"You bet we do!" cried King, now broad awake, and shaking himself out of his rug as he jumped up.
Mrs. Maynard was rousing Kitty, and sat beside the half-asleep child with her arm round her, while Grandma was treating Marjorie in the same way.
"It seems a shame," began Grandma, but Uncle Steve interrupted:
"A shame to wake them? Not a bit of it! It would be a shame to let them sleep through a chance that they won't get again for a year! Hello! chickabiddies! Hello! Wake up! Fire! Murder! Thieves! Fred, give me that rattle!"
Taking the noisy little toy, Uncle Steve sprang it vigorously, and was rewarded for his efforts by seeing the two girls at last on their feet and smiling broadly,—wide awake now, indeed.
"Five minutes grace," said Mr. Maynard. "Out with your watches, you who have them. The rest look on with somebody else."
Kitty ran to her father's side, and cuddled in his arm, as she looked at his watch. Marjorie saw Uncle Steve's smile inviting her, so she flew across the room to him; and King politely offered his watch to his mother and grandmother, saying the nursery clock would do for him.
Care was taken to have all the time-pieces set exactly alike, and then it was three minutes of midnight, and they waited.
"He'll come in at the window, the New Year will," said Mr. Maynard as he flung the casement wide open. "The old year is going. Bid him good-bye, children, you'll never see him again. Good-bye, old year, good-bye!"
"Good-bye, old year, good-bye!" they all said in concert, and murmured it again, as the last seconds flew steadily by.
"Happy New Year!" shouted Mr. Maynard, as his second-hand reached the mark, but he was no quicker than the others, and all the voices rang out a "Happy New Year" simultaneously.
Then the village clock began to strike twelve, all the bells in the little town began to ring, some firing was heard, and shouts from passers-by in the streets added to the general jubilee.
"Isn't it splendid!" cried Marjorie, as she leaned out of the window."The moon is gone, but see the bright, bright stars, all twinkling 'HappyNew Year' to us!"
"May it indeed be a Happy New Year for you, my dear child," said her father, as he kissed her tenderly.
And then everybody was exchanging kisses and greetings, and good wishes, and Marjorie realized that at last, she had sat up to "see the New Year in."
"But I don't see how we happened to fall asleep," she said, looking puzzled.
"I, either," said King; "I was just bound I wouldn't, and then I did."
"You were bound I shouldn't, too," said Kitty, "but I did!"
"You all did!" said Mr. Maynard. "Such sleeping I never saw!"
"Well, it was lovely of you to wake us up," said Marjorie; "I wouldn't have missed all this for anything."
"All things come to him who waits," said her father, "and you certainly waited very quietly and patiently!"
"And now, skip to bed," said Mrs. Maynard, "and not until three hundred and sixty-five nights are passed, do we have such a performance as this again."
"All right," said the children, "good-night, and Happy New Year!"
"Good-night and Happy New Year!" echoed the grown-ups.
The New Year was about a week old, and so far, had nobly fulfilled all hopes of happiness.
To be sure, Marjorie had been obliged to begin school again, but as she had the companionship of Gladys Fulton, who dearly loved to go to school, it helped her to bear the trial.
She had been to spend the afternoon with Gladys and was returning home at five o'clock, as was the rule for winter days.
She turned in at her own gate-way, and had there been any one to see her, it might have been noticed that her demeanor and expression were very unlike the usual appearance of gay, laughing Marjorie Maynard.
In fact, she looked the picture of utter despair and dejection. Her head hung down, her steps were slow, and yet she seemed filled with a riot of indignation.
Her face was flushed and her eyes red, and though not exactly crying, great shivering sobs now and then shook her whole body.
Once inside her own home grounds, she quickened her pace a little, and almost ran up the verandah steps and in at the door.
She slammed it behind her, and though, I am sorry to say, this was not an unusual proceeding for Midget, yet she was truly trying to break herself of the habit.
But this time she gave the door a hard, angry slam, and flinging her wraps anywhere, as she went along, she brushed hastily through the various rooms in search of her mother.
But Mrs. Maynard and Kitty had gone out driving, and King wasn't at home, either, so poor Marjorie, her eyes now blinded with surging tears, stumbled on to her own room, and threw herself, sobbing, on her little white bed.
She buried her face in the pillow and gave way to such tumultuous grief that the brass bedstead fairly shook in sympathy.
