"My dear child, don't get so excited. I really have not the slightest idea; I was only speculating on my own account. It seems such a pity that one so young—well, well, it can't be helped, I suppose, and there is no use in talking about it."
Marjorie sighed as she took up her work again, and they were both silent for several minutes. Then Marjorie spoke again, and her voice was not quite steady.
"If I thought there was any surgeon in the world who could cure Aunt Jessie, I believe I would go and find him myself, and bring him here, if it took me years to earn the money, and I had to work day and night to do it. She's the dearest, bravest—oh, Uncle Henry, you haven't any idea what Aunt Jessie is!"
Marjorie broke off, with a half-suppressed sob, and dashed away some tears, which would come in spite of a brave effort to keep them back. Mr. Carleton's face softened as he watched her; he had grown to have a high opinion of this niece of his. He could not help wondering rather sadly whether there were any one in the world of whom his own little daughter would have spoken in such glowing terms.
"You're a loyal little soul, Marjorie," he said kindly. "I wish Elsie had you for a friend."
Marjorie smiled through her tears.
"I wish I had her for my friend," she said. "Don't you think she would like to come out here and make us a visit some time? She might find it rather hot in summer, if she wasn't accustomed to it, but the winters are beautiful."
"Elsie has her school in winter," Mr. Carleton said, "but perhaps she may come some day. Hark, who is that singing?"
"Only Jim coming with the mail. He always sings when he rides. It's generally 'Mandalay,' but it's 'Loch Lomond' to-day."
"'Oh, you'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,'"