But these feelings passed, and the child soon found her way into her uncle's heart--the heart that was really so big and so loving, though the way to it might be hard and rough. The little toddling child knew no fear of her stern old uncle; it was only as she grew up that shyness, restraint, and awkwardness in his presence took possession of Marjory.
Dr. Hunter had looked after her education himself. She had been a delicate little child, and he had not troubled about any lessons in the ordinary sense of the word for some years. He wished her body to grow strong first, so she had spent her days in the garden, on the hills, or on the lake with him; she had learned the ways of birds and flowers and animals, and meanwhile had grown sturdy and healthy. Her uncle had not allowed her to make friends with any of the children in the neighbourhood; he himself was intimate with none of his neighbours except the minister, Mr. Mackenzie, and the doctor, Dr. Morison. The minister had no children, and the doctor's two boys were at school, so that Marjory only saw them occasionally in the holidays. She had no playmates of her own age, and the children of the village looked upon her as an alien amongst them, regarding her almost with dislike, although it was not her fault that she was obliged to hold aloof from them.
Dr. Hunter had a theory that his sister had been too dreamy and romantic; that he had petted her and given in to her too much, instead of insisting upon her learning to be more practical. He blamed the fairy tales of her childhood, the influence of her school companions, the poetry and novels of later years as the chief causes of what he called her dreamy ways and romantic nonsense, and he determined that Marjory should be very differently brought up. She must learn to cook and to sew and to be useful in the house. She should not be allowed to read fairy tales or poetry, nor should she be sent to school; he himself would teach her what it was necessary for her to learn; he would be very careful before allowing her to make any friendships; and with all these precautionary measures he felt that she must grow into a good, strong, sensible, capable girl.
So Lisbeth the housekeeper was ordered to teach the child to dust and to sew and other useful things; and Peter, her husband, must teach her to hoe and to rake, to sow seeds in her little garden and keep it tidy. The doctor's own part in the programme was to teach her to read and write and cast up figures. That would be enough, he considered, for the present. Music, languages, and poetry were to be left out as being likely to lead to romantic ideas and dreams and unrealities. "Time enough for them when she is older," he decided. "When the foundation of common-sense has been laid, there will be no danger. Till then I shall keep her to facts and nothing else."