Ages had passed, so it seemed to Marjorie, since the departure of Mr. Warde, when Sandy's question reached her ear. All the boys were standing round, looking at her with inquisitive concern. Marjorie, a limp heap, inattentive, unready to listen to them, was a new experience. Ross and Orme had tender hearts, not yet hardened by contact with an unsympathetic world. The latter had dug his elbows into his sister's knees, and was looking up pitifully into the far-away eyes that did not even yet see him. Conscious of the blankness, Orme felt moved to whimper; Ross thumped with sturdy fists the limp knees which, hitherto, for baby weaknesses had provided firm support.
"What's he been doin', Margie?"
As the question reached her far-away consciousness, Marjorie came back to reality with a sudden start. Mr. Warde had forgotten that the boys were still in the garden, so occupied was he and so quiet were they. But as the tea-hour approached, first one, then another, finally all four pairs of eyes had been cautiously lifted above ground to survey the situation.
Something, perhaps, in Mr. Warde's appearance, some intuition of unwonted agitation in the interview going on under their eyes, had warned David against intrusion, and he had held Sandy back until the visitor was gone.
"Seems you're struck all of a heap, Margie!"
"Seems you're all struck of a heap, Margie," said David now. "Has he been scolding?"
"Not exactly," faltered Marjorie; she could not meet the inquiring glances bent on her from all sides. She felt sore and shaken; and the familiar faces brought back to her recollection the full meaning of the interview through which she had just passed. What had she done? what had she said? With a shock she realised that she had agreed to become Mr. Warde's wife. Her whole soul shrank.
"Ain't we goin' to have any tea?" Sandy inquired, his mind bent on an opportunity for the acquisition of stores.
"Is it tea-time?"