ng you now."

So saying, the lady seated herself on the ground beside Marjory, her
daughter looking on, at the same time stroking and patting Silky, who
seemed much more disposed to be friendly than his mistress.

"Can't you tell me what the trouble is, Marjory? I am Mrs. Forester, and
this is my daughter Blanche. We have just come to live at Braeside. Your
uncle called on us to-day, and told us about you. Blanche and I have
been looking forward to seeing you and making friends.--Haven't we,
Blanche?"

"Yes, I've thought of nothing else since I heard about you," said the
girl, rather shyly, the colour coming into her face as she spoke.

Marjory stole another glance at her, and she thought she had never seen
or imagined any one so sweet and pretty as this girl.

"Blanche," she thought--"that means white; I know it from the names of
roses and hyacinths. I've seen it on the labels. And she is just like
her name--like a beautiful white rose with the tiniest bit of pink in
it."

"Come now, Marjory dear," coaxed Mrs. Forester; "won't you take us for
friends, and tell me a little about this trouble of yours? Won't you let
me try to help you out of it?"

"No, you can't help me; nobody can. It's very kind of you," stammered
Marjory, "but it's no use."

"Suppose you tell me, and let me judge whether I can help you or not."
And Mrs. Forester took hold of one of Marjory's little brown hands and
stroked it gently.

The soft touch and the gentle voice won Marjory's heart at last, and she
said brokenly, between her sobs,--

"It's about--learning things--and going to school--and uncle--won't let
me, and--and he won't tell me about my father, and I don't belong to
anybody."

"Poor child, poor little one, don't cry so. Try to tell me all about it.
I don't quite understand, but I am sure I shall be able to help you."

Bit by bit the story came out. The poor little heart unburdened itself
to sympathetic ears, and the girl could hardly believe that it was
she--Marjory Davidson--who was talking like this to a stranger. She felt
for the first time in her life the relief of confiding in some one who
really understands, and she experienced the comfort that sympathy can
give. She felt as though she were dreaming, and that this gentle woman,
whose touch was so loving and whose voice was so tender, might be the
mother whom, alas! she had never seen but in her dreams.

Marjory's mother had died when her baby was only a few days old,