"Why should he not write love letters if he wishes to do so?"
"Because I am sure my Lady Cramer is only making a fool of him."
"It would be most like her—though mind you, Mrs. Caird, she is playing with fire. Ian is a very fascinating man. She will likely get the heartache herself she is sorting out for him. I'll have a talk with the Minister. Think of him trusting that woman! the blind fool! the mortal idiot!"
"Not as bad as that."
"Ay, and worse, if I had the words I want for his folly. Here is Marion's letter. Tell her I am perfectly annoyed at myself for forgetting it. She must forgive me."
"Good-bye, Major. I am glad I came."
"Good-bye. You are welcome here. I hope you will come again—soon."
And oh, how welcome she was when she reached home. Marion was watching for her, and when Mrs. Caird, as she left the cab, held up the letter Marion was at the door to take it from her hand. Her eyes dilated with rapture when she saw Richard's writing, and, after kissing and thanking her aunt, she ran away with it to her room. There was no offense in that—Mrs. Caird both understood and sympathized with the movement. And when she went into the parlor, an hour afterward, she found Marion rocking gently in the firelight and, with closed eyes, singing softly to herself:
"My heart is like a singing bird,
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree,
Whose boughs are bent with sweetest fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell,
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love has come to me."