Merry, madcap Midget became a sober-faced little girl, who was all the more pathetic because she tried to be cheerful.

Mrs. Maynard felt worried about the matter, and proposed to her husband that she should take Marjorie, and go away for a trip somewhere.

"No," said Mr. Maynard; "let her fight it out. It's hard for her, but it's doing her real good, and bringing out the best side of her nature. We'll all help her all we can, and if I'm not greatly mistaken our Marjorie will come out of this ordeal with flying colors."

"It's will-power, little daughter," said Mr. Maynard to her one evening. "Just determine that this cloud shall not entirely obscure the sun for you."

"Yes," said Midge, smiling, "it's just an eclipse, isn't it?"

"Yes, and it seems to be a total eclipse; but even total eclipses pass, if we wait long enough. Any letter from Gladys this week?"

"One came this morning. Would you like to read it?"

"Of course I should, very much."

"It's strange," said Marjorie, as she produced the letter, "for all Gladys loves school so, and is a good student, she can't seem to spell right."

"I know another lady who has difficulty in that direction," said Mr. Maynard, smiling.

"Yes, but Glad is different. She can spell the spelling-book stickers, 'embarrassed,' and 'cleemosynary,' and such words, 'cause she studies them; and then she'll misspell simple every-day words. Now, you see."

Mr. Maynard smiled a little as he read the letter.

Los Angeles, Cal.

DEAR MARJORIE:

We are having a lovely time. We have not found a house yet, but are staying at the hotel till we do find one to suite us, I like it here very much. I miss you very much, dear Marjorie. There are lovely people in the hotel, and we go for walks to pick flowers. The flowers here are beautiful. Now I must close. With lots of love and kisses, your

LOVING GLADYS.

"Between you and me and the post, Midget, I don't think that's a very interesting letter, do you?"

"No, Father, I don't. I thought Glad would write more as she talks. She doesn't talk a bit like that, when we're together."

"I know it, Mops, I've heard her. But some people never can write as they talk. As soon as they get a pen between their fingers, their brain seems to freeze up, and break off in little, cold, hard sentences. Now, what sort of a letter do you write?"

"Here's the answer I wrote to-day to Gladys. I haven't sent it yet."

MY DARLING GLADYS:

I wish you would come back. It's perfectly horrid at school without you, and though Miss Lawrence said Katy Black could sit with me, I don't want her. She's a nice enough girl, but she isn't you. And nobody is, Dear old Glad, I do miss you so. Of course as there's no remedy under the sun, I'm being cheerful and gay about it, but my heart misses you just the same. We don't have the Jinks Club any more. It made me sick to go to it without you. I expect you're having good times in California, and I'm glad of that. Write soon to

YOUR LOVING MOPSY MIDGET.

"Now, of the two, Midge, yours is the much better letter. Don't ever try to copy Gladys's style, will you?"

"No; I'm glad you like mine best. You see, I write without thinking about anything except not to spill the ink."

"A very good plan. Stick to it all your life. Midget, I don't want to be unkind, but has it struck you that Gladys is not so heart-broken over your separation as you are?"

A look of pain came into Marjorie's loyal eyes, as she said:

"It does seem so, I know. But I think it's because Gladys has all sorts of new places and new people to amuse her, while I'm left here alone."

"It's partly that, little girl; and partly because Gladys hasn't such a warm, loving loyal heart as my Marjorie's."

"She is different," admitted Midget; "but I know she loves me, even if it doesn't say so right out in her letter."

"Perhaps she forgot to put it in, because she was so busy trying not to spill the ink."

"Perhaps so," agreed Marjorie, answering the twinkle in her father's eye.

"And now, Miss Mops, I have a bit of news for you. The Fulton house is rented to some people from New York."

"Is it?" said Marjorie, indifferently.

"And in the family is a girl twelve years of age."

"And you think she'll take Glad's place!" cried Midge, indignantly. "Well, I can just tell you she won't! A girl from New York! She'll be stuck-up, and superior, and look down on us Rockwell girls!"

"How do you know all this?"

"I know; 'cause Katy Black had a girl from New York visiting her, and she was just horrid! All stiff and mincy, and dropping curtseys every two minutes!"

"But you're taught to drop curtseys."

"Yes, when I enter or leave a room where there are ladies, but that girl was always at it, in school and everywhere."

"Sort of a jumping-jack, wasn't she? Well, try to like this new girl, dearie; it's the best I can do for you in the way of neighbors."

"Oh, I may like her,—and I'll be polite to her, of course; but I know I shan't want her for an intimate friend, like Glad."

"Perhaps not; but I was so pleased when I heard a little girl was coming to live across the street, that I think you ought to be pleased too."

"Well, I will! I am! And if she isn't too stuck-up, I'll try to like her."

A few afternoons later, King, who was sitting by a front window, called out:

"Hi! I say, Mops! Here's the new family moving into the Fulton house!"

Marjorie only upset a waste-basket and a very small table as she ran to the window to look out.

Kitty raced after her, and Rosy Posy toddled up too, so in a moment the four were eagerly gazing at the new-comers, themselves quite hidden by the lace curtains.

"Nice looking bunch," commented King, as he watched a well-dressed lady and gentleman get out of the carriage.

"And there's the girl!" cried Marjorie, as a child followed them. "Oh, she is a stuck-up!"

"How do you know?" said King. "I think she's a daisy!"

They could only see her back, as the new neighbor walked up the path to the house, but she seemed to be of a dainty, not to say finicky type.

She wore a large hat with feathers, and a black velvet coat that covered her frock completely.

A mass of fluffy golden hair hung below the big black hat, and the little girl tripped along in a way that if not "mincing," was certainly "citified."

"No, I don't like her," declared Midge, as she watched the stranger go up the steps and into the house; "she isn't a bit like Gladys."

"Neither am I," said King, "but you like me."

"Yes, you dear, cunning little sweet thing, I do like you," said Midget, touching King's hair in a teasing way.

He promptly pulled off her hair-ribbon, and as Marjorie felt in the humor, this began one of their favorite games of make-believe.

"The diamond tiara!" she shrieked, "the villain hath stole it!"

"Horrors!" cried Kitty, "then shall he be captured, and forced to restore it!"

She pounced on King, and aided by Marjorie, they threw him on the couch, and wrapped his head in the afghan. Horrible growls came from the prisoner, but no word of surrender.

"Art vanquished?" asked Kitty pulling the afghan away from one of his eyes.

"I art not!" he declared in a muffled voice, but with so terrific a glare from that one eye, that they hastily covered him up again.

But he managed to free himself, and stood towering above the terror-stricken girls, who now knelt at his feet and begged for mercy.

"Spare us!" moaned Kit. "We are but lorn damsels who seek food and shelter!"

"Me wants a selter, too," announced Rosy Posy, joining the others, and clasping her little fat hands as they did. "What is a selter?"

"A selter for none of you!" roared King, with threatening gestures. "To the dungeon, all three! Ha, varlets, appear, and do my bidding!"

"I'll be a varlet," said Midge, suddenly changing her role. "We'll put Lady Katherine in the dungeon, and let the fair Lady Rosamond go free!"

"As thou sayest," said King, agreeably, and, though bravely resisting, Kitty was overpowered, and thrown into a dungeon under the table. From this she contrived to escape by the clever expedient of creeping out at the other side, but as it was then time to get ready for dinner, the game came to an untimely end.

"We've seen the new girl, Father," said Marjorie, as they sat at the table.

"Have you? Well, I've seen the new man,—that is, if you refer to our new neighbors across the street."

"Yes, in Gladys's house. What's his name, Father?"

"Mr. Spencer. I met him at the post-office, and Mr. Gage introduced us. Mr. Gage is the agent who has the Fulton house in charge, and he told we before that these newcomers are fine people. I liked Mr. Spencer exceedingly. I'm sorry, Mops, you're so determined not to like the daughter. Mr. Spencer tells me she's a lovable child."

"Oh, of course he'd think so,—he's her father."

"Well, I admit, fathers are a prejudiced class. Perhaps I have too high an opinion of my own brood."

"You couldn't have," said Kitty, calmly, and Mr. Maynard laughed as he looked at the four smiling faces, and responded:

"I don't believe I could!"

"Don't spoil them, Fred," said Mrs. Maynard, warningly, but King broke in:

"Too late, Mother! We're spoiled already. Father's high opinion of us has made us puffed up and conceited."

"Nonsense, King," cried Midge; "we're not conceited. Not nearly as much so as that girl across the way. You ought to see, Father, how she hopped up the walk! Like a scornful grasshopper!"

"Marjorie," said Mrs. Maynard, repressing a smile, "you must not criticise people so; especially those you don't know."

"Well, she did, Mother. She thinks because she came from New York, Rockwell people are no good at all."

"How do you know that, Midge?" said her father, a little gravely.

"Oh, Midget is a reader of character," said King. "She only saw this girl's yellow hair, hanging down her back, and she knew all about her at once."

"She had a velvet coat," protested Marjorie, "and a short dress and long black legs—"

"You wouldn't want her to wear a train, would you?" put in Kitty.

"No, but her frock was awful short, and her hat was piled with feathers."

"That will do, Marjorie," said her father, very decidedly, now. "It isn't nice to run on like that about some one you've never met."

"But I'm just telling what I saw, Father."

"But not in a kind spirit, my child. You're trying to make the little girl appear unattractive, or even ridiculous; and you must not do that. It isn't kind."

"That's so," said Marjorie, contritely; "it's horrid of me, I know, and I'll stop it. But she did look like a flyaway jib!"

"What is a flyaway jib?" said her father, with an air of one seeking information.

"I haven't an idea," said Mops, laughing; "but I know I've heard of it somewhere."

"And so you describe a girl whom you don't know, in words whose meaning you don't know! Well, that's consistent, at any rate! Now, I do know something about this young lady. And, to begin with, I know her name."

"Oh, what is it?" said Midge and Kitty together.

"Well, Mops is such a reader of character, she ought to be able to guess her name. What do you think it is, Midget?"

Marjorie considered. She dearly loved to guess, even when she had no hint to go by.

"I think," she said, slowly, "it is probably Arabella or Araminta."

"'Way off," said her father; "you're no good at guessing. Kitty, what do you say?"

"It ought to be Seraphina," said Kitty, promptly. "She looks like a wax doll."

"Wrong again! King, want to guess?"

"'Course I do. I think her name is Flossy Flouncy. She looks so dressy and gay."

"That's a good name, King," said Marjorie, "and just suits her. I shall call her that, what ever her real name is. I suppose it's Mary Jane, or something not a bit like her. What is it, Father?"

"Well, it's not a common name, exactly. It's Delight."

