“Then you intend to live in Hurstley all your life? Give me your hand; there—that is right. The dogs will clear it.”
Margery jumped lightly from the wall to the soft turf, and then watched the easy way in which the collie and retriever scaled the wall.
“How clever they are!” she cried, stooping to pat them.
“But you have not answered me. Do you intend to live here all your life?” said Stuart, as they strolled in the cool shade of the trees.
Margery looked at him quickly.
“I have never thought about it, Mr. Stuart,” she replied. “Would it be wrong to wish it?”
“Wrong?” he repeated. “No, Margery, of course not.”
“I love Hurstley,” the girl went on, thoughtfully. “Mother lives here, and Reuben, and Lady Coningham, though I cannot remember her well—still I love her; then there are Miss Lawson and all the village.”
“No one else?” queried Mr. Crosbie, fixing his eyes on her face.
“Yes—you, Mr. Stuart,” Margery answered, softly. “You are here, too.”