“There is one thing she did I can never, never forget,” Margery went on—“that was her goodness in burying my poor mother in such a pretty spot, and putting that cross on her grave. It does me good to go there, Mr. Stuart. I almost think my mother knows I go. She must have been sweet, she was so beautiful! I always wear my locket, you know”—she put up her hand and produced a tiny heart of gold—“it is such a comfort. I wonder who I really am!”
“I think you are a princess,” observed the young man, gravely; “you look it.”
Margery shook her head.
“We shall never know, I suppose,” she said, sadly, “and I shall always be the nursery rhyme girl ‘Margery Daw,’ as Lady Coningham christened me.”
“It is the prettiest name in the whole world!” cried Stuart, warmly. “And—and it suits you!”
“So you would say if you caught sight of me on the village see-saw;” and Margery laughed heartily. Then she added: “But we are home; and you have carried my basket all the way. It must be nearly four o’clock.”
“No!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “By Jove, I shall have to tear——” Then he stopped abruptly and asked: “Margery, when are we going to have that picnic we decided on a month ago?”
“Oh, some day!” she answered, going into the garden and closing the gate.
“But ‘some day’ is so vague. Shall we fix it for next Wednesday? That is your half-holiday, I know.”
His eyes were fixed on her face with such earnestness that for the first time she seemed to feel their power. She colored faintly and held out her hand.