"Delight!" cried King. "What a funny, name! I never heard of it before."

"I think it's lovely," declared Marjorie. "It's a beautiful name. Why didn't you name me Delight, Mother?"

"You didn't say you wanted me to," returned Mrs. Maynard, smiling, for Marjorie often wished for various names that pleased her better than her own for the moment.

"Well, I think it's sweet, don't you, Kit?"

"Beautiful!" said Kitty, enthusiastically.

"And she's not at all 'stuck-up,'" went on Mr. Maynard; "she's rather shy, and though she wants to get acquainted with you children, she's afraid you won't like her. I didn't tell Mr. Spencer that you had decided already not to like her."

"I like her name," said Marjorie, "but I don't like her because she lives in Gladys's house, and she isn't Gladys!"

"So that's where the shoe pinches!" said Mr. Maynard, laughing at Marjorie's troubled face. "A foolish resentment because strangers are in your friend's home. Why, dearie, Mr. Fulton was most anxious to rent the house, and he'll be glad to have such good tenants. And, by the way, Midge, don't say anything more unpleasant about the little Spencer girl. You've said enough."

"I won't, Father," said Midget, with an honest glance from her big, dark eyes into his own, for truth to tell, she felt a little ashamed of her foolish criticisms already.

"Delight!" she said, musingly as she and Kitty were preparing for bed that night. "Isn't it a dear name, Kit? What does it make you think of?"

"A princess," said Kitty, whose imagination Was always in fine working order; "one who always wears light blue velvet robes, and eats off of gold dishes."

"Yes," agreed Marjorie, falling in with the game, "and she has white doves fluttering about, and black slaves to bow before her."

"No, not black slaves; they're for princesses named Ermengarde or Fantasmagoria." Kitty was not always particular about any authority for names, if they sounded well. "A princess named Delight would have handmaidens,—fair-haired ones, with soft trailing white robes."

"Kit, you're a wonder," said Marjorie, staring at her younger sister; "how do you know such things?"

"They come to me," said Kitty, mystically.

"Well, they sound all right, but I don't believe handmaidens ought to wear trailing gowns. How could they handmaid?"

"That's so," said Kitty, a little crestfallen.

"Never mind; I spect they could. They could gracefully throw the trails over their arms, as they glide along in their sandalled feet."

"Yes, and strains of music came from concealed luters—"

"Huh! looters are burglars, and it's slang besides."

"No, not that kind. Luters that play on lutes, I mean. And the Princess Delight would sniff attar of rose, and fan herself with waving peacock feathers."

"A slave ought to do that."

"Well, all right, let him. And then the Princess falls asleep 'neath her silken coverlet, and lets her sister put out the lights,—like this!" and with a jump, Kitty bounced into her own little bed, and pulled up the down coverlet to her chin.

Imitating the white-robed handmaidens, Marjorie swayed around to an improvised chant of her own, and putting out the electric lights with much dramatic elaboration, she finally swayed into her own bed, and after they had both chanted a choric good-night, they soon fell sleep.



CHAPTER VIII

A VISIT TO CINDERELLA

One afternoon Marjorie sat by the fire reading. She was not specially interested in her book, but Kitty had gone to see Dorothy Adams, and King was off somewhere, so she had no one to play with.

Presently Sarah entered.

"There's somebody wants you on the telephone, Miss Marjorie," she said, and Midget jumped up, wondering who it could be.

"Hello," she said, as she took the receiver.

"Hello," said a pleasant voice; "is this Marjorie Maynard?"

"Yes; who is this?"

"This is Cinderella."

"Who!"

"Cinderella. My two stepsisters have gone to a ball, and my cruel stepmother has beaten me and starved me—"

"What are you talking about? Who is this, please?"

"Me. I'm Cinderella. And I'm so lonely and sad I thought perhaps you'd come over to see me."

A light began to dawn on Marjorie.

"Oh," she continued, "where do you live?"

"Across the street from your house."

"Then you're Delight Spencer."

"Yes, I am. Can't you come over and let's get acquainted?"

"Yes, I will. I'd like to. Shall I come now?"

"Yes, right away. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

Marjorie hung up the receiver and after a hasty brush at her curls, and a few pinches at her hair ribbons, she flung on hat and coat and flew across the street.

If only this new girl should be a desirable chum!

That opening about Cinderella sounded hopeful,—she must know how to play.

Well, at any rate, Midget would soon know now.

She rang the bell at Gladys's house, with a queer feeling, and as she went in, and saw the familiar rooms and furniture, and no Gladys, she almost started to run away again—

"Miss Delight wants you to come right up to her room, Miss," said the maid who admitted her, and Marjorie followed her upstairs, glad to find that at least the new girl didn't have Gladys's room for her own. The maid indicated the room, and stood aside for Marjorie to enter, but at the first glance Midget stood still on the threshold.

In the first place the room was transformed. It had been the Fultons' playroom, and furnished rather plainly; but now it was so full of all sorts of things, that it looked like a bazaar.

In a big armchair sat Delight. She had on a Japanese quilted kimona of light blue silk, and little blue Turkish slippers. Her hair was pure golden, and was just a tangle of fluffy curls topped by a huge blue bow.

But her face, Marjorie thought at once, was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. Big blue eyes, a soft pink and white complexion, and red lips smiling over little white teeth, made Delight look like the pictures on Marjorie's fairy calendar.

And yet, as Midget stood for a moment, looking at her, the pink faded from her cheeks, and she rose from her chair, and said, stiffly:

"Sit down, won't you? I'm glad you came."

Marjorie sat down, on the edge of a couch, and Delight sank back in her big chair.

She was so evidently overcome with a spasm of shyness that Midget was sorry for her, but somehow it made her feel shy, herself, and the two little girls sat there, looking at each other, without saying a word.

At last, overcoming her embarrassment, Marjorie said, "Was it you who telephoned?" A sudden wave of red flooded Delight's pale cheeks, and she answered:

"Yes, it was. I have a cold, and can't go out of my room,—and mother is out,—and—and I was awfully lonesome, so I played I was Cinderella. And then I just happened to think I'd telephone you—just for fun—"

"Have you a stepmother? Is she cruel to you?"

"Mercy, no! Mother is the dearest thing in the world, and she adores me,—spoils me, in fact. She's gone out now to get me some things to make valentines with. But I wish she was here. I thought it would be fun to see,—to see you alone,—but you're so different from what I thought you were."

"Different, how?" said Midget, forgetting her own shyness in her interest in this strange girl.

"Why, you're so—so big, and rosy,—and your eyes snap so."

"You're afraid of me!" exclaimed Midget, laughing merrily.

"I'm not when you laugh like that!" returned Delight, who was beginning to feel more at ease.

"Well, I was afraid of you, too, at first. You looked so—so, breakable, you know."

"Delicate?"

"Yes, fragile. Like those pretty spun sugar things."

"I am delicate. At least, mother says I am. I hate to romp or run, and I'm afraid of people who do those things."

"Well, I'm not afraid of anybody who can play she's Cinderella over a telephone! I love to run and play out-of-doors, but I love to play 'pretend games' too."

"So do I. But I have to play them all by myself. Except sometimes mother plays with me."

"You can play with us. We all play pretend games. Kitty's best at it,—she's my sister. And King—Kingdon, my brother, is grand."

"Take off your things, won't you? I ought to have asked you before. I haven't any sense."

Marjorie jumped up and threw off her hat and coat, tossed them on the couch, and then plumped herself into another big chair near Delight's.

The children were indeed a contrast.

Marjorie, large for her age, full of hearty, healthy life, and irrepressible gayety of spirit, bounced around like a big, good-natured rubber ball. Delight, small, slender, and not very strong, moved always gently and timidly.

Marjorie, too, was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and rosy-cheeked; while Delight was of lovely blonde type, and her pale blue robe suited her, as Midget's crimson cashmere set off her own vivid coloring.

The ice fairly broken, the little girls forgot their shyness, and acquaintance progressed rapidly.

"Have you always lived in New York?" asked Midget.

"Yes; but I'm so delicate mother thinks this place will be better for me. Do you like it here?"

"Why, yes. But I've always lived here, you know. Are you going to school?"

"No; I never go to school. It makes me nervous. I always have a governess at home."

"Oh, how lovely! I'd give anything if I could study that way. Isn't it fun?"

"Oh, no; it's so lonely. I'd ever so much rather go to school and be in a class. But I always faint in a schoolroom."

"I don't faint,—I don't know how. I wish I did, I'd try it, and then Miss Lawrence would have to send me home. Where are you in arithmetic?"

"Partial Payments; but I'm reviewing. Where are you?"

"Cube root, and I hate it."

"So do I. How do you like my room?"

"It's splendid. But I can't take it all in at once."

Marjorie jumped up and walked round the room, stopping to look at the aquarium, the blackboard, the gramophone, and many other modes of entertainment which had been collected to give Delight pleasure.

"Yes, I love my things. I have so many, and father is always bringing me new ones. That's to make up for my being an only child. I often beg mother to adopt a sister for me."

"I'll be your sister," said Midget, in a sudden heartfelt burst of sympathy for the lonely little girl.

"Oh, will you?" she said, wistfully; "and come and live with me?"

"No, not that," laughed Marjorie; "but we'll play we're sisters, and you can call my brother and sisters yours too."

"I'm glad I came to Rockwell," said Delight, with happy eyes; "I think you're splendid."

"And I think you're lovely. I hope we'll get along. Do you squabble?"

"I don't think so," replied Delight, doubtfully; "you see, I never had a chance."

"I don't believe you do. I hate it, myself; but lots of the girls think it's fun to get mad at each other, and stay mad a few weeks and then make up."

"How silly! You're not like that, are you?"

"No, I'm not. I had a friend who used to live in this very house, and we never have been mad at each other in our lives. That's why I didn't say I'd be your friend. It seems sort of—kind of—"

"Yes, I see," said Delight, gently. "You're awfully loyal, aren't you? Well, I'd rather be your sister, anyway,—your play-sister."

"I'll be your step-sister," said Midget, remembering Cinderella. "Not the cross kind."

"No, the pleasant kind. All right, we'll be step-sisters, and will you come to see me often?"

"Yes, and you must come over to my house."

"I will, when mother'll let me. She hates to have me go anywhere."

"Do you know," said Midget, in a spirit of contrition, "I thought you were 'stuck-up.'"

Delight sighed a little. "Everybody thinks that," she said, "just because I don't go to school, and so I don't get acquainted much. But I'm not stuck-up."

"Indeed you're not, and I shall tell all the girls so. But after your cold gets well, you can go out doors to play, can't you?"

"I don't know. Mother never lets me go out much, except with her. Oh, here comes mother now!"

