Anxiously watching Sandy speeding up the garden.
Marjorie heard, wondering. Alysson! How sweet the name sounded with that caressing accent on its second syllable. This was the first time she had ever heard her father call her mother thus.
She walked beside him through the evening sunset, down the Canons' Court, to the music of the cathedral chimes; her cloak cast round her emphasising the youthful slenderness, which made her seem so tall. Mr. Warde, from the Deanery steps, watched them approach, his heart bounding with delight at her fairness. Only when they reached the door, a thought occurred to Marjorie, and she turned to her father in a little concern.
"I saw nothing of the children. I quite forgot them. Did you see them?"
"Mother said"—it was work-a-day "mother" now, not the tenderly breathed "Alysson"—"that they had gone off, she thought, with Pelham's baby."
The hasty, flying figure.
"Oh! I hope so," said Marjorie, with a little cold thrill of prophetic fear. "How careless of me not to see! However, mother will see that it is all right."
Charity's London friends had been late in arriving, and dinner had been put back a little to give them time to dress. It was about half-finished, and the timepiece on the mantelshelf was chiming half-past nine, when Marjorie saw a footman speaking to her father at the other end of the table.
Mr. Bethune asked a quick question or two, and then rose and slipped away.