"I can't bear it!" she murmured, half aloud; "Ican'tbear it! It's a wicked shame! I don't Want to live any more! Oh, IwishMother would come home!"
For nearly half an hour Marjorie cried and cried. Now with big, bursting, heart-rending sobs, and at quieter intervals, with floods of hot tears.
Her little handkerchief became a useless, wet ball, and she dried her eyes, spasmodically, on various parts of the pillow-case.
At last, in one of her paroxysms of woe, she felt a little hand on her cheek, and Rosy Posy's little voice said, sweetly:
"What 'e matter, Middy? Wosy Posy loves 'oo!"
This was a crumb of comfort, and Marjorie drew the baby's cool cheek against her own hot one.
The child scrambled up on the bed, beside her sister, and petted her gently, saying:
"Don't ky, Middy; 'top kyin'."
"Oh, Rosy Posy, I'm so miserable! where is Mother?"
"Muvver dawn yidin'. Wosy take care of 'oo. Want Nannie?"
"No, I don't want Nannie. You stay here, little sister, till Mother comes."
"Ess. Wosy 'tay wiv Middy. Dear Middy."
The loving baby cuddled up to her sister, and smoothed back the tangled curls with her soft little hand, until exhausted Marjorie, quite worn out with her turbulent storm of tears, fell asleep.
And here Mrs. Maynard found them, as, coming in soon, she went in search of her eldest daughter.
"Why, Baby," she said; "what's the matter? Is Marjorie sick?"
"No," said Rosamond, holding up a tiny finger. "She's aseep. She kied and kied, Middy did, an' nen she went seepy-by, all herself."
"Cried!" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, looking at Midget's swollen, tear-stained face. "What was she crying about?"
"I donno," answered Rosy, "but she feeled awful bad 'bout somefin'."
"I should think she did! You run away to Nurse, darling; you were goodBaby to take care of Midget, but, now, run away and leave her to Mother."
Mrs. Maynard brought some cool water and bathed the flushed little face, and then sprinkling some violet water on a handkerchief she laid it lightly across Midget's brow. After a time the child woke, and found her mother sitting beside her.
"Oh, Mother!" she cried; "oh, Mother!"
"What is it, dearie?" said Mrs. Maynard, putting her arms round Marjorie."Tell Mother, and we'll make it all right, somehow."
She was quite sure Miss Mischief had been up to some prank, which had turned out disastrously. But it must have been a serious one, and perhaps there were grave consequences to be met.
"Oh, Mother, it's the most dreadful thing!" Here Marjorie's sobs broke out afresh, and she really couldn't speak coherently.
"Never mind," said Mrs. Maynard, gently, fearing the excitable child would fly into hysterics. "Never mind it to-night. Tell me about it to-morrow."
"N-no,—I w-want to tell you now,—only,—I c-can't talk. Oh, Mother, what shall I d-do? G-Gladys—"
"Yes, dear; Gladys,—what did she do? Or perhaps you and Gladys—"
Mrs. Maynard now surmised that the two girls were in some mischievous scrape, and she felt positive that Marjorie had been the instigator, as indeed she usually was.
"Oh, Mother, darling," as something in Mrs. Maynard's tone made Marjorie smile a little through her tears, "it isn'tmischief! It's a thousand times worse than that!"
Middy was quieter now, with the physical calm that always follows a storm of tears.
"It's this; Gladys is going away! Forever! I mean, they'reallgoing to move away,—out west, and I'll never see her again!"
Mrs. Maynard realized at once what this meant to Marjorie. The girls were such good friends, and neither of them cared so much for any one else, as for each other. The Fultons lived just across the street, and had always lived there, through both the little girls' lives. It was almost like losing her own brother or sister, for Marjorie and Gladys were as lovingly intimate as two sisters could be.
Also, it seemed a case where no word of comfort or cheer could be spoken.
So Mrs. Maynard gently caressed her troubled child, and said:
"My poor, darling Midget; I'msosorry for you. Are you sure? Tell me all about it."
"Yes, Mother," went on Marjorie, helped already by her mother's loving sympathy; "they just told me this afternoon. I've been over there, you know, and Gladys and Mrs. Fulton told me all about it. Mr. Fulton isn't well, or something, and for his health, they're all going to California, to live there. And they're going right away! The doctor says they must hurry. And, oh, whatshallI do without Gladys? I love her so!"