Mrs. Spencer came into the room and smiled pleasantly at Midget.

Delight introduced them, and Marjorie rose and curtseyed, then Mrs. Spencer said:

"I'm glad you came, my dear child. I meant to ask you soon, as I want you and Delight to be great friends."

Mrs. Spencer was an attractive-looking lady and spoke cordially, but somehow Marjorie didn't fancy her.

There was no tangible reason, for she was charming and gracious, but Midget felt she was a nervous, fussy woman, and not calm and capable like her own dear mother.

"My mother is coming to call on you," said Marjorie to her hostess. "I heard her say so. She doesn't know I'm here, for she wasn't at home when I came, but I know she'll be pleased when I tell her."

"Did you come away without mother's permission? Naughty! Naughty!" said Mrs. Spencer, playfully shaking her finger at Marjorie.

Midget's eyes opened wide. "Of course, I shouldn't have come," she said, "if I hadn't known she would be willing." She resented Mrs. Spencer's reproof, as that lady knew nothing of the circumstances, and besides, Marjorie was always allowed to do as she chose afternoons, within certain well-understood restrictions.

But Mrs. Spencer had brought several interesting-looking parcels, and all else was forgotten in the examination of their contents.

They proved to contain gold and silver paper, lace paper, small pictures, crepe paper, cards, ribbons, paste, and lots of other things.

Marjorie's eyes sparkled as she saw the lovely things tumbled out on a low table which Mrs. Spencer drew up in front of the girls. "For valentines?" she exclaimed, as she realized the possibilities.

"Yes; will you help Delight to make them?"

"Indeed, I will, Mrs. Spencer; but not now. It's five o'clock, and I have to go home at five."

"Dear, dear, little girls that run away without mother's permission oughtn't to be so particular about going home on time."

Marjorie was puzzled. Mrs. Spencer didn't see the matter rightly, she was sure, and yet to explain it to her seemed like correcting a grown-up lady, which, of course, was impolite. So she only smiled, and said she must go home, but she would be glad to come again.

To her surprise, Delight began to cry,—not noisily,—but with quiet, steady weeping, that seemed to imply a determination to keep it up.

Marjorie looked her amazement, which was not lessened when Mrs. Spencer said, almost coldly:

"I should think she would cry, poor, dear sick child, when her little friend refuses to stay with her."

"But, Mrs. Spencer," said Midget, really distressed, now, "it is our rule always to go home at five o'clock, unless mother has said we could stay later. So I have to go."

"Very well, then, go on," said Mrs. Spencer, a little pettishly; but she helped Marjorie on with her coat, and patted her on the shoulder.

"You're a good little girl," she said, "and I suppose I'm selfish where Delight is concerned. Will you come again to-morrow morning?"

"Oh, no, thank you; I have to go to school."

"Yes, I suppose you do. Well, come to-morrow afternoon."

"Yes, do," said Delight, staying her tears, as they seemed to do no good.

"I'll see about it," said Midget, a little bewildered by these emotional people. "I'd like to come."

She said her good-byes, and flew across the street to her own home.

She flung to the front door behind her, with what was almost a bang, and then throwing her coat and hat on the hall rack, she burst into the living-room, where Mrs. Maynard was sitting with Rosy Posy in her lap.

"Marjorie," her mother said, as she observed the impulsive child, "you are just a shade too noisy. Will you kindly go back to the hall, and try to enter this room in a manner more becoming to a lady and a Maynard?"

"I will, indeed, Mother. And you're quite right; I was awful racketty."

Marjorie returned to the hall, and then came in with graceful, mincing steps, purposely overdoing the scene. She paused in front of her mother dropped an elaborate curtsey, and holding out her hand daintily, said:

"Good-evening, Mrs. Maynard; are you at home?"

"I am, you silly child," said her mother, kissing her affectionately, "and overdone manners are much better than no manners at all."

"Yes'm; and what do you think, Mother? I've been over to see Delight Spencer."

"You have? Why, I meant to take you when I go to call. How did you happen to go?"

So Marjorie told the story of the telephoning, adding: "And you know, Mother, you always used to let me go to Gladys's without asking you, so I went. Wasn't it all right?"

Marjorie looked so disturbed that Mrs. Maynard smiled, and said:

"Why, I suppose there's no harm done,—since the little girl asked you to come—"

Marjorie looked greatly relieved. "Well," she said, "Mrs. Spencer thought it was awful for me to go without asking you,—and then,—she wanted me to stay after five o'clock, and was madder 'n hops 'cause I didn't!"

"What a remarkable lady! But I can judge better if you tell me the whole story."

So Marjorie told all about the afternoon, and Mrs. Maynard was greatly interested.

"Not exactly stuck-up, is she, Midget?" said King, who had come in during the recital.

"No," owned up Marjorie. "I was mistaken about that; and I think I'd like her a lot, if she wasn't the crying kind. I do hate cry babies."

"Ho! You wept oceans when Glad went away."

"Yes," retorted Marjorie, unabashed, "but that's very different. I don't burst into weeps just because a next-door neighbor is going home!"

"'Deed you don't, old girl! You're a brick, and I was a meany to say what I did. But perhaps Delight doesn't cry so much when she's well."

"She's never well. I mean she's delicate and frail and always having colds and things."

"Pooh, a nice sort of girl for you to play with! You're as hardy as an Indian."

"I know it. We all are."

"She probably stays in the house too much," said Mrs. Maynard. "If you children can persuade her to go out of doors and romp with you, she'll soon get stronger."

"She says she hates to romp," observed Marjorie.

"Then I give her up!" cried King. "No stay-in-the-house girls for me. Say, what do you think, Mops! A straw-ride to-morrow afternoon! Mr. Adams is going to take a big sleigh-load of us! Isn't that gay!"

"Fine!" cried Marjorie, the delicate Delight quite forgotten for the moment, "tell me all about it!"



CHAPTER IX

A STRAW-RIDE

"Then, mother," said Marjorie, as she started for school next morning, "you'll call on Mrs. Spencer this morning and ask her to let Delight go on the straw-ride with us this afternoon. Will you, Mother, will you?"

"Yes, my Midget, I told you I would. But I doubt if she'll let the little girl go."

"So do I, but you coax her. Good-bye, Mother."

With a kiss and a squeeze, Marjorie was off, swinging a strap-full of books till they all tumbled on the ground, and then picking them up again.

"I'll help you, Mops," said King, who had followed her down the path. "What a tumble-bug you are!"

"Yes, I am. Say, King, do you believe Delight will go with us?"

"Don't know and don't care. She's a Flossy Flouncy, anyway. Too dressy and fiddle-de-dee for me!"

"Oh, you don't know her. I think she's going to be real nice."

"All right. You can have her. Hi! there's Bunny Black; let's run."

Run they did, and Marjorie flew over the ground quite as fast as Kingdon did.

"Hey, Bunny, wait a minute!" So Bunny waited, and then all three trudged on to school; Marjorie in the middle, while they talked over the fun of the coming sleigh-ride.

Mr. Adams, who was the father of Dorothy, Kitty's chum, took the young people on a straw-ride every winter, if the sleighing happened to be good just at the right time.

The trip was always made out to Ash Grove, the pleasant farm home of Mr. Adams' aunt, and the old lady heartily welcomed the crowd of laughing children that invaded her quiet abode.

After school, Marjorie and King and Kitty ran home to eat a hearty luncheon, and get ready for the great event.

It was a perfect winter day; crisp, clear air, bright sunshine, fine sleighing, and no wind.

"Mothery," called Marjorie, as she entered the house, "where are you?"

"Here I am, dear, in the library. Don't come a like a whirlwind."

"No'm. I'll come in like a gentle summer breeze," and Midget tripped lightly in, waving her skirts as she side-stepped, and greeting her mother with a low bow.

"What about Delight?" she asked, at once, "can she go?"

"Yes, she's going," answered Mrs. Maynard, "but I don't think her mother wants her to go very much. I went over there this morning, and after making my call on the lady, I delivered the invitation for the daughter. Delight was most anxious to go, and coaxed her mother so hard, that Mrs. Spencer finally said yes, though I'm sure it was against her will."

"Is Delight's cold well?"

"I think so, or her mother wouldn't let her go. She'll be more or less in your charge, Marjorie, so do look after her, and don't be thoughtless and heedless."

"How do you like Mrs. Spencer, Mother?"

"She's a very pleasant lady, my dear, and Delight is a beautiful child."

"Yes, isn't she pretty! I'm so glad she's going with us."

The straw-ride was of the real old-fashioned sort.

A big box-sleigh, well filled with clean straw, and with plenty of warm robes, made a cosy nest for a dozen laughing children.

Except for Delight, the Maynards were the last ones to be picked up, and when the jingling sleigh-bells and the chorus of voices was heard, they ran out and were gaily greeted by the others.

"Hop in, Kitty; here, I'll help you. In you go, Midget!" and genial Mr. Adams jumped the girls in, while King climbed over the side by himself. Then Mr. Adams went back to his seat beside the driver, and they crossed the street to call for Delight.

She was watching at the window, and came out as the sleigh drove up.

She was so bundled up in wraps and scarfs and veils, that they could scarcely see her face at all, but Marjorie introduced her to the others, and then Delight cuddled down in the straw close to Marjorie's side.

"Isn't it strange?" she whispered. "I never saw a sleigh before without seats in it. Won't we fall out?"

"No, indeed!" answered King, heartily; "that's just what we won't do. Unless when we strike a bump."

Just then they did "strike a bump," and Delight was almost frightened at the jounce she received.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "it—it takes your breath away,—but—but I think it's very nice."

"Plucky girl!" said King, and as that was the highest compliment he could pay a girl, Marjorie felt a thrill of pleasure that King was going to like Delight after all.

"I think you'd like it better without that awful thick veil over your face," King went on. "You can't see the snow through that, can you?"

"No, I can't," said Delight, and she pulled off her veil, leaving her roseleaf face, with its crown of golden curls exposed to view. A hood of white swansdown was tied under her chin with white ribbons, and her smile, though shy, was very sweet.

"That's better!" cried King, approvingly. "Now we can see what you say. Whoo-oo!!"

King blew a sudden blast on a tin horn which he drew from his pocket, and as all the boys in the sleigh, and some of the girls did the same, the noise was deafening.

Delight looked startled, and no wonder, but Marjorie reassured her by saying:

"Don't let that scare you. It's the signal that we've crossed the city limits. They always toot when we cross the line. I don't, 'cause I hate to blow a horn, and anyway, there's noise enough without me."

"I should say there was!" said Delight, for the boys were still tooting now and then, and there was gay laughter and shouting.

