"My little brother is sorry," she began, as the dark eyes, smiling now, were uplifted from the note.
But David, beating off her hand, said fiercely, "I'm not!"
"Oh, David!" said Marjorie, helplessly. "Then, if you aren't, why did we—you come?" a sudden passion in her tone.
"Margie! Margie!" called the cheerful voice of Sandy. And Marjorie turned her eyes hopefully to the speaker. He, at least, would not fail her in this emergency—he was always ready to say something nice.
Sandy was staggering towards them laden with the baby. His cap had fallen off, and she was alternately thumping his tight curls and laying her face down upon them in gurgling delight. This living head, with its silky adornments, was quite a new sort of toy in her hitherto child-solitary life.
Mr. Pelham made an alarmed step forward. He expected nothing less than the sudden destruction of his baby. But Sandy, grasping her tightly with both sturdy arms, eluded his outstretched hand and went on to Marjorie.
"Ain't she a nice baby, Margie? She's a girl. Don't you wish we'd got a girl 'stead of on'y boys? Can I take this'n home?" he demanded, suddenly fixing brilliant blue eyes on the baby's owner.
"Oh, Sandy, Sandy! are you as artless as you seem?" thought Marjorie, watching with sympathy the magnetic change on the father's face as he looked down at his child.
"I am sorry. I can't spare her," he said gently, looking kindly at the eager beggar.
"Can't you?" disappointedly; "I should like her ever so."