"Dear little girl, this is your first trouble; and it has come to you just in the beginning of this happy New Year. I can't tell you how sorry I am for you, and how I long to help you bear it. But there's no way I can help, except by sympathy and love."
"Youdohelp, Mother. I thought I'ddiebefore you came!"
"Yes, darling, I know my sympathy helps you, but I mean, I can't do anything to lessen your sorrow at losing Gladys."
"No,—and oh, Mother, isn't it awful? Why, I'vealwayshad Gladys."
"You'll have to play more with Kitty."
"Oh, of course I love Kit, to play with at home, and to be my sister. But Glad is my chum, my intimate friend, and we always sit together in school, and everything like that. Kitty's in another room, and besides, she has Dorothy Adams for her friend. You know the difference between friends and sisters, don't you, Mother?"
"Of course I do, Midget, dear. You and Kitty are two loving little sisters, but I quite understand how you each love your friends of your own age."
"And Kitty can keep Dorothy, but I must lose Gladys," and Marjorie's sobs broke out anew.
"Why, Mopsy Midget Maynard! Why are we having April showers in January?"
Mr. Maynard's cheery voice sounded in Marjorie's doorway, and his wife beckoned him to come in.
"See what you can do for our little girl," she said; "she is trying to bear her first real trouble, and I'm sure, after these first awful hours she's going to be brave about it."
"What is it, Mops?" said her father, taking the seat Mrs. Maynard vacated. "Tell your old father-chum all about it. You know your troubles are mine, too."
"Oh, Father," said Marjorie, brightening a little under the influence of his strong, helpful voice; "Gladys Fulton is going away from Rockwell to live; and I can't have her for my chum any more."
"Yes, I know; I saw Mr. Fulton and he told me. He's pretty ill,Marjorie."
"Yes, I know it; and I'm awful sorry for him, and for them. But I'm sorry for myself too; I don't want Gladys to go away."
"That's so; you will lose your chum, won't you? By jiminy! itishard lines, little girl. How are you going to take it?"
Marjorie stopped crying, and stared at her father.
"How am I going to take it?" she said, in surprise.
"Yes; that's what I asked. Of course, it's a sorrow, and a deep one, and you'll be very lonely without Gladys, and though your mother and I, and all of us, will help you all we can, yet we can't help much. So, it's up to you. Are you going to give way, and mope around, and make yourself even more miserable than need be; or, are you going to be brave, and honestly try to bear this trouble nobly and patiently?"
Marjorie looked straight into her father's eyes, and realized that he was not scolding or lecturing her, he was looking at her with deep, loving sympathy that promised real help.
"I will try to bear it bravely," she said, slowly; "but, Father, that doesn't make it any easier to have Gladys go."
Mr. Maynard smiled at this very human sentiment, and said:
"No, Midget, dear, it doesn't, in one way; but in another way it does. You mustn't think that I don't appreciate fully your sorrow at losing Gladys. But troubles come into every life, and though this is your first, I cannot hope it will be your last. So, if you are to have more of them, you must begin to learn to bear them rightly, and so make them help your character-growth and not hinder it."
"But, Father, you see Gladys helps my character a lot. She loves to go to school, and I hate it. But if I go with her, and sit with her I don't mind it so much. But without her,—oh howcanI go to school without her?"
Again Marjorie wept as one who could not be comforted, and Mr. Maynard realized it was truly a crisis in the little girl's life.
"Marjorie," he said, very tenderly, "itisa hard blow, and I don't wonder it is crushing you. Nor do I expect you to take a philosophical view of it at present. But, my child, we'll look at it practically, at least. Gladysisgoing; nothing can change that fact. Now, for my sake, as well as your own, I'm going toaskyou to be my own brave daughter, and not disappoint me by showing a lack of cheerful courage to meet misfortune."
"I don't want to be babyish, Father," said Midget, suddenly feeling ashamed of herself.
"You're not babyish, dear; it's right and womanly to feel grief at losing Gladys; but since it has to be, I want you to conquer that grief, and not let it conquer you."
"I'll try," said Midge, wiping away some tears.
"You know, Marjorie, the old rhyme:
"'For every evil under the sun,There is a remedy, or there's none;If there is one, try to find it,And if there is none, never mind it.'
"Now, I don't say 'never mind it' about this matter, but since there's no remedy, do the best you can to rise above it, as you will have to do many times in your future years."
