CHAPTER IV.

ALL-HALLOW E'EN.

DURING the uncomfortable days to which I have alluded, Marjory Fraser clung to me a good deal, and this was the more remarkable, because she was not of a clinging nature. I do not mean that she was a strong-minded, self-reliant woman; Heaven forbid! Such females have not Madge's soft velvety eyes in the first place, nor are they so generally beloved as she was. Miss Fraser had always been, from her girlhood up to the present time, perfectly free from gushing sentimentality; she never took a fancy to any one, man or woman, though she was frank and cordial to all.

It was therefore quite new to find Madge following me about the house like a dog. I felt instinctively that she was often on the point of speaking to me about something which was troubling her, and as

often some innate fear or reserve kept her silent. I did not attempt to hurry or force her confidence, for I long ago learned the truth of what Adelaide Proctor expresses in her melodious words, when she

says:

"To help and to heal a sorrow

Love and silence are sometimes best."

The night after Mr. Munro went away, Miss Fraser came into my room just as we had all betaken ourselves to our separate apartments. She wore an air of desperate courage, as if she had screwed herself up to tell me her affairs. I made her very welcome, and smoothed the way by professing sudden wakefulness and a burning desire to sit up late, which was a gigantic fib by the way, for my poor old eyes found it hard to keep themselves open. Marjory's shyness was unconquerable however, and she left me after a few minutes, having asked no more important question than whether I thought it would be fine to-morrow. I gave my opinion in favour of sunshine, and asked why.

"Because we are going away in the afternoon, and I want you very much to take a walk with me after breakfast. You have never yet seen one of the loveliest glimpses about here, and it is really quite close to you. If it were ten miles

away you would always be making excursions to look at it, but just because it is so near and so easy to get at, that view is always neglected, I think."

I stipulated that my age and infirmities should be considered, and that, if it were not beyond my small walking powers, I would consider myself pledged to go out with her after breakfast.

Marjory seemed brighter and less careworn when she came down the following morning, and we congratulated each other on the loveliness of the day. The little Keiths looked very much depressed when they found that we had judiciously chosen an hour at which they would be shut up in the schoolroom. These youngsters were very fond of swarming about us out of doors, and neither Miss Fraser nor I wished for their company. It was quite the Madge of former days who waited for me in the hall as the clocks were striking eleven-a bright-eyed, smiling Madge, who seemed to have only known twentyeight or thirty summers-not the pale, nervous woman of the last week.

We could not possibly talk as we slowly toiled up the narrow path which zig-zagged round the hill, first for want of breath, and next because we had to walk in Indian file, and I made Madge go last

that she might not force the pace. At last we turned a corner, or rather shoulder, of the steep brae, and came on a lovely view, so different in character from the country which lay around Lough Shellach that it was difficult to believe we were only half an hour's walk from that place. There was scarcely a breath of air stirring, but nevertheless Marjory would not be contented until we had established ourselves under the lee of a great rock, and there we sat, on the elastic springy heather, crushing its lovely purple bloom into a delicious cushion. The stillness was profound, only broken by the hum of a gnat, or by the drone of bees; these sounds fitted in to the quiet around us perfectly, so far from jarring the silence, they only intensified the dreamy, brooding quiet.

As we sat there silently alone with the great comforter, Nature, Marjory's long-formed habits of reserve and self-control melted away beneath the soft, loving touch of the fair Earth-mother. I fancied that I could watch her without being observed, and I saw that gradually each line and curve of the face I had grown to love so dearly softened and relaxed, a yearning, dewy look dawned in her blue eyes, the painful compression around her sensitive mouth gave way to a quiver of human weakness; and, although

we were not speaking to each other, I felt that she must perceive my intense sympathy through some mysterious subtle sense for which we have not yet found a scientific name.

It was therefore no surprise when Marjory turned her head quietly towards me, and, as if in answer to spoken words of mine, said in the simplest and most natural way in the world, "Yes, I can tell you all about it now; sitting here in this way it is made easy; and yet I have never said a word on the subject for twenty years. It will be quite a long story, I am afraid, but I will make it as short as possible; I feel now that I must speak."

For my part it was as if a lovely, shy bird had alighted for a moment on my hand, and I dreaded lest the least word or look of mine should scare away the lightly-perched visitant. I fairly held my breath for fear a wrong or an impulsive word, however kindly meant, should close Marjory's lips. Not for my sake was this great dread, for I felt certain that it would be an immense relief to her to tell me what was her trouble. My own voice sounded almost cold and unsympathetic, as I assured her that anything which it might be a comfort to tell, would be of the deepest interest to me to hear, and that if earnest affection could inspire wise counsels my advice must needs be good.