Rowland went back to his hotel in the evening in much depression, yet excitement of mind. He had taken his two children out with him in the afternoon, with a remorseful desire to please them in any way he could, since he could not feel towards them as their father ought to feel. It was difficult at first to make out how he could please them best, and at last it was Marion’s indications of desire that were the rule of the party. He procured the smartest carriage the hotel could supply, with a pair of horses, and drove them about, Marion in the fullest rapture of satisfaction, increased by her father’s presents to her of various articles which she admired in the shop windows as they passed. It amused him, and yet hurt him to see the air with which she got down from the carriage and swept into the jewellers and the haberdashers. Her eyes swam in a rapture of light and happiness. She raised her little flowing skirt, which was more like Sauchiehall Road than the temples of fashion which she visited, with an air that suggested velvet. Poor little Marion! it was impossible to be more happy than she was, turning over the pretty things presented to her, and choosing whatever she pleased, while papa, with his pocket-book full of notes, stood by. She had taken him to Mr. MacColl’s “splendid shop” in Buchanan Street, with a sense that the school friends who had overwhelmed her with their grandeur might be thereby somewhat subdued in their pretensions; and it was ecstasy to her to buy the most expensive things, and to feel the superiority of the position of patron. “It is a very good shop,” she said, so that all the young gentlemen and young ladies behind the counter might hear, “and I will advise mamma, when she comes, to patronize Mr. MacColl.” Archie, who dragged behind, much bored and ashamed of himself, opened wide eyes at the introduction of this name, and Rowland, for his part, had a sudden pang of anger to think that this vulgar little girl should venture to speak of his Evelyn so--before he recollected, poor man, that the vulgar little girl was his own child, and that it was most desirable that she should give that character and title to his wife. “Will I say the things are for Miss Rowland of Rosmore?” she whispered to him. “Certainly not,” he said with irritation. And yet he had no right to be angry with the poor little thing who knew no better. He encouraged her in her purchases by way of compensation to her for his unfatherly thoughts. “And now, don’t you think you might buy a silk dress or something for the poor aunty?” Marion tossed her little head. “She got yon ruby silk just six months ago, and she’s got more in her drawers than she can ever wear;” and sinking her voice a little--“it’s all off _us_. She would never have had a silk--” “Hush, child!” said Rowland imperatively; but Marion was not to be hushed.