"Father," said Marjorie, thoughtfully; "that sounds awful noble, but I don't believe I quite understand. What can Idoto 'rise above it'?"
"Marjorie, you're a trump! I'd rather you'd be practical, than wise. And there's no better weapon with which to fight trouble than practicality. Now, I'll tell you what to do. And I don't mean today or tomorrow, for just at first, you wouldn't be a human little girl if youdidn'tnearly cry your eyes out at the loss of your friend. But soon,—say about next Tuesday,—if you could begin to smile a little, and though I know it will be hard, smile a little wider and wider each day—"
"Till the top of my head comes off?" said Marjorie, smiling already.
"Yes; theoretically. But make up your mind that since Gladys must go, you're not going to let the fact turn you into a sad, dolorous mope instead of Mops."
"That's all very well at home, Father dear, but I'll miss her so at school."
"Of course you will; but is there any remedy?"
"No, there isn't. I don't want any other seat-mate, and I don't want to sit alone."
"Oh! Well, I can't see any way out of that, unless I go and sit with you."
Marjorie had to laugh at this. "You couldn't squeeze in the space," she said.
"Well, then you've proved there'snoremedy. So, never mind it! I mean that, dearie. When you are lonely and just fairlyachingfor Gladys, put it bravely out of your mind."
"How can I?"
"Why, fill your mind with something else that will crowd it out. Say to yourself, 'There's that sorrow poking his head up again, and I must push him down.' Then go at somethinghard. Study your spelling, or go on a picnic,anythingto crowd that persistent sorrow out."
"Can't I ever think of Gladys?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! but think gay, happy thoughts. If memories of your good times make you sad, then cut them out, and wonder what sort of fun she's having where she is. Write her nice, cheery letters. Letters are lots of fun."
"Indeed they are," said Marjorie, brightening. "I'll love to get her letters."
"Of course you will. And you can send each other postcards and little gifts, and if you try you can have a lot of pleasure with Gladys in spite of old sorrow."
"Daddy, you're such a dear! You've helped me a heap."
"That's what daddys are for, Midget mine. You're one of my four favorite children, and don't you suppose I'd help you to the earth, if you wanted it?"
"I 'spect you would. And, Father, you said I could cry till aboutTuesday, didn't you?"
"Why, yes; but make it a little shorter spell each day, and,—if perfectly convenient, arrange to do it when I'm at home."
"Oh, Father, that's the time I won't cry! When you're here to talk to me."
"You don't say so! Then I'll retire from business, close up my office, and stay at home all day hereafter. Anything I can do to help a lady in distress, must be done!"
They were both laughing now, and Midge had quite stopped crying, though her heart was heavy underneath her smiles.
But the whole current of her thoughts had been changed by her talk with her father, and as she made herself tidy, and went down to dinner, she felt a responsibility on her to act as became the brave daughter of such a dear father.
And, strange to say, the feeling was not entirely unpleasant.
Gladys was to go away early one Saturday morning.
On Friday afternoon Marjorie gave a little farewell party for her.
Mrs. Maynard arranged this as a pleasant send-off for Marjorie's friend, and determined that though it was a sad occasion, it should be also a merry one.
So, instead of depending on the guests to make their own entertainment, a professional entertainer had been engaged from New York, and he sang and recited and did pantomimes that were so funny nobody could help laughing.
And, too, though all the children liked Dick and Gladys Fulton, yet none felt so very sorry to have them leave Rockwell as Marjorie did.
Even Kingdon, though he was good chums with Dick, had other chums, and, while sorry to have Dick go, he didn't take it greatly to heart.
Marjorie was truly trying to be brave, but she looked at Gladys with a heart full of love and longing to keep her friend near her.
As for Gladys, herself, she, too, was sad at leaving Marjorie, but she was so full of wonder and curiosity about the new home they were going to, in the land of flowers and sunshine, that she was fairly impatient to get there.
"Just think, Mopsy," she said, as the two girls sat together at the party feast, "the roses out there are as big as cabbages, and bloom all the year round."
"Are they really?" said Midget, interested in spite of herself.
"Yes, and I'll send you a big box of them as soon as I get there. They'll keep all right, 'cause mother received a box the other day, and they were as fresh as fresh."
"And you'll write to me, Glad, won't you?" said Marjorie, a little wistfully.
"'Course I will! I'll write every week, and you write every week. What day do you choose?"
"Monday; that comes first."
"All right. You write to me every Monday, and I'll write to you everyThursday."