"Haven't you ever been on a straw-ride before?" asked Ethel Frost, who sat the other side of Delight.

"No, I never have. I've always lived in the city."

"Stuck-up!" thought Ethel, but she said nothing. It was a peculiar but deep-seated notion among the Rockwell children, that any one from the city would look down on them and their simple pleasures, and they foolishly, but none the less strongly resented it.

And so, poor Delight had unwittingly said the worst thing she could say by way of her own introduction.

"Do you like the city best?" said Harry Frost, who sat opposite the girls.

"I don't know yet," said Delight, honestly; "it's all so different here."

This was not helping matters, and Harry only said "Huh!" and turned to talk to King.

Ethel, too, seemed uninterested in the city girl, and as Marjorie felt herself, in a way, responsible for the little stranger, she spoke up, loyally:

"Of course she can't tell yet, but of course she will like Rockwell as soon as she gets more used to it, and if she doesn't like the Rockwell boys and girls, it'll be their own fault. So there, now!"

"I do like them," said Delight, with her shy little smile; "and I think I can get used to those awful horns that they blow."

"Good for you, Flossy Flouncy!" cried King, and the nickname so suited the pretty, dainty little girl, that it clung to her ever after.

But though she tried, Delight couldn't seem to adopt the ways of the other children. They were a hearty, rollicking crowd, full of good-natured chaff, and boisterous nonsense, and Delight, who had lived much alone, was bewildered at their noise and fun.

But she slipped her hand from her pretty white muff, and tucked it into Marjorie's, who gave her a squeeze that meant sympathy and encouragement.

Midget was beginning to realize that the more she saw of Delight, the better she liked her. And the brave way in which the little girl met the coolness and indifference that were shown her, roused Marjorie's sense of justice, and she at once began to stand up for her.

And when Marjorie Maynard stood up for anybody, it meant a great deal to the youthful population of Rockwell. For Midget was a general favorite, and since Gladys was gone there were several girls who would gladly have stepped into her place in Marjorie's affections. They had begged to share her desk at school, but Midget didn't want any one to do that, so she still sat alone each day.

And now, she had this new girl under her wing, and she was beginning to make it felt that she was Delight's champion, and the others could act accordingly.

"Do you like coasting?" said Ethel Frost, as they passed a fine hill dotted with boys and girls and sleds.

"Yes, I love it!" replied Delight, her blue eyes sparkling as she watched the sleds fly downhill.

"Why, Flossy Flouncy!" cried King; "you couldn't go coasting! I don't believe you've ever tried it!"

"I never did but once," said Delight, "and then the hill wasn't very good, but it was fun. I'd love to go on a hill like that."

"Would your mother let you?" said Marjorie doubtfully.

"No, I don't believe she would. But I'd coax her till she had to."

"That's right," said King. "We'll go to-morrow, and then you'll see what real coasting is."

It was not a very long ride to their destination, and at last the sleigh turned in at a farm entrance and passed through a long winding avenue of trees to the house.

It was an old yellow farmhouse, big and capacious, and in the doorway stood a smiling-faced little old lady awaiting them.

This was Miss Adams, Dorothy's grand-aunt, and called Auntie Adams by all the children who visited her. They all tumbled out of the sleigh, and ran laughing into the house.

Each was greeted by Miss Adams, and cries of "Where's Ponto?" and "Oh, here's Polly!" and "Hello, Tabby," were heard.

"This is Delight Spencer," said Marjorie, as she presented her to Miss Adams; "she's a new friend of mine, and Mr. Adams said I might bring her."

"I'm very glad to see you, my dear," said Miss Adams, kissing the wistful little face; "you are welcome to the old farm."

"I've never seen a farmhouse before," said Delight, as she glanced round at the old mahogany furniture and brass candlesticks shining in the firelight from the big fireplace; "and, oh, isn't it beautiful!"

Miss Adams was much pleased at this honest compliment to her old home, and she patted Delight's shoulder, as she said: "I'm sure we shall be great friends, you and I. Run away now, with Marjorie, and lay off your wraps in the north bedroom."

The girls went up the short turning staircase, and into a quaint old-fashioned bedroom, with four-poster bed, chintz hangings, and fine old carved furniture.

"Isn't it strange?" said Delight, looking about. "I suppose the ladies who used to live here are dead and gone. I mean, the old ancestors of Miss Adams. Let's play we're them, Marjorie. You be Priscilla and I'll be Abigail."

"Not very pretty names," said Midget, doubtfully.

"Oh, yes, they are. I'll call you Prissy and you call me Abby. I'll be knitting, and you can be spinning on that spinning-wheel."

The others had gone downstairs, but forgetting all about them, Delight sat herself stiffly in one of the high-backed old chairs, and knitted industriously, with invisible yarn and only her own slender little fingers for needles.

Always ready for make-believe play Marjorie sat at the spinning-wheel,—on the wrong side, to be sure, but that didn't matter.

"Are you going to the ball at Squire Harding's?" said Delight, in a prim voice.

"Yes, that I am," said Marjorie. "Half the county will be there. I shall wear my blue brocade, with collar of pearls."

"How fair thou wilt look! I have but my crimson taffeta turned and made over. But I have a new wimple."

"What is a wimple, Delight?"

"I don't know exactly, but they wore them once. We're not sisters you know, I'm just calling on you; I'm quite poor. Ah, Prissy, I would I could achieve a new gown for the ball. My lady Calvert will be there, and she is of the quality, forsooth."

"Aye, Abby, but thou art more beautiful in thy ragged garb, than she in her stiff satins."

"Sayest thou so? Thou dost but flatter. But among all my noble ancestors, the Adamses, there was never a woman aught but fair; or a man aught but brave!"

Delight said this in a high, stilted voice, and as she sat primly in the straight-backed old chair, knitting away at nothing, she presented a funny, attractive little picture.

Miss Adams, who had come in search of the girls, paused at the door, and heard Delight's words.

"You dear child!" she cried; "you dramatic small person! What are you two doing?"

"We fell to playing, Miss Adams," said Marjorie, "and we forgot to go downstairs."

"We couldn't help it," supplemented Delight. "This old room and dear old furniture just made me think I really was a Colonial Dame, so we played we were."

"You're a treasure!" said Miss Adams, clasping Delight in her arms. "As for Midget, here, she's always been my treasure, too. I think some day you two little girls must come and visit me, all by yourselves, will you?"

"Yes, indeed we will."

"But now, come downstairs, and join the games down there."

Down they went, and found the gay party playing Fox and Geese.

Marjorie was an adaptable nature, and equally well pleased with any game, so she flung herself into the circle, and ran about as gaily as any one. But Delight shrank away from the frolic, and asked to be allowed to look on.

"No, indeed, Flossy Flouncy!" cried Harry Frost. "You must play our games, if you want us to like you. Come on, we won't hurt you."

"Come on in, the water's fine!" called King, and Delight reluctantly took the place assigned her.

She tried to do as the others did, but long practice had made them alert and skillful, while she was inexperienced at such sports. She became bewildered at the quick changes of position, and as a result was soon caught, and had to be the "Fox."

Then the situation was hopeless, for it was impossible for Delight to catch any of the quick-witted and quick-moving "geese," who darted in and out, tapping her shoulder, when she should have tapped theirs, and teasing her for being slow.

They were not intentionally rude, these gay-spirited young people, but a girl who couldn't play Fox and Geese seemed to them a justifiable butt for ridicule. Determined to succeed, Delight ran from one to another, arriving just too late every time. The unfamiliar exercise wearied her, her cheeks glowed pink with mortification at her repeated failures, and her breath came quickly, but she was plucky and kept up her brave efforts.

Kingdon saw this, and admired the spirit she showed.

"Look here, Flossy Flouncy," he said, not unkindly, "you've been Fox long enough; now I'll be Fox, and you sit down on the sofa and get rested."

Delight looked at him gratefully, and without a word she went and sat on the sofa and Miss Adams came and sat by her and put her arm round the trembling child. Soon after this, the game was stopped because supper was announced.

Delight sat between Marjorie and King, and though she ate but little she enjoyed seeing the delicious country viands that were served.

Little chicken pies, a whole one to each person; flaky biscuits, and golden butter; home-made ice cream and many sorts of home-made cakes and jellies and preserves. The hungry children disposed of an enormous quantity of these pleasant things, but Miss Adams was not surprised at their appetites, for this was an annual experience with her.

After supper, they sang songs. Miss Adams sat at her old-fashioned square piano, and played some well-known songs in which they all joined.

"I heard a song on a phonograph, the other day," said Harry Frost; "it was about a bonnie lassie. Do you know that, Miss Adams?"

"No, dear boy, I don't. I'm sorry. Can't you sing it without the piano?"

"No, I don't know it. But I'd like to hear it again."

"I know it," said Delight, timidly. "If you want me to, I'll sing it."

She looked so shy and sweet, that there was nothing forward about her offer, merely a desire to please.

"Do, my dear," said Miss Adams, giving her place to the child.

Delight sat down at the piano, and striking a few chords, began: "I know a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie," and sang it through in a sweet, childish voice.

"That's it!" cried Harry, as she finished. "Jiminy! but you're a singer, all right."

There was much applause, and requests for more songs, but Delight, overcome by attracting so much attention, turned bashful again and couldn't be persuaded to sing any more.

However, it was time to go home, so they all bundled into their wraps again, and clambered into the sleigh.

Delight was quiet all the way home, and sat with her hand clasped close in Marjorie's.

"Good-night," she whispered, as she got out at her own house. "Good-night, Marjorie dear. I thank you for a pleasant time, but I don't believe I want to go again."

"Oh, yes, you will," Marjorie whispered back. "Don't be so easily discouraged."



CHAPTER X

MAKING VALENTINES

"Now, what do you think of a girl like that?" Marjorie exclaimed, as she finished a description of Delight's behavior on the straw-ride.

"I think she's a little lady," said Mr. Maynard, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye, "and she was pretty well frightened by the noisy fun of the Rockwell young people."

"But, Father," said King, "we didn't do anything wrong, or even rude, but of course, you can't go on a straw-ride and sit as still as if you were in church, can you?"

"No," said Mrs. Maynard, taking up King's cause; "children are meant to be noisy, especially on a sleighing party. But I wouldn't worry about the little Spencer girl. If she continues to live here, she can't help doing as you young Romans do, after a time."

"Ho!" cried King. "Imagine Flossy Flouncy tumbling around like our Midget. Hi, there, sister, you're it!"

King clapped Marjorie on the back and then ran around the dining-table, from which they had all just risen.

"Kit's it!" cried Marjorie, clapping Kitty in turn.

