"Father has sent you a letter," Marjorie began. "Which of you has got it?" turning to the boys.
"Not me," said David sullenly, his manner conveying that no power on earth could have induced him to touch it.
"Nor me," said Sandy cheerfully.
"Surely you brought it?" Marjorie asked, a certain severity in her tone. "You, Ross?" hopefully.
Ross's face had just lighted up with the intention of making a trio of the charming duet on the lawn. He was slower than his more agile brothers—but sure, and none the less mischievous, for that his mischief was better matured beforehand. He opened his hands to show his innocence, and, murmuring "Me go find it!" he joined Orme.
Marjorie's eyes were lifted in an appealing fashion, the prettiness of which she would have been the last to believe, to the dark eyes somewhat haughtily questioning hers.
"My father wrote," she was beginning, when a skirmish and a squeal made her stop. Ross was rifling his little brother's pockets with an air of business. Orme was wriggling and fighting, and the baby was kicking and screaming in his defence, a vivid little vixen.
"Here," said Ross proudly, as having overturned Orme and left him prostrate, he held up Mr. Bethune's letter.
Marjorie's colour rose at the aspect of the dishevelled note. Its appearance, indeed, was not that of a missive calculated to appease the anger of an offended man. She watched a little amusedly the expression of the long fingers which daintily received and opened the crumpled paper. Then it struck her that in the character of suppliants they were not behaving properly.
She looked at David. His face now wore an expression of absolute vacuity. She wondered if by any possibility it would be taken for penitence. She hoped it might, as it certainly expressed nothing else. Laying her hand on his shoulder—after all, he was only nine, and could not have done much mischief, even if he had behaved badly—Marjorie gave him a gentle push forward.