"Come, cheer up, Marjory," urged Mrs. Forester. "Give your uncle a smile to take with him. Wave your handkerchief—quick! they're off!"
Marjory's kind friends stayed with her until nothing more could be seen. She watched the tall, bent figure standing at the rail until it merged into the misty outline of the ship. She strained her eyes to the very last, and then she turned away, white and trembling and tearful.
"I didn't know I should care so much," she whispered half apologetically to Mrs. Forester.
"You see, you are such good friends with your uncle now, dear, that it is very hard to part with him, I know; but cheer up, and look forward to his coming home. It won't be very long."
Blanche had thoroughly enjoyed her visit to the docks. Mr. Forester had taken her over the ship; she had seen the saloons and staterooms, and had been on to the captain's bridge, and thought it great fun. She was sorry for Marjory's trouble, but she could hardly see the reason for its intensity. She had often been parted from her father for more than two months, which was all the time the doctor expected to be away. Dr. Hunter never made much fuss over Marjory that she could see—"Nothing like daddy does over me," she reflected. Still, it was very sweet of Marjory to care so much.
Yes, Marjory did care. She had grown to love dearly the silent, stern man who had been father and mother to her. He was gone. Her life would be strangely empty without him, and she would count the days until he came back to her.