One thing showed itself very clearly to Marjory's mind—she must tell her uncle at once that she was sorry for what she had said, though how she was to bring herself to do so she did not know. She had never had to do such a thing before, and now that she was calm again it seemed impossible that she could have spoken those wild words. She realized how these feelings against her uncle had been gathering force for a long time. Very slowly, very gradually they had grown, to arrive at their full strength as she listened to Mary Ann Smylie's tormenting suggestions. She had grown to hate even the name by which she was known in and about Heathermuir. Why did people call her "Hunter's Marjory"? Why couldn't they give her her own name—her father's name? Some of these feelings still rankled in her heart; but she was truly sorry for her outburst, and made up her mind to tell her uncle so. She determined to go at once to his study; and, once inside it and in his presence, perhaps she would know what to say and do. So accordingly she went and knocked at the study door. There was no answer. She knocked again louder, and still there was no answer. Then she opened the door cautiously and looked in, thinking her uncle might be asleep; but no—the room was empty. Disappointed, she turned away, and going towards the kitchen, called,—
"Lisbeth, where's Uncle George?"
The reply came in shouts from the distant kitchen,—
"He's awa to the doctor's. He winna be in to supper the nicht, and ye're to gang awa early to yer bed."
The shouts came nearer as Lisbeth, wiping her floury hands on the large apron she always wore when cooking, came bustling along the passage.
"Gude save us!" she cried, when she saw Marjory's face; "what's wrang wi' the bairn—eyes red and face peekit like a wet hen? Come yer ways in, lambie, an' Lisbeth'll gie ye some nice supper, for nae tea ye've had. But I've got scones just newly bakit, an' I'll mak ye a cup o' fine coffee. Come awa."
"Dear old Lisbeth," cried Marjory, "I would kiss you if you weren't so floury. But I'm really quite happy, except that I wanted to see Uncle George to tell him something."
"Weel, if yon's the way ye look when ye're quite happy, I wunner how ye'll look when ye're quite meeserable. Havers," said the old woman contemptuously, "somebuddy's been tormentin' ye. Come awa."
The good cheer which Lisbeth provided was much appreciated by Marjory, who did ample justice to the scones and cookies. She had been without food for several hours, and was really quite hungry now that she had got over the worst of her trouble. She listened to Lisbeth's cheerful chatter as she bustled about the room, encouraging her "bairn" to try a piece of this, a "wee bit scrappie" of that, till Marjory told her that she simply couldn't eat any more.
"I'm going out to say good-night to Peter, and to give Silky his supper, and then I'm going to bed," she announced.