"You can't answer a Monday letter on Thursday," put in Gladys's brotherDick; "it takes five or six days for a letter to go."
"Well, I'll write the Monday after you go," said Marjorie, "and then you answer it as soon as you get it; then I'll answer yours as soon as I get it, and so on."
"All right, I will. And I'll write you a letter while I'm on the train, travelling. Of course we'll be five or six days getting there ourselves."
"So you will. Oh, Gladys, California is awful far away!"
"Yes, isn't it! But, Mops, maybe you can come out there and visit me some time."
Marjorie looked doubtful. "No," she said, "I don't think I could go and leave them all, and I don't s'pose you mean for us all to come."
"No, I meant just you. Well, I'll come here and visit you, some time, how's that?"
"Lovely!" cried Midge, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, will you, Gladys? That will be something to look forward to. Will you?"
"Of course I will, Mops, dear. I know mother'll let me, and I'd love to come."
This was a real consolation, and Marjorie laid it up in her heart for comfort on lonely days.
After the party supper was over, most of the young guests gave Gladys orDick little gifts which they had brought them as remembrances.
They were merely pretty trifles, but the Fulton children were greatly pleased, and declared they should never forget their Rockwell friends for any they might make in California.
Marjorie gave Gladys a gold neck-chain, with a little gold heart containing her picture, and Gladys had already given Midge her own portrait framed in silver to stand on her dressing-table. The young guests all went away except the two Fultons, who were to stay to dinner. Mr. Maynard came home, and with a determination to keep Marjorie's spirits up, he was especially gay and nonsensical.
"I suppose Uncle Sam will have to put on extra mail service when you two girls get to corresponding," he said.
"Yes, Mr. Maynard," said Gladys. "Marjorie and I are both going to write every week, and I'm going to send her flowers by mail."
"Well, don't send any live rattlesnakes or Gila monsters in the mail.They might starve on the way."
"I'd rather they'd starve on the way than reach here alive," saidMarjorie, with a little shudder.
"Do they have those things where you're going, Glad?"
"I don't know. Isn't it strange to be going to live in a place that you don't know anything about?"
"It's strange to have you live anywhere but in Rockwell," said Marjorie, and Gladys squeezed her hand under the table.
But at last the time came for the real farewells.
"Cut it short," cried Mr. Maynard, gaily, though there was a lump in his own throat as Gladys and Marjorie threw their arms about each other's neck for the last time.
The Fultons were to leave very early the next morning, and the girls would not meet again.
Both were sobbing, and Dick and Kingdon stood by, truly distressed at their sisters' grief.
"Come, dearie, let Gladys go now," said Mrs. Maynard, for knowingMarjorie's excitable nature, she feared these paroxysms of tears.
"No, no! she shan't go!" Midge almost screamed, and Gladys was also in a state of convulsive weeping.
Mr. Maynard went to Marjorie, and laid his big cool hand on her brow.
"My little girl," he whispered in her ear "father wants you to be bravenow."
Midget look up into his dear, kind eyes, and then, with a truly brave effort she conquered herself.
"I will, Father," she whispered back, and then, with one last embrace, she said, "Good-bye, Gladys, dear Gladys, good-bye."
She let her go, and Dick took his sister's arm in silence, and they went away.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Maynard were somewhat shaken by the children's tragedy, but neither thought it wise to show it.
"Now, Mopsy Moppet," said her father, "what do you think I have here?"
He took a parcel from the mantel, and held it up.
"I don't know," said Midge, trying to smile; "what is it?"
"Well, it's a game,—a brand new game, and none of your poky old go-to-sleep affairs either. It's a lively, wide-awake game, that only lively, wide-awake children can play. So come one, come all!"
They all gathered round the table, and Mr. Maynard explained the rules of the new game. Marjorie loved games, and as this was really a most interesting one, she couldn't help enjoying it, and was soon absorbed in the play. It combined the elements of both skill and chance, and caused many moments of breathless suspense, as one or another gained or lost in the count.
When it was finished, Marjorie was again her own rosy, smiling self, and though she still felt the vague weight of sorrow, she had spent a pleasant, enjoyable hour.
"And now to bed, chickadees," cried their father, "it's long past nine!"
"Is it really?" exclaimed Midget, "how the time has flown!"
"That's because you were my own brave girl, and tried to rise above misfortune," said Mr. Maynard, as he bade her good-night. "No teary pillows to-night, girlie."