"Nope, I had my fingers crossed," said Kitty, exhibiting her twisted digits, and calmly walking out of the room, her arm through her father's.

"All right, I'll catch you, King," and Marjorie made a dive for him.

He was wary, and just as she nearly touched him, he stooped and slid under the table. After him went Midget, and of course, scrambled under just as King dodged up on the other side.

Out came Marjorie, flying after King, who raced up the front stairs and down the back ones, landing in the kitchen with a wild shriek of, "Hide me, Ellen, she's after me!"

"Arrah, ye bletherin' childher!" cried Ellen, "ye're enough to set a saint crhazy wid yer rally poosin'! In there wid ye, now!"

The good-natured Irishwoman pushed King in a small cupboard, and stood with her back against the door.

"What'll ye have, Miss Marjorie?" she said, as Midget rushed in half a minute later.

"Where's King?" asked Marjorie, breathless and panting.

"Masther King, is it? I expict he's sthudyin' his schoolbooks like the little gintleman he is. Shkip out, now, Miss Marjorie, dear, I must be doin' me work."

"All right, Ellen, go on and do it. Go on now, why don't you? Why don't you, Ellen? Do you have to stand against that door to keep it shut?"

"Yes, Miss, the,—the lock is broke, sure."

"Oh, is it? Well, you go on to your work, and I'll hold the door shut for a while."

"Och, I cuddent think of throublin' ye, Miss. Run on, now, happen yer mother is wantin' ye."

"Happen she isn't. Scoot, Ellen, and give me a chance at that door."

Unable to resist Midget's wheedling glance, the big Irishwoman moved away from the door, and Marjorie threw it open, and disclosed King, calmly sitting on a flour barrel.

As he was fairly caught, the game was over, and the two, with intertwined arms rejoined the family.

"Good race?" said Mr. Maynard, looking at the exhausted runners.

"Fine!" said Marjorie. "You see, Father, Delight has no brothers or sisters, so how could she be very racketty? She couldn't play tag with her mother or father, could she?"

"I think you'd play tag with the Pope of Rome, if you couldn't get any one else."

"That would be rather fun," said Midget, laughing, "only I s'pose his robes and things would trip him up. But I do believe he'd like it. I don't 'spect he has much fun, anyway. Does he?"

"Not of that sort, probably. But, Midget mine, there are other sorts of fun beside tearing up and down stairs like a wild Indian."

"Yes, and one sort is playing 'Authors'; come on, and have a game, will you, Father?"

"I'll give you half an hour," said Mr. Maynard, looking at his watch. "That's all I can spare for my wild Indians this evening."

"Goody!" cried Midget, "half an hour is quite a lot. Come on, King and Kit. Will you play, Mother?"

"Not now, I have some things I must attend to. I'll take Father's place when his half-hour is up."

So they settled down to "Authors," which was one of their favorite games, and of which they never tired. "Delight would like this," said Marjorie, as she took a trick; "she's fond of quiet games. Mother, may I go over to-morrow afternoon and make valentines with her?"

"Yes, if you like, dearie," replied Mrs. Maynard.

"May I go, too?" said Kitty.

"No, Kitty, I want you at home to-morrow. The seamstress will be cutting your new frock, and you must be here to try it on when she wants you."

"All right, Mother. May I ask Dorothy here, then?"

"Yes, if you like. But you must stay in the house."

"Yes'm, we will."

The Maynards were obedient children, and though sometimes disappointed, never demurred at their parents' decrees. They had long ago learned that such demurring would do no good, and that to obey pleasantly made things pleasanter all round.

After luncheon the next day, Marjorie got ready to go to spend the afternoon with Delight.

She wore her new plaid dress trimmed with black velvet and gilt buttons, and as red was the prevailing color in the plaid, her dark curls were tied up with a big red bow.

Very pretty she looked as she came for her mother's inspection.

"Am I all right, Mother?"

"Yes, Midget mine; you look as spick and span as a nice little Queen of Sheba. Now don't slide down the banisters, or do anything hoydenish. Try to behave more as Delight does."

"Oh, I'm bound to be good over there. And making valentines is nice, quiet work. May I stay till six, Mother?"

"No, come home at half-past five. That's late enough for little Queens of Sheba to stay away from their mothers."

"All right, I'll skip at five-thirty. Good-bye, Mothery dearie."

With a kiss and a squeeze Marjorie was off, and Mrs. Maynard watched her from the window, until she disappeared through the Spencers' doorway.

"I'm so glad to see you!" said Delight, as Marjorie came dancing into her room. "Everything's all ready. You sit over there."

So Midget sat down opposite her friend at a long, low table, on which were all the valentine materials laid out in readiness.

"What beautiful things," cried Midget; "but I don't know how to make valentines."

"I'll show you. It's awfully easy, and lots of fun."

It was easy for Delight. Her deft little fingers pinched up bits of tissue paper into charming little rosebuds or forget-me-nots, and her dainty taste chose lovely color combinations.

Marjorie's quick wits soon caught the idea, and though not quite so nimble-fingered as Delight, she soon showed an inventive originality that devised novel ideas.

Sometimes they only took the round or square lace papers, and mounted them on cards, and added little scrap pictures of doves or cupids or flowers.

Then some of them were quite different. Delight cut a heart-shaped piece of cardboard, and round the edge dabbled an irregular border of gold paint. The inside she tinted pink all over, and on it wrote a loving little verse in gilt letters.

This, though simple, was such a pretty card, that Marjorie made one like it, adding a garland of roses across it, which made it prettier still.

Then they made pretty ones of three panel cards. To do this they took an oblong card, and cut it half through with a penknife in such a way that it divided the card into three parts, the outside two shutting over the middle one like window blinds over a window.

The card would stand up like a screen, and they decorated each panel with posies and verses.

"What are you going to do with all these valentines?" asked Midget, as they were busily working away at them.

"Half are yours," said Delight, "and half are mine. We can each send them wherever we please. Of course I'll send most of mine to friends in New York; I haven't any friends here."

"Indeed you have!" cried Midget. "Don't be silly. You've three Maynard friends, to begin with; and all the boys and girls are your friends, only you don't know them yet. I'll tell you what to do. You send valentines to all the Rockwell children,—I mean all our crowd, and they'll just love 'em. Will you?"

"Why, yes, if you think I can when I don't know them very well. I can easily make enough for them and my New York set too."

"Yes, do; I'll help you, if I get mine done first. And anyway, it's 'most two weeks before Valentine's day."

"Oh, there's plenty of time. Look, isn't this a pretty one?"

Delight held up a card on which she had painted with her water colors a clouded blue sky effect. And on it, in a regular flight, she had pasted tiny birds that she found among the scrap pictures.

"Lovely!" said Midget; "you ought to have a verse about birds on it."

"I don't know any verse about birds, do you?"

"No; let's make one up."

"Yes, we could do that. It ought to go some-thing like this: 'The swallows tell that Spring is here, so flies my heart to you, my dear.'"

"Yes, that's nice and valentiny,—but it isn't Spring in February."

"No, but that's poetic. Valentines have to be love-poems, and Spring is 'most always in a love-poem."

"Yes, I s'pose it is. I'd like to do some funny ones. I'm not much good at sentimental poetry. I guess I'll do one for King. Here's a picture of a bird carrying a ring in its beak. Ring rhymes with King, you know."

"Oh, yes, make one of those limerick things: 'There was a young fellow named King,—'"

"That's the kind I mean. Write that down while I paste. Then write: 'Who sent to his lady a ring.' Now what next?"

"Something like this: 'He said, "Sweet Valentine, I pray you be mine." And she answered him, "No such a thing!"'"

"Oh, that's a good one. Do send that to your brother. But it hasn't much sense to it."

"No, they never have. Now, I'll make one for Kit: 'There was a dear girlie named Kit, who was having a horrible fit.'"

"That isn't a bit valentiny."

"No, I know it. This is a funny one. We'll make her another pretty one. 'When they said, "Are you better?" she wrote them a letter in which she replied, "Not a bit!"'"

"I think that's sort of silly," said Delight, looking at the rhymes she had written at Midget's dictation.

"Yes, I know it is," returned Marjorie, cheerfully. "It's nonsense, and that's 'most always silly. But Kit loves it, and so do I. We make up awful silly rhymes sometimes. You don't know Kitty very well yet, do you? She's only ten, but she plays pretend games lovely. Better'n I do. She has such gorgeous language. I don't know where she gets it."

"It comes," said Delight, with a far-away look in her eyes. "I have it too. You can't remember that you've ever heard it anywhere; the words just come of themselves."

"But you must have heard them, or read them," said practical Midget.

"Yes, I suppose so. But it doesn't seem like memory. It's just as if you had always known them. Sometimes I pretend all to myself. And I'm a princess."

"I knew you would be! Kit said so too. She likes to be a princess. But I like to be a queen. You might as well be, you know, when you're just pretending."

"Yes, you'd be a splendid queen. You're so big and strong. But I like to be a princess, and 'most always I'm captive, in a tower, waiting for somebody to rescue me."

"Come on, let's play it now," said Marjorie, jumping up. "I'm tired of pasting things, and we can finish these some other day. You be a captive princess, and I'll be a brave knight coming to rescue you."

But just then Mrs. Spencer appeared, carrying a tray on which were glasses of milk, crackers, and dear little cakes, and the two girls concluded they would postpone their princess play till a little later.

"I'm so bothered," said Mrs. Spencer, in her tired, plaintive voice, as she sat down with the children; "I cannot get good servants to stay with me here. I had no trouble in the city at all. Does your mother have good servants, Marjorie?"

"Yes, Mrs. Spencer, I think so. They're the ones we've always had."

"Well, mine wouldn't come with me from the city, so I had to get some here. And the cook has a small child, and to-day he's ill,—really quite ill,—and the waitress is helping the cook, and so I had to bring up this tray myself."

"Can't I help you in some way, Mrs. Spencer?" asked Marjorie, impulsively. It was her nature to be helpful, though it would never have occurred to Delight to make such an offer.

"No, dear child; there's nothing you could do. But the doctor is down there now, to see the little one, and I fear if the child is very ill, cook will have to leave, and what to do then, I don't know."

"Perhaps the child is only a little sick," said Midge, who wanted to be comforting, but did not know quite what to say to comfort a grown-up lady.

"We'll soon know, after the doctor makes his decision," said Mrs. Spencer. "Oh, that's Maggie crying. I'm afraid it's a bad case."

Sure enough, sounds of loud sobbing could be heard from the direction of the kitchen, and Mrs. Spencer hurried away to learn what had happened.

"It must be awful," said Marjorie, "to be a cook and have your little boy ill, and no time to attend to him, because you have to cook for other people."

