ked on
approvingly, wagging his tail, as if he knew that in some way these
strangers had been good to his mistress; and when they were gone he
turned to Marjory and rubbed his soft, wet nose against her hand as if
to say, "It's all right now, isn't it?" Marjory returned the dog's
caress, and walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the house.

CHAPTER III.

UNCLE AND NIECE.

"If thou art worn and hard beset
With troubles that thou wouldst forget,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look that nature wears."

LONGFELLOW.

One thing showed itself very clearly to Marjory's mind--she must tell
her uncle at once that she was sorry for what she had said, though how
she was to bring herself to do so she did not know. She had never had to
do such a thing before, and now that she was calm again it seemed
impossible that she could have spoken those wild words. She realized how
these feelings against her uncle had been gathering force for a long
time. Very slowly, very gradually they had grown, to arrive at their
full strength as she listened to Mary Ann Smylie's tormenting
suggestions. She had grown to hate even the name by which she was known
in and about Heathermuir. Why did people call her "Hunter's Marjory"?
Why couldn't they give her her own name--her father's name? Some of
these feelings still rankled in her heart; but she was truly sorry for
her outburst, and made up her mind to tell her uncle so. She determined
to go at once to his study; and, once inside it and in his presence,
perhaps she would know what to say and do. So accordingly she went and
knocked at the study door. There was no answer. She knocked again
louder, and still there was no answer. Then she opened the door
cautiously and looked in, thinking her uncle might be asleep; but
no--the room was empty. Disappointed, she turned away, and going towards
the kitchen, called,--

"Lisbeth, where's Uncle George?"

The reply came in shouts from the distant kitchen,--

"He's awa to the doctor's. He winna be in to supper the nicht, and ye're
to gang awa early to yer bed."

The shouts came nearer as Lisbeth, wiping her floury hands on the large
apron she always wore when cooking, came bustling along the passage.

"Gude save us!" she cried, when she saw Marjory's face; "what's wrang
wi' the bairn--eyes red and face peekit like a wet hen? Come yer ways
in, lambie, an' Lisbeth'll gie ye some nice supper, for nae tea ye've
had. But