“I wonder whot time the stage goes awff at!”

“It will pass the gate,” said Miss Du Plessis, consulting her watch, “in ten minutes.”

“Haw, ofally onnoying you know, but I’ll hov to pock up and leave before breakfost.  Please remember me to Morjorie, will you Cecile, if I shont hov time to see her before I gow.”

Mr. Lamb took his morocco slippers back to the house, and soon reappeared at the gate, Gladstone bag and cane in hand, looking at the approaching stage.  It was filled up with a roughish crowd, all except one seat in the back, into which he jumped.  The driver flicked his horses, and Bridesdale was relieved of the presence of Orther Lom.

“Marjorie,” said Miss Du Plessis, “I have bad news for you.”

“What is it, Cecile?”

“Your young man has called me by my Christian name, without even putting Miss before it.”

“Have you killed him and dug his grave with those eyes of yours?”

“No, I simply told him that Mr. Coristine had returned to Toronto, perhaps on Crown Land business.”

“Well?”

“It terrified him so, that he packed his valise forthwith and is gone.”

“But how?”

“By the stage.  Did you not hear the horn just now?

“No, I was too busy with that delightful Mr. Bigglethorpe.  But do you mean to tell me that Arthur has left without a farewell word to anybody?”

“He said, ‘Please remember me to Marjorie, will you, Cecile?’ What do you think of that?”

“What odious impertinence!  I am glad the silly creature has gone, and, were it not for the safety of your land, I wish he had never come.”

“It was not he who saved my land, Marjorie.”

“Oh, don’t I know?  Don’t talk to me any more!  You are hateful, Cecile!”

“If you can forget fifty acts of disinterested kindness, Marjorie, it does not follow that I am to do the same.”  By which it will appear that Miss Du Plessis had her orders to rub it in pretty hot to her friend, and was rubbing it in accordingly, even though it did smart.  Miss Carmichael broke away from her, and ran to the house, leaving her once dear Cecile to follow with Marjorie and Mr. Bigglethorpe.

At breakfast the Squire appeared quite picturesque, with a silk handkerchief tied over his head to conceal and hold on what Marjorie called a plaster of vinegar and brown paper, having reference to the mishaps of Jack and Jill.

“Marjorie,” said Mr. Carruthers, “ye ken what Jill got for lauchin’ at Jock’s heed and the plaister.”

“Yes, Uncle John, but mother isn’t here to do it.”

“Papa said I was to be your mother now, Marjorie,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“You’ve got a Marjorie of your own, Auntie, that needs to be punished worse than me.”

The colonel looked round the table anxiously, and then addressed the hostess:  “I fail to pehceive my deah friend, Mr. Cohistine, Mrs. Cahhuthehs; I sincehely trust he is not unwell afteh his gallant fight?”