Delight stared at her.

"I think the awful part," she said, "is to have your cook's baby get ill, so she can't cook your dinner."

"Delight, that is selfish, and I don't think you ought to talk so."

"I don't think it's selfish to want the services of your own servants. That's what you have them for,—to cook and work for you. They oughtn't to let their little boys get sick."

"I don't suppose they do it on purpose," said Midge, half laughing and half serious; "but I'm sorry for your cook anyway."

"I'm sorry for us! But, gracious, Marjorie, hear her cry! The little boy must be awfully sick!"

"Yes, indeed! She's just screaming! Shall we go down?"

"No, I'm sure mother wouldn't like us to. But I don't feel like playing princess, do you?"

"No, not while she screams like that. There goes the doctor away."

From the window, the girls saw the doctor hasten down the path, jump into his electric runabout, and whiz rapidly away.

They could still hear sobbing from the kitchen, and now and then the moans of the baby.

At last, Mary, the waitress, came to take the tray away.

"What is the matter with Maggie's little boy, Mary?" asked Delight.

"He's sick, Miss Delight."

"But why does Maggie scream so?"

"It's near crazy she is, fearin' he'll die."

"Oh," said Marjorie, "is he as bad as that! What's the matter with him, Mary?"

"He,—he has a cold, Miss."

"But babies don't die of a cold! Is that all that ails him?"

"He has,—he has a fever, Miss."

"A high fever, I s'pose. Rosy Posy had that when she had croup. Is it croup, Mary?"

"No, Miss,—I don't know, Miss, oh, don't be askin' me!"

With a flurried gesture, Mary took the tray and left the room.

"It's very queer," said Delight, "they're making an awful fuss over a sick baby. Here's the doctor back again, and another man with him."

The two men came in quickly, and Mrs. Spencer met them at the front door. They held a rapid consultation, and then the doctor went to the telephone and called up several different people to whom he talked one after another.

And then Mrs. Spencer went to the telephone.

"Oh," said Delight, looking at Marjorie with startled eyes, "she's calling up father in New York. It must be something awful!"



CHAPTER XI

MARJORIE CAPTIVE

It was something awful. The doctor diagnosed the child's case as diphtheria, and proceeded at once to take the steps ordered by the Board of Health in such cases.

Mrs. Spencer wanted to send the little one to the hospital, but Doctor Mendel said that would not be allowed. So the house was to be disinfected, and a strict quarantine maintained until all danger should be past.

"The woman and her child must be put in certain rooms, and not allowed to leave them," said the doctor; "and no one in the house must go out of it, and no one out of it may come in."

"What!" cried Mrs. Spencer, in dismay, thinking of Marjorie. And Marjorie and Delight, unable to keep away any longer, came into the room just in time to hear the doctor's statement.

"What's the matter, mother?" cried Delight. "Tell me about it! Is Maggie's little boy going away?"

"You tell her, Doctor Mendel," said Mrs. Spencer; I can't."

"Why, Marjorie Maynard?" exclaimed the doctor, "are you here? Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish!"

Although the Spencers had never seen Doctor Mendel before, he was the Maynards' family physician, and he realized at once the great misfortune of Marjorie's presence in the infected house.

"Yes, I'm here," said Midget; "can't I go home?"

"No, child," said Doctor Mendel, gravely; "you cannot leave this house until all danger of infection is over. That will be two weeks at least, and perhaps more."

"And can't Mr. Spencer come home?" asked Mrs. Spencer.

"No; unless he stays here after he comes in. He can not go back and forth to New York every day."

Mrs. Spencer looked utterly bewildered. Accustomed to depend upon her husband in any emergency, she felt quite unable to meet this situation.

"And there is danger of these two girls having diphtheria?" she said, in a scared voice, as if anxious to know the worst at once.

"There is grave danger, Mrs. Spencer, for all in the house. But we will hope by careful treatment to avoid that. The quarantine, however, is imperative. You must not let your servants or your family go out into the street, nor must you allow any one except myself to come in."

"Oh, Doctor Mendel," cried Marjorie, "how can I see Mother?"

"You can't see her. I'm sorry, Marjorie, but you simply can not go home, nor can she come here."

"And I'll have to have diphtheria, and die, without seeing her at all!"

"Tut, tut! You're not going to have diphtheria, I hope. These precautions are necessary, because of the law, but you're by no means sure to take the disease."

"Delight will," said Mrs. Spencer, in a hopeless tone. "She's so delicate, and so subject to throat affections. Oh, how can I stand all this without any one to help me? Can't I have a trained nurse?"

Doctor Mendel almost laughed at the lady's request.

"Of course you may, as soon as there's a patient for her to take care of. But you surely don't want one when there's no illness in this part of the house."

"Why, so there isn't!" said Mrs. Spencer, looking greatly relieved. "I'm so bewildered I felt that these two children were already down with diphtheria."

"It's a very trying situation," went on Doctor Mendel, looking kindly at Mrs. Spencer. "For I do not see how your husband can come home, if he wants to continue at his business. And surely, there's no use of his coming home, so long as there's no illness in your immediate family. He would better stay in New York."

"Oh, not in New York," cried Mrs. Spencer. "He can come to Rockwell every night, and stay at the hotel or some place."

"Yes, that would be better; then you can telephone often."

"And I can telephone to Mother!" said Midget, who was beginning to see a brighter side.

"Yes, of course," agreed the doctor. "I'll go there, and tell her all about it."

"Won't she be surprised!"

"Yes, I fancy she will! Do you want her to send you some clothes?"

"Why, yes; I s'pose so. I never thought of that! Oh, I'd rather go home!"

The bright side suddenly faded, and Midget's curly head went down in her arm, and she shook with sobs. A vision of home, and the dear family around the dinner-table, while she was exiled in a strange house, was too much for her.

"Now, Marjorie," said the doctor, "you must bear this bravely. It is hard, I know, but Mrs. Spencer is by far the greatest sufferer. Here she is, with two children to look after, and her husband shut out from his home, and her servants in a state of unreasoning terror. I think you two girls should brace up, and help Mrs. Spencer all you can."

"I think so, t-too," said Midget, in a voice still choking with tears, and then Delight began to cry.

Her crying wasn't a sudden outburst like Marjorie's, but a permanent sort of affair, which she pursued diligently and without cessation.

Mrs. Spencer paid little attention to the two weeping children, for the poor lady had other responsibilities that required her attention.

"What about Maggie, Doctor?" she asked.

"She must stay here, of course. And, as she can't go to a hospital, she will probably prefer to stay here. Your waitress may desert you, but I will tell her if she goes, it is in defiance of the law, and she will be punished. I trust, Mrs. Spencer, that there will be no more illness here, and the worst will be the inconvenience of this quarantine. At any rate we will look at it that way, so long as there are no signs of infection. Now, I will go over to the Maynards and explain matters to them, and I will meet Mr. Spencer at the train, and he will telephone you at once. Meantime, I will myself superintend the disinfection of this house. And remember, while there is danger for the two little girls, I do not think it probable that they will be affected."

"I hope not," said Mrs. Spencer, sighing. "And here's another thing, Doctor. I expect a governess for Delight, a Miss Hart, who is to come with Mr. Spencer on the train this evening. She should be warned."

"Yes, indeed. I'll meet them at the train, and attend to that for you. Probably she'll remain at the hotel over night, and go back to the city to-morrow."

"She could go to our house to stay," said Marjorie. She was still crying, but she loved to make plans. "Then she could telephone the lessons over to Delight, and I could learn a little too. Oh, I won't have to go to school for two weeks!"

This was a consolation, and the happy thought entirely stopped Marjorie's tears.

Not so Delight. She cried on, softly, but steadily, until Midget looked at her with real curiosity.

"What do you cry that way for, Delight?" she said. "It doesn't do any good."

Delight looked at her, but wept industriously on.

"Oh, come," said Midget, "let's look for the bright side. Let's pretend I've come to visit you for two weeks, and let's have some fun out of this thing."

"How can you talk so?" said Delight, through her tears. "We may both be dead in two weeks."

"Nonsense!" cried Doctor Mendel; "no more of that sort of talk! If you're so sure of having diphtheria, I'll send you to the hospital at once."

Delight did not know the doctor as well as Marjorie did, and this suggestion frightened her.

She tried to stop crying, and smile, and she succeeded fairly well.

"That's better," said the doctor. "Now, I'm going across the street. Marjorie, what message do you want to send your mother? Of course she'll send over some clothes and things. You can have anything you want sent, but don't have needless things, for they must all be disinfected later, and it might harm your best clothes."

"Oh, I shan't want my best clothes, since we can't have company or parties," said Midget, interested now, in spite of herself. "Tell Mother to send my night things; and my red cashmere for to-morrow morning, and my other red hair ribbons, and my pink kimono, and my worsted slippers, and that book on my bureau, the one with the leaf turned down, and some handkerchiefs, and—"

"There, there, child, I can't remember those things, and your mother will know, anyway,—except about the book with the leaf turned down,—I'll tell her that. And you can telephone her, you know."

"Oh, so I can! That will be almost like seeing her. Can't I telephone now?"

"No, I'd rather tell her about it myself. Then I'll tell her to call you up, and you can give her your list of hair ribbons and jimcracks."

"All right then. Hurry up, Doctor, so I can talk to her soon."

Doctor Mendel went away, and Marjorie and Delight sat and looked at each other. Mrs. Spencer had gone to the kitchen to arrange for the comfort of the distressed mother, and the little girls were trying to realize what had happened.

"I'm glad you're here," said Delight, "for I'd be terribly lonely without you, in all this trouble."

Midget was silent. She couldn't honestly say she was glad she was there, and yet to say she was sorry seemed unkind.

"Well, as long as I am here," she said at last, "I'm glad you're glad. It's all so strange! To be here staying in Gladys's house, and Gladys not here, and I can't get away even if I want to,—why, I can't seem to get used to it."

"It's awful!" said Mrs. Spencer, coming in from the kitchen. "I hope your mother won't blame me, Marjorie; I'm sure I couldn't help it."

"Of course she won't blame you, Mrs. Spencer. She'll only be sorry for you."

"But she'll be so worried about you."

"Yes'm; I s'pose she will. But maybe, if I do take it, it will be a light case."

"Oh, don't talk of light cases! I hope you won't have it at all,—either of you."

After what seemed to Marjorie a long time of waiting, her mother called her up on the telephone.

"My dear little girl," said Mrs. Maynard, "how shall I get along without you for two weeks?"

"Oh, Mother," said Marjorie, "you have the others, but I haven't anybody! How shall I get along without you?"

