"October 28th, 19—"My Own Precious Mother:"The first letter must be to you, of course, and the next to Aunt Jessie. Uncle Henry says if I write now I can post my letter when we stop at Albuquerque this afternoon. Oh, Mother darling, was it only this morning that I said good-bye to you all? It seems as if I had been away a month already."I am writing this at the desk in the library car, and the train shakes so I am afraid my writing will be worse than ever. Uncle Henry says I shall soon get accustomed to the motion, but just now it makes my head ache, and the car feels very hot and stuffy. I opened the window, but a great many cinders came in, and a lady in the section next to mine asked me to close it again, so I had to."I hope Father didn't tell you what a goose I was at the station. I didn't mean to cry somuch, but when I thought of you and Aunt Jessie waving good-bye to me from the porch, with such a sorrowful look on both your dear faces, I just couldn't help it. I am going to cheer up right away, though, so please don't worry about me."It really was very exciting when the train stopped at Lorton, and Uncle Henry and I got in. When it began to move, and I realized that I was actually on board, I gave a kind of gasp, and would have liked to scream, if I hadn't been afraid of shocking Uncle Henry. There are not many people on the train, the colored porter says, and Uncle Henry and I both have sections to ourselves. I thought there would be regular beds to sleep in, but there are not. The porter says they turn the seats into beds at night, and there are curtains to let down. I should think it would be very uncomfortable sleeping so close to other people, but I suppose one gets used to it when one has traveled a good deal. Uncle Henry says Aunt Julia won't travel unless she has a stateroom, but he doesn't object to the sections. I looked into the stateroom in this car, but it didn't look very different from the sections, except that it was larger and there was a place to wash."We had lunch at a little table in the dining-car. It was delicious but my head ached a little, and I wasn't very hungry. Uncle Henry talked politics with a gentleman who sat at the same table with us, but they didn't say much to me, so I looked out of the window, and it was all very interesting. We are in Mexico now, and to-morrow we shall be in Kansas. Kansas makes me think of Undine and Mrs. Hicks. Oh, how I do wonder if Undine will ever remember!"Uncle Henry says we shall be in Albuquerque in a few minutes, so I must stop writing if I want to post my letter there. Good-night, Mother darling; I will write again to-morrow, and indeed, indeed, I will try to remember all the things you said to me last night, and to be always"Your own loving"Marjorie.""October 28th."Darling Aunt Jessie:"I have been a whole night on the train, and when I think of how far away from home we are, I can't help being just a little frightened, though it is all very interesting. I posted Mother's letter at Albuquerque, where the train stopped half an hour. Uncle Henry and I gotout and walked up and down the platform, and, oh, it was good to get a breath of fresh air! I really didn't know that any place could be quite so stuffy as this train. Everybody seems afraid to have the windows open on account of the cinders, but I think I should prefer even cinders to stuffiness. There were some Indians selling blankets and baskets, and a good many people bought things. They crowded round us, and made a good deal of fuss, and I heard one lady say she was afraid of them. Just think of being afraid of poor harmless Indians! I would have liked to tell her how foolish she was, but was afraid Uncle Henry might be displeased. I don't think he is a very friendly person, for he hardly speaks to any of the passengers on the train, and last night he told me I talked too much to the black porter, who was making up the sections. Oh, Aunt Jessie, it was so curious to see him turning all the seats into beds, but you have been on a sleeping car, and know all about it."We had a very good dinner, which I enjoyed more than lunch, because my head was better, and in the evening we sat on the platform of the observation car, and it was very pleasant. Uncle Henry was kind, and talked to me a good deal—at least it was a good deal for him. I asked himif he wasn't very anxious to get home to see Aunt Julia and Elsie, and he said of course he should be glad to see them, but didn't seem nearly as excited as I am sure Father would be about seeing us if he had been away from us for three whole weeks. I think Elsie must be very busy, for besides going to school, she has music and German lessons in the afternoons, and goes to