"I did not know you were that sort," she said slowly, as into her eyes there crept a friendliness, which the man, recognising, found very pleasant to meet. "But I am afraid I am not that sort," he said. "I am ignorant and he is learned. But I can feel the fascination of it. And I want my baby to grow up amongst it all--amongst you all," he corrected. "You remember what Ruskin says about homes? That passage after he has described what houses, homes, should not be, 'tottering, foundationless shells of splintered wood and mutilated stone, comfortless, unhonoured dwellings which men build in the hope of leaving.' Instead, I would have our homes like temples, built to last, and to be lovely, something God has lent to us for our life, and that our children will love." He paused. "That is the sort of home I want to make for my little one." They had reached the iron gate leading into the road. Sandy, with an air of possession, drew forth his key and threw it open, and the action brought recollection back to Marjorie. "Oh!" with a sudden start, "we came to apologise, and I forgot. Sandy, give Mr. Pelham his key, and remember----" Sandy came forward, holding out the key with a twinkle in his merry eyes. "I 'pologise," he said. Mr. Pelham laughed. "Keep the key, and come in and see my baby as you go backwards and forwards; she has no playfellows." [Illustration: The baby flashed her smiles and kissed her hands.] The baby from her father's arms flashed her smiles and kissed her hands, as the two stood watching through the gate the receding figures of the Bethunes. CHAPTER III. THE BEGINNINGS OF LOVE. "Marjorie, I've met the new man." "What man?" Marjorie, sitting in the garden, looked up from the polishing of her poem at her visitor, a girl of about her own age, the Dean's only child. "The man from Blackton. He dined with us last night. I made father ask him in the train. Oh--don't think I did it out of charity," she said, laughing. "He was staying at Oldstead--you know we've been there. Orme, you cherub! what cheeks you've got!" and she caught up the three-year-old and kissed him. "He'll spoil your grand frock," cautioned Marjorie. "They've been making mud-pies in their hovel." "Pies," said Orme, wriggling down from Charity's knee, and dragging at her hand; nor desisting, till she got up to accompany him. Marjorie looked after her brilliant friend, who was adored by all the Bethune children in turn, until they reached the age of nine; after which their admiration congealed. Soon, she turned her thoughts again to her labour. It was difficult making sonnets, in her busy life. She had to snatch moments when she could. "Of course, 'lone' would rhyme with 'atone,'" she murmured; "but it is so obvious. Love doesn't want a crowd--I gathered that from mother. Have you done your sonnet, Charity?" as the other girl ran back and sat down again, Orme and Ross following in pursuit, as fast as their fat legs would allow.