"Up!--up!" she called, in the imperious monosyllables by which she declared her will, holding out her arms to David and beating an impatient tattoo on Sandy with her toes. No boy could have resisted the flattery--least of all David, whom his mother often set to "mind" the babes because he was so good to them. And David--a sudden flush and smile illumining his face--took her from Sandy's unwilling clasp. * * * * * No apologies were made that day. In David's arms the baby accompanied her new friends--all clamouring, all seeking to amuse--down the hill to the gate. Marjorie and Mr. Pelham followed slowly. If the man found the young girl interesting, he was to her equally so. She had come across no one like him before. He had come out of a world of which she knew nothing--of which, until to-day, she had never thought. Not many working people had hitherto come under her notice. "Have you pictures?" she had asked, in surprise at a remark. "A few--I wish I had shown them to you, as you care for them." "But you have altered the old house?" There was a world of reproach in her tone. "Not for the worse, I hope. It has been most carefully restored." "Ah, yes--restored!" said Marjorie slightingly. The word was an abomination, savouring of destruction, in Norham. Mr. Pelham smiled. "Come and see some day," he said. "I should like Mr. Bethune's opinion. My friend, the architect, wondered that I had not claimed his counsel." "Why didn't you? People do." "I realised my--presumption," he answered, pausing a moment for a word. Marjorie turned to look at him. "My father----" she began; "you are laughing at us. I know what you mean. We are old-fashioned, behind the times, prejudiced, narrow--I wonder you came." He laughed. "It was just for that I came. I wanted my little one to have, a beautiful home, and all beside that you have said." "But you, of course, despise old things! Do you?" she asked--"even that!" They had reached in their descent of the hill an opening in the trees whence across the field stood out blackly against the luminous western sky the stately cathedral. Fore-shortened against the sky, the great length of the building was not perceptible. But the twin spires, the great central tower, the dome of the chapter-house, and the length of the northern transept, suggested a building raised for all time, if not for eternity. "That is old," said Marjorie, a world of possessive delight in her voice. "You share your father's love for it?" he said, turning to look at the face beside him, its fairness accentuated by the evening glow. "How do you know? You know my father?" And a man less acute than this one would have seen the way straight before him into the girl's heart. "Don't you think you can know a man in his books?" he asked. "Even if I had not heard him read the paper, I think I should have understood by that little book how he loved the cathedral."