. Orme was wriggling and fighting, and the baby was kicking and screaming in his defence, a vivid little vixen. "Here," said Ross proudly, as having overturned Orme and left him prostrate, he held up Mr. Bethune's letter.