Marjory now stood gazing at the picture. This, then, was the hero of her dreams and hopes, that father who had been the central figure in many a tale of stirring adventure, hairbreadth escape, and brave deed--tales which she had told herself many a time. But this was a figure even more splendid than that of her imagination. The strong, square chin and determined mouth, the flashing, piercing eyes under the dark brows--all spoke of the strength and courage of a Coeur de Lion or a Napoleon.
She could not take her eyes off the picture. How proud of him she would have been! was her sad thought, but it seemed no use hoping any more. She must begin afresh to-day, and try to be content without him. It would be very hard, for the hope had been very dear to her.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and a strange voice called, "May I come in, Marjory?"
Who could this be, calling her by her Christian name, and yet in a voice she did not know? She must be dreaming; but no--the voice called again, "May I come in, Marjory?"
"Come in," she said, turning towards the door with a puzzled and inquiring expression on her face.
"I've brought you a large and handsome birthday present," said the doctor's voice, as he almost pushed Mr. Davidson into the room. Then he shut the door, and left the father and daughter confronting each other.
There was a moment's silence. Marjory looked at the tall man with the noble gray head, the lined forehead that told of years of sorrow and care. Time had set its marks upon the face, but it was the face of the picture. At last--somehow, and from somewhere--her father had been brought to her. The man held out his arms, and she crept into them, sobbing with wonder and delight and other feelings to which she could not have given a name, as he murmured, "My own little girl, come to me."
That moment seemed to sweep away all the sad memories of her longings and yearnings. Never again would she feel that she was an orphan, really belonging to nobody. Her father, her very own, had come to her at last. How good it was!
It may well be imagined that these two had much to say to each other. Mr. Davidson told his child of her sweet young mother, as he took her round the room, showing her the various treasures, which were in their places just as they had been in the old time when he knew that room so well. In the work-basket was a dainty little garment which had been intended for Marjory. It was not finished; the rusty needle, with its thread yellow with age, was still in it, just as the worker had left it. Mr. Davidson took up the little bundle of muslin and lace and reverently kissed it.