Marjorie's voice was trembling, and though Mrs. Maynard was heart-broken she forced herself to be cheerful for Midget's sake.

"Well, dearie," she said, "we must make the best of it. I'll telephone you three times a day,—or at least, some of us will,—and I'll write you letters."

"Oh, will you, Mother? That will be lovely!"

"Yes, I'll write you every day. You can receive letters although you can't send any. Now, I want you to be my own brave little daughter, and not only try to be cheerful and pleasant yourself, but cheer up Mrs. Spencer and Delight."

"Yes, Mother, I will try. I feel better already, since I've heard your voice."

"Of course you do. And Father will talk to you when he comes home, and to-morrow Kitty and King can talk, and you'll almost feel as if you were at home."

"Yes,—but oh, Mother, it's awful, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't awful at all, unless you get ill But we won't cross that bridge until we come to it. Now, I'll send over a suitcase to-night, and then I can send more things to-morrow."

"Yes, Mother. And put in your picture, won't you? The one on my mantelpiece, I mean. Then I'll have it to kiss good-night to."

Mrs. Maynard's voice choked a little, but she said:

"Yes, dear, I will. Good-bye for now; we mustn't monopolize Mrs. Spencer's telephone."

"Good-bye," said Midget, reluctantly, and hung up the receiver, feeling that now she was indeed an exile from her home. But not long after, she was called to the telephone again, and her father's cheery voice said:

"Why, Marjorie Midget Mopsy Maynard! What's this I hear about your deserting your home and family?"

"Oh, Father dear, isn't it terrible!"

"Why, I don't know as it is. You'll have a fine visit with your little friend, and you won't have to go to school, and I should think you'd have a fine time! But some people are never satisfied!"

"Now, don't tease, Father. You know I'll just go crazy with homesickness to see you all again!"

"Oh, well, if you really do go crazy, I'll put you in a nice pretty little lunatic asylum that I know of. But before your mind is entirely gone, I want you to have a good time with Delight, and I'll help all I can."

"I don't see how you can help much, if I can't see you."

"You don't, eh? Well, you'll find out, later on. But just now, I'm going to give you three rules, and I want you to obey them. Will you?"

"Of course I will, Father. What are they?"

"First, never think for a moment that you're going to catch that sore throat that the cook's little boy has. I don't think you are, and I don't want to think so. Promise?"

"Yes, I promise. What next?"

"Next; never think that you're to stay over there two weeks. Never use the words at all. Just think each day, that you're merely staying that one night, and that you're just staying for fun. See?"

"Yes; I'll promise, but it won't be easy."

"Make it easy then. I'll help you. And third, don't feel sorry for yourself."

"Oh, Father, I do!"

"Well, don't! If you want to feel sorry for somebody, choose some one else, a poor Hottentot, or a lame kangaroo, or even your old father. But, mind, it's a rule, you're not to feel sorry for Marjorie Maynard."

"That's a funny rule. But I'll try to mind it."

"That's my own dear daughter. Now, to begin. As you're to stay with Delight to-night, we're sending over your night things. Go to bed early and sleep well, so you can wake bright and fresh and have fun playing all day to-morrow."

All this sounded so gay and pleasant that Marjorie was really very much cheered up, and replied gaily:

"All right, Daddy; I'll do just as you say. And will you call me up to-morrow morning before you go to New York?"

"Yes, of course I will. Now, good-night,—just the same as a good-night at home."

"Good-night, Father," and Midget hung up the receiver again.

By this time Delight had stopped her crying, and Mrs. Spencer had become a little more resigned to the unpleasant state of things. The servants had consented to stay, for the present, and their decision was more due to Doctor Mendel's hints about the law, than their own loyalty to Mrs. Spencer.

Then Doctor Mendel had met Mr. Spencer at the railroad station, and had explained affairs to him.

Although it seemed very hard it was thought advisable by all interested, that Mr. Spencer should not go to his home at all. His business, which was large and important, required his presence every day, and to take two weeks away from it just at that time would be disastrous in effect.

Mr. Maynard, who was present at the interview, invited Mr. Spencer to stay at his home until the quarantine should be raised, and this offer of hospitality was gratefully accepted.

"It seems only fair," said Mr. Maynard, "that we should entertain you, as you have our Marjorie as a guest at your house."

"An unwilling guest, I fear," said Mr. Spencer, with a sad smile.

"But ready to make the best of it, as we all must be," rejoined Mr. Maynard.



CHAPTER XII

MISS HART HELPS

Miss Hart, Delight's new governess, who came out from New York with Mr. Spencer, listened to the doctor's story with a grave face.

"And I think, Miss Hart," said Doctor Mendel, in conclusion, "that you would better stay in Rockwell over night, and return to the city tomorrow."

"I don't think so!" said Miss Hart, with such emphasis that the three men looked at her in surprise.

"If you will go home with me," said Mr. Maynard, "Mrs. Maynard will give you a warm welcome, and then you can decide to-morrow on your further plans."

"No," said Miss Hart, who seemed to be a young woman of great decision of character, "I shall go straight to Mrs. Spencer's. I am engaged to go there to-night, and I want to go. I am not at all afraid of the diphtheria, and as Delight is perfectly well, she can begin her lessons just as we planned to do. This will keep her interested and prevent her from worrying as much as if she were idle. And then, if anything should happen, I will be there to assist Mrs. Spencer."

"Thank you, Miss Hart," said Mr. Spencer, shaking her hand. "You are a noble woman, and I shall be so glad to have you there with my wife. I've been trying to think how I could get a companion for her, but none of her city friends would enter the house, nor could they be expected to. And, of course, no Rockwell neighbors can go in. But you will be a tower of strength, and I shall be immensely relieved to have you there."

Doctor Mendel was pleased too, at the turn affairs had taken, for he feared Mrs. Spencer would break down under the nervous strain, if she had to bear her trouble alone.

So when Mr. Maynard took Mr. Spencer to his own home, Doctor Mendel took Miss Hart to Mrs. Spencer's.

"I've brought you another visitor," he cried, cheerily, as he entered the quarantined house.

"Why, Doctor," said Mrs. Spencer, "you said nobody could come in!"

"No, not if they're to go out again. But Miss Hart has come to stay."

"Oh, how splendid!" cried Mrs. Spencer, "are you really willing to do so?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Miss Hart. "And it looks to me as if I should have two pupils instead of one." She looked kindly at Marjorie, who smiled in return, though she did not at all feel sure that she wanted lessons added to her other troubles.

But Miss Hart seemed to ignore the fact that there were any troubles for anybody.

She talked pleasantly, even gaily, with Mrs. Spencer. She chatted merrily with Delight and Marjorie; and she even went out and spoke very kindly to the afflicted Maggie. And it was partly due to her suggestions that Mary, who was acting as cook, added some special dainties to the menu, and sent up an unusually good dinner. The party that gathered round the table was not a sad one, but this was due to the combined efforts of Miss Hart and Marjorie.

Midget remembered her father's rules, and pretended she was just staying with the Spencers for one night. She was so fond of "pretending," that this part came easy. Then she had put out of her mind the idea that she might have the diphtheria, and moreover, she was trying really hard not to be sorry for herself. In consequence of all this, she was gay and merry, and she was helped to be so by Miss Hart, who was good cheer itself.

The new governess was a pretty little woman, with smooth dark hair, and snapping black eyes, that seemed to read people's innermost thoughts. Although not entirely unacquainted with the Spencers, she had never before lived with them, but had been governess in the family of a friend of theirs. She was anxious for this new position, and Mrs. Spencer, who had been pleased to have her come, was doubly glad to have her in this emergency.

"We won't begin to-morrow," said Miss Hart, when the subject of lessons was broached, "but I think we'll begin next day. We'll spend to-morrow getting acquainted, and learning to like each other. You'll join the class, won't you, Marjorie?"

"Yes, I think I'd like study that way," said Midge; "but I don't like school."

"I'll guarantee you'll like study in our class," said Miss Hart, smiling; "you'll be sorry when school hours are over."

Midge could hardly think this, but of one thing she was certain, that Miss Hart would be a pleasant teacher.

Soon after dinner, Marjorie's suitcase arrived.

James brought it over, and set it on the front porch and rang the bell. Then he went away before the door was opened, as he had been instructed to do.

When Marjorie opened the bag she found a note from each of the family, and they were all written in verse.

She read them aloud to the Spencer household and soon they were all laughing at the nonsense rhymes.

Her mother had written:

"Midget, Midget, Don't be in a fidget. Don't be sad and tearful, Just be gay and cheerful; Don't be sadly sighing, For the days are flying, And some day or other You'll come home to MOTHER."

"Why, that's as good as a valentine," said Miss Hart, as Midget finished reading the lines.

"So it is!" said Marjorie, smiling; "I'm going to pretend they're all valentines. Here's father's."

"Marjorie, Midget Mopsy, The world is tipsy-topsy! When I am here And you are there I feel all wipsy-wopsy! But soon you will be home once more, And all will be as it was before; So make the most of your fortnight's stay, For I cannot spare you another day!"

By this time Delight's spirits had risen to such an extent that she exclaimed:

"I think it's splendid to have Marjorie here for two weeks!"

"We'll make a picnic of it," said Miss Hart. "You girls won't often have two weeks together, so we must cram all the pleasure into it we can."

Cramming pleasure into this dreadful time was a new idea to Delight, but she was willing to agree to it, and Marjorie said:

"I think we can be happy if we try. But we have to forget the bad parts and only remember the good."

"That's it," said Miss Hart. "Now read us another of your letters. I'm sure they're good parts."

"This one is from King,—that's Kingdon, my brother," explained Marjorie, as she took up the next note.

"Mops is a captive Princess now, She can't get out of prison; But when it's time to let her go, Oh, won't she come home whizzin'! This poetry isn't very good, But it's the best that I can sing, I would do better if I could, And I'm your loving brother KING."

"What a jolly boy!" said Miss Hart, "I'd like to know him."

"You will," said Midget, "after our two weeks' picnic is over." She smiled at Miss Hart as she said this, accepting her idea of making a picnic of their enforced imprisonment.

"Now, here's Kitty's," she went on. "Kitty's not a very good poet, but she always wants to do what the rest do."

"Marjorie Maynard nice and sweet, Has to stay across the street. Fourteen days and fourteen nights, Visiting her friend Delight. Marjorie Maynard, nice and pretty, Come home soon to sister KITTY."

"Why, I think that's fine," said Miss Hart. "Your family are certainly devoted to you."

"Yes, they are," said Midget. "There's another,—Rosy Posy,—but she's only five. She can't write poetry."

"Can you?" asked Miss Hart.