"No, Father, dear, I hope not."
"Just go to sleep, and dream that you have a few friends still east of the Rockies."
"More than I'll ever have west of them," responded Marjorie, and then with her arm round Kitty's waist, the two girls went upstairs to bed.
The next morning at the breakfast table, Mr. Maynard made a sudden and unexpected announcement.
"Mother Maynard," he said, "if you can spare your eldest daughter, I think I'll borrow her for the day."
"What!" cried Marjorie, looking up in surprise.
"You may have her," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling, "if you'll return her safely."
"Oh, I can't promise that. I'm of rather careless habits, and I might mislay her somewhere."
"Well, I'll trust you for this once. Mops, do you want to go to town withFather?"
Marjorie's eyes flashed an answer, and Kitty exclaimed:
"Without us?"
"I grieve to disappoint you, Kitsie," said Mr. Maynard, "but you still have your friend Dorothy. Midget is cruelly deprived of her chum, and so for one day she is going to put up with a doddering old gentleman instead. Get your bonnet and shawl, my child."
Marjorie looked at her mother for confirmation of this good news, and receiving an answering smile, she excused herself from the table and ran away to her room. Nannie helped her, and soon she tripped downstairs prettily dressed in a dark blue cloth frock and jacket, a blue felt hat, and her Christmas furs.
"Whew! what a fine lady!" said her father. "I shall have to don my best hat and feathers, I think."
"I've lost my chum, too," said King, as he watched the pair about to start.
"Yes, you have, my boy, but he wasn't your 'perfectly darling confidential friend,' as girls' chums are! Moreover, you haven't shed such gallons of first-class well-salted tears as this young person has. No, Son, I'm sorry to leave you behind, but you didn't weep and wail loud enough!"
King had to laugh at the way his father put it, but he well knew Marjorie was given a day's pleasure to divert her mind from Gladys's departure, and he didn't begrudge his sister the trip.
"We must be extra kind to old Midge, Kit," he said, as Marjorie and her father walked briskly down the drive.
"Yes," said Kitty, earnestly, "she does feel awful about losing Gladys.I'm going to make fudge for her, while she's gone to-day."
"I wish I could do something for her. Boys are no good!"
"You are too!" cried loyal little Kitty. "You can help her with her arithmetic every night. She can do it all right, if she has a little help, and Glad used to help her a lot."
"Good for you, Kitsie! of course I will. Dear old Midge, I'm terrible sorry for her."
Meantime, Marjorie, by her father's side, was rushing along in the train to New York.
While Mr. Maynard read his paper, he glanced sometimes at his daughter, and rejoiced that she was interestedly gazing out of the window at the flying scenery.
Occasionally, she turned and smiled at him, but she said little, and he knew she was being brave and trying not to think too much about her loss.
Gladys had gone away early and when they had passed the closed and deserted-looking Fulton house, Marjorie had swallowed hard and looked the other way.
But once in New York, the child had no time to think of anything but the present hour, so full of joy was the whole day.
"My time is yours," announced Mr. Maynard, as they reached the city. "I've telephoned to the office that I won't be there at all today, so what shall we do?"
"Oh, Father, a whole Ourday, all for you and me?" Marjorie's eyes danced at this unheard of experience.
"Yes, Midget; partly because I'm sorry for my troubled little girl, and partly because youarebearing your trouble bravely and cheerfully."
"Who wouldn't be cheerful, with a whole Ourday, and a whole father, all to myself!"
"Well, you'll probably never have another, alone with me. So make the most of it. Where shall we go first?"
"Oh, I don't know; it's all so lovely."
"Then I'll choose. Step this way, Madame."
This way, was toward a line of waiting taxicabs, and Mr. Maynard engaged one, and handed Marjorie in.
"A taxy ride! Oh, lovely!" she cried, as they started off at a fine pace.
On they went, spinning across town, till they reached Fifth Avenue, and turned up that broad thoroughfare.
Marjorie enjoyed every minute, and looked out of the open window at the bustling city life all about. Up town they went for blocks and blocks, and stopped at the Metropolitan Art Museum.
They went in here, after Mr. Maynard had dismissed the cab, and staid the rest of the morning.
Marjorie, perhaps, would not have cared so much for the pictures and statues had she been alone; but her father called her attention to certain ones, and told her about them in such a way, that she was amused and instructed both.
