The three girls (for Maud had begged her mother to spend at least half their holiday at the little, unfashionable place Mrs. Forester had chosen) spent long days by the sea—days of delight for all, and of the gathering of health and strength for Marjory.
In the mornings the other two would usually bathe, Marjory looking on from her deck-chair, and finding much amusement in the antics of the bathers. She liked to watch Blanche in her pretty bathing suit, her hair rippling over her shoulders, and Maud, too, with her coquettish little cap amongst her fair curls. Thanks to her friend's tuition, Blanche was now quite a good swimmer, and was endeavouring to teach Maud, and they had great fun over it. Marjory herself was not allowed to bathe; she might only wade sometimes at low tide.
The girl would lie and dream of what the sea might bring her if dreams could ever come true, but her visions showed her nothing of a great ship with precious freight for her on board which one day very soon was to come from the New World to the Old, and make the old one new for her. Marjory knew nothing of this, and yet she was strangely content and happy in these days as she lay dreaming in the sunshine and listening to the singing of the sea.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOPES REALIZED.
"A kind, true heart, a spirit high,
That would not fear and would not bow,
Were written in his manly eye
And on his manly brow."—Burns.
Home again at last! How good it was to see the doctor at the station, to drive with dear old Peter and Brownie along the familiar road, to breathe the sweet pure air scented with pine and heather!
"After all," Marjory said to her uncle, "there can't be any place in the world just like dear little old Heathermuir. I love every bit of it."