"Yes, I can make as good verses as Kit; but not as good as King or father. We always make verses for each other on birthdays, so we get lots of practise. And we made some valentine verses this afternoon, didn't we, Delight?"

"Yes, that is, you did. But, oh, Marjorie, we can't send those valentines! Nothing like that can go out of the house!"

"Oh, pshaw, I don't believe they could do any harm."

"Well, Doctor Mendel said we mustn't send a letter of any sort, and a valentine is just the same, you know."

"What do you think, Miss Hart?" asked Marjorie.

"I'm afraid you can't send them, my dear. But we'll ask the doctor. Perhaps, if they're disinfected—"

"Oh, horrors!" cried Midget; "a valentine disinfected! Of all things! Why, it would smell of that horrid sulphur stuff instead of a sweet violet scent! Nobody would want that sort of a valentine."

"No, they wouldn't," agreed Delight. "Oh, dear, it's too bad!"

"Never mind, Delight," said Marjorie. "We can send valentines to each other, and to Miss Hart, and to your mother. Oh, yes, and to Maggie and Mary. I guess that's about all. But everybody can send them to us! That will be lots of fun! It seems selfish, doesn't it, to get lots of valentines and not send any? But it isn't selfish, because we can't help it."

"I can send to my friends in New York," said Delight, thoughtfully, "by letting father get them and send them. I can telephone him a list, you know. It isn't as much fun as if I picked them out myself, but I don't want the girls to think I've forgotten them."

"If they know about the quarantine, they won't open the valentines," suggested Marjorie; "they'll think they came from this house, and they'll be frightened."

"That's so," agreed Delight; "unless they look at the postmark and it's New York."

"Well, then, if they don't know your father's writing, they'll never know they came from you anyway."

"No, they won't. But then people never are supposed to know who sends a valentine."

"Then what's the good of sending any?"

"Oh, it always comes out afterward. I hardly ever get any that I don't find out who they're from, sooner or later."

"Nor I either. Well, we'll do the best we can."

Marjorie sighed a little, for Valentine Day was always a gay season in the Maynard home, but she had promised not to be sorry for herself, so she put the thought away from her mind.

As Mrs. Spencer's room opened into Delight's, she decided to give that to Marjorie, and take the guest room herself. She felt sorry for the child, held there by an unfortunate accident, and determined to do all she could to make her stay pleasant. And she thought, too, it would please Delight to have Marjorie in the room next her own. So when the two girls went upstairs that night, they were greatly pleased to find themselves in communicating rooms.

"We can pretend, while we're getting ready for bed," said Delight, and soon, in her little kimono, and bedroom slippers, she stalked into Midget's room and said, with despairing gestures:

"Fellow princess, our doom hath befell. We are belocked in a prison grim, and I fear me, nevermore will we be liberated."

"Say not so, Monongahela," answered Marjorie, clasping her hands. "Methinks ere morning dawns, we may yet be free."

"Nay, oh, nay! the terrible jailer, the Baron Mendel, he hast decreed that we stay be jailed for two years."

"Two years!" gasped Midget, falling in a pretended swoon. "Ere that time passes, I shall be but a giggling maniac."

"Gibbering, you mean. Aye, so shall I."

"Well, stop your gibbering for to-night," said Mrs. Spencer, who came in, laughing; "you can gibber to-morrow, if you like, but now you must go to bed. Fly, fair princess, with golden hair!"

Delight flew, and Mrs. Spencer tucked Marjorie up in bed, in an effort to make the child feel at home.

There wasn't the least resemblance between Mrs. Spencer's ways, and those of her own mother, but Marjorie was appreciative of her hostess's kind intent, and said good-night to Mrs. Spencer very lovingly. At first, there was a strong inclination to cry a little, but remembering she must not be sorry for herself, Marjorie smiled instead, and in a few moments she was smiling in her sleep. Next morning, she put on the morning dress that had come over in the suitcase, and went downstairs with Delight.

"It's just like having a sister," said Delight. "I do believe, Marjorie, I'm glad all this happened. Of course, I don't mean I'm glad Maggie's baby is so sick, but I'm glad you're staying here."

"I can't quite say that, Delight, but as I am here, I'm not going to fuss about it. There's the telephone! perhaps it's Father!"

It was Mr. Maynard, and his cheery good-morning did Marjorie's heart good.

"All serene on the Rappahannock?" he asked.

"All serene!" replied Marjorie. "The verses were fine! I was so glad to get them."

"Did you sleep well? Have you a good appetite for breakfast? Did you remember my rules? May I send you a small gift to-day? Do you think it will rain? Don't you want your kitten sent over?"

"Wait,—wait a minute," cried Marjorie. "Your questions come so fast I can't answer them,—but, yes, I would like a small gift to-day."

"Aha! I thought you'd pick out that question of all the bunch to answer. Well, you'll get it when I return from the great city. Meantime, be good and you'll be happy, and I'm proud of you, my little girl."

"Proud of me! Why?"

"Because I can tell by your voice that you're cheerful and pleasant, and that's all I ask of you. Good-bye, Mopsy, I must go for my train. The others will talk to you later on."

"Good-bye, Father, and I would like the kitten sent over."

Marjorie left the telephone with such a happy face that Miss Hart, who had just come downstairs, said:

"I'm sure you had pleasant messages from home."

"Yes, indeed," said Midget. "It was Father. He's always so merry and jolly."

"And you inherit those traits. I like fun, too. I think we shall be great friends."

"I think so too," agreed Midget, and then they all went to breakfast.

The day started auspiciously enough, but after Midge had telephoned to the rest of her family there seemed to be nothing to do. Delight had a headache, brought on probably by the excitement of the day before, and she didn't feel like playing princess.

There was no use finishing the valentines, for Doctor Mendel said they must not send them to anybody.

Miss Hart was in her own room, and the morning dragged.

Marjorie almost wished she could go to school, and she certainly wished she could go out to play. But the doctor's orders were strict against their leaving the house, so she sat down in the library to read a story-book. Delight wandered in.

"I think you might entertain me," she said; "my head aches awfully."

"Shall I read to you?" asked Midget. She had had little experience with headaches, and didn't quite know what to do for them.

"Yes, read a fairy story."

So Midget good-naturedly laid aside her own book, and read aloud to Delight until her throat was tired.

"Go on," said Delight, as she paused.

"I can't," said Midget, "for it hurts my throat."

"Oh, pshaw, what a fuss you are! I think you might read; it's the only thing that makes me forget my headache."

So Marjorie began again, and read until Delight fell asleep.

"I'm glad I kept on," thought Midget to herself; "though it did make my throat all scratchy. But I mustn't be sorry for myself, so I'm glad I was sorry for Delight. Maybe a little nap will make her head better."



CHAPTER XIII

GOLDFISH AND KITTENS

Leaving Delight asleep, Marjorie wandered out to the dining-room, where Mrs. Spencer was assisting the waitress in her duties. As Maggie was not allowed to leave the sick-room, Mary, the waitress, did the cooking, and this left many smaller offices to be performed by Mrs. Spencer.

"Can't I help you?" asked Marjorie, who was at her wits' end for occupation.

Usually, she could entertain herself for any length of time, but the strangeness of her surroundings, and a general feeling of homesickness made books or games unattractive.

"Why, no, Marjorie; little girls can't help," said Mrs. Spencer, who never thought of calling on Delight for assistance.

"Oh, yes, I can; truly I can do lots of things. Mayn't I put away that silver?"

"No; you don't know where it belongs. But if want to help me, can't you attend to Delight's canary? He hasn't had his bath, and Mary is too busy to do it. Do you know how?"

"Oh, yes; I often give our bird his bath, and clean his cage, and give him fresh seed and water. Where shall I find the birdseed?"

"In the small cupboard in Delight's playroom, the room where the bird is, you know."

"Yes'm, I know."

Marjorie ran upstairs, interested in this work, and taking the cage from its hook, set it on the table. She found the little bathtub and filled it with water of just the right warmth, and taking the upper part of the cage from its base, set it over the tub, which she had carefully placed on a large newspaper.

"There," she said, "spatter away as much as you like, while I cut a nice round paper carpet for your cage. I don't know your name, but I shall call you Buttercup, because you're so yellow."

The bird cocked his black eye at her, and seemed to approve of his new attendant, for he hopped into his bath, and splashed the water vigorously.

"You're a nice little Buttercup," went on Midget; "some bad little birdies won't jump in and bathe. There, I think that's enough; you'll wash all your feathers off! Here you go back home again."

She replaced the cage, filled the seed and water vases, and hung it back on its hook.

Midget was a capable little girl, and she took away the bathtub, and tidied up all traces of her work, as neatly as Mary could have done. Then she looked around for more worlds to conquer.

She saw the aquarium, a small round one, all of glass, in which were four goldfish.

"I think I'll give you a bath," said Midget to the fishes, laughing at the absurdity of the idea. But as she stood watching them, she observed the green mossy slime that covered the stones and shells at the bottom of the aquarium, and it occurred to her that it would be a good idea to clean them.

"There's a small scrubbing-brush in the bathroom," she said to herself, "and I can scrub them clean, and put in fresh water, and Mrs. Spencer will be so surprised and pleased."

She was about to bring a bowl of water from the bathroom to put the stones in while she scrubbed them, but she thought since there was already water in the glass, she might as well use that, and then get clean water for the fishes afterward.

"But I don't believe they'll like the soap," she thought, as, scrub-brush in hand, she was about to dip the soap in the water. "So I'll lay them aside while I scrub."

Marjorie had never had any goldfish, and knew nothing about them, so with no thought save to handle them gently, she took them out of the water, and laid them on the table in the sunlight.

She caught them by the simple process of using her handkerchief as a drag-net, and with great care, laid them softly down on the felt table-cover.

"There, fishies," she said, "don't take to your heels and run away. I'll soon clean up these dirty old stones and shells, then I'll give you nice fresh water, and put you back home again."

The stones and shells did look better, according to Midget's way of thinking, after she had vigorously scrubbed the moss from them. They shone glistening, and white, and she put them back in the aquarium and filled it with clean water, and then went for the fish.

"Ah, taking a nap, are you?" she said, as the four lay quiet on the table. But when she carefully put them back in the water, and they didn't wriggle or squirm a bit, she knew at once they were dead.

"You horrid things!" cried Midget, "what did you go and die for, just when I was fixing up your cage so nice? You're not really dead, are you? Wake up!"

She poked and pinched them to no avail.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed, "whenever I try to be good and helpful, I'm bad and troublesome. Now I must go and tell Mrs. Spencer about it. I wonder what she'll say. I wish I could tell mother first, but they'd hear me on the telephone. Perhaps the old things will come alive again. Maybe they've only fainted."