They looked at strange and curious relics of ancient times; they studied the small models of the world's greatest buildings; and they lingered in the hall full of casts of the noblest statues of all time.
"Hungry, Chickadee?" said Mr. Maynard, at last, looking at his watch.
"Why, yes, I believe I am; but I hadn't thought of it."
"I'm glad you are, for I can assure you I am. Suppose we make a mad dash for a pie-shop."
"Come on," said Marjorie, and away they went, through the turnstiles, and out upon Fifth Avenue again.
Mr. Maynard hailed a motor-omnibus, and Marjorie carefully climbed the spiral staircase at the back. Her father followed, and sitting up on top of the 'bus, in the crisp, wintry air and bright sunshine, they went whizzing down the avenue.
"Isn't it fun, Father!" said Marjorie, as she held tightly to his arm.
"Yes, and there's a fine view to-day." He pointed out many famous buildings, and when they neared a large hotel, he said:
"We'll have to get out, Midge. I shall pine away with hunger before another block."
"Out we go!" was the reply, and they clambered down the twisty stair.
"Is there anything that would tempt your appetite, Miss Maynard?" said her father, as, seated at a small round table, he looked over the menu.
"No, thank you; I don't think I can eat a thing!" said Midge, dropping her eyes, and trying to look fragile and delicate.
"No? But really, you must try to taste of something. Say, the left wing of a butterfly, with hard sauce."
This made Marjorie laugh, and she said, "I couldn't eat it all, but I might nibble at it."
Then what Mr. Maynard really did, was to order Marjorie's favourite dishes.
First, they had grape-fruit, all cut in bits, and piled up in dainty, long-stemmed glasses. Then, they had a soft, thick soup, and then sweetbreads with mushrooms.
"You're not to get ill, you know," said Mr. Maynard, as Marjorie showed a surprising appetite, "but I do want you to have whatever you like to-day."
"Oh, I won't get ill," declared Marjorie, gaily, "and now, may I select the ice cream?"
"Yes, if you won't ask for plum pudding also."
"No, but I do want little cakes, iced all over. Pink and green and white and yellow ones."
These were allowed, and Marjorie blissfully kept on nibbling them, while Mr. Maynard sipped his coffee. In the afternoon they went to a matinée. It was one of the gorgeous spectacular productions, founded upon an old fairy tale, and Marjorie was enraptured with the beautiful tableaux, the wonderful scenery, and the gay music.
"Oh, Father," she said, "aren't we having the gorgeousest time! You are the beautifulest man in the whole world!"
After the performance, Mr. Maynard spoke of going home, but Marjorie's eyes held a mute appeal, which he could not resist.
"Ice creamagain!" he said, though she had not spoken the words. "Well, ice cream it is, then, but no rich cakes this time. I promised Motherdy I'd bring you home safe and sound. But I'll tell you, we'll buy some of those cakes to take home, and you may have them to-morrow."
"And Kitty and King, too," said Midge. "And let's take them some buttercups."
So the candy and cakes were bought and carried home by two tired but very happy people, and Marjorie fully appreciated the lovely day her father had given her, because of Gladys's going away.
"And Iwillbe good and brave," she resolved to herself, on her way home in the train. "I'm going to try to be just as cheerful and pleasant as If Gladys hadn't gone away at all, but was in her own house, across the street."
But though Marjorie made her brave resolutions in good faith, it was hard to keep them. School was awful. The very sight of Gladys's empty seat made Midge choke with tears.
Miss Lawrence appreciated the case, and was most gentle and kind toMarjorie, but still the trouble was there.
"Wouldn't you like to have Katy Black sit with you, dear?" asked the teacher.
"No, thank you." said Midge, "I can't bear to put any one in Gladys's place. Don't bother about me, Miss Lawrence, I'm not going to cry."
She didn't cry, but she sighed so frequently and so deeply, that kind-hearted Miss Lawrence almost wept in sympathy.
At home it was better. The Maynards always had good times at home, and of course when there, Marjorie didn't miss Gladys so much. But the long mornings in the school-room, and the long afternoons when she wanted to run over to Gladys's house were almost unbearable.
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, butit'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 ourMarjorie 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.
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
"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."
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
"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, sheisa 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 rôle. "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, andI'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, Idoknow 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.
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, andI'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; whileDelight was of lovely blonde type, and her pale blue robe suited her, asMidget'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 thenMiss 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.