a dancing class. Uncle Henry said he hoped she and I would be good friends, and I told him I was quite sure we should. Imagine a girl not being good friends with her own first cousin! Did you know we are to live in a hotel all winter? Uncle Henry has a house on Madison Avenue, but Aunt Julia is tired of housekeeping, so he has rented it, and taken rooms in a hotel instead. Uncle Henry calls the rooms an apartment, and the name of the hotel is the 'Plaza.' It is on Fifth Avenue, and right opposite the park, which must be very pretty. I should think it would seem very queer to live in a house with a lot of other people, but then the people who live in hotels must have a great many friends."At about nine o'clock Uncle Henry said he was sleepy, so we went back to our car, and that was when I talked to the porter while he madeup the beds. I thought at first that I should never be able to sleep; the train shook so, and we were going so fast. It was hard work undressing behind the curtain, but I managed somehow, and even had a wash, though I had to hold on to the side of the car with one hand while I washed my face with the other. I did cry a little after I was in bed, but I don't think any one heard. It was my very first night away from home, you know, Aunt Jessie dear, but I tried to remember all the lovely, comforting things you and Mother said to me, and I think I must have been pretty tired, for before I realized I was getting sleepy I was sound asleep, and I never opened my eyes till it was broad daylight."To-day we are in Kansas, and it is very flat, and not at all pretty. Uncle Henry says we won't have any more fine scenery till we get to the Hudson. The train seems stuffier than ever, and I am just pining for fresh air and exercise. We sat on the observation platform for a while this morning, but Uncle Henry didn't like the cinders, and wouldn't let me stay there by myself, so we came back to our car. I don't think traveling on a train is quite as pleasant as I thought it was going to be. I am sure I should like an automobile better. We saw automobilesat Topeka, where we stopped for ten minutes this morning, and they looked very queer, going all by themselves, without any horses, but I think I should like a ride in one. Uncle Henry says Aunt Julia is afraid of automobiles, so she still uses a carriage."I talked to some people in the observation car—a lady and a little boy, who are going to Chicago—but I think most of the passengers on this train are rather unsociable. They don't talk much to each other but just read magazines and newspapers when they are awake, and take naps about every hour. I have watched the two ladies in the section opposite mine, and they have been asleep at least four times to-day. I heard one of them say she never could sleep on a train; wasn't that funny?"We can post letters from Kansas City, where we are due at half past eight to-night, so I can send this on from there. We get to Chicago to-morrow morning, and have three hours there; won't that be exciting? Oh, I do hope Uncle Henry will take me for a good long walk! I feel as if I could tramp ten miles."Good-bye, you precious Auntie! I send a thousand hugs and kisses to everybody. Tell Undine not to forget Roland's sugar—he alwayshas three lumps—and to be sure the kittens in the barn have their milk every night and morning. I am afraid I forgot to tell her about the kittens; there were so many other things to think of. I am so glad you and Mother have Undine; she is such a dear, and I know will try to take my place. I will write to Father and Mother after I have been in Chicago."From your own little niece,"Marjorie.""October 30th."My Own Precious Father and Mother:"This letter is for you both, and Aunt Jessie must have a share in it, too, because it is the last I shall be able to write on the train."I didn't write at all yesterday, it was such an exciting day! We got to Chicago at about noon, and, oh, what a big, noisy, wonderful place it is! I know I could never describe it if I tried for a week, so I will just tell you what we did. It was raining, which was a great disappointment to me, but Uncle Henry didn't seem to mind. He said we would take a taxi and go to the 'Blackstone' for lunch. I had no idea what a taxi was, but didn't like to ask and when Uncle Henry called one what do you suppose it was?One of those wonderful automobiles! I was a tiny bit scared when we first got in, but when we started, and went rushing through those crowded, noisy streets, I just loved it."It didn't take us long to get to the 'Blackstone,' which is an enormous hotel, looking out on the lake. The lake is wonderful; I never saw so much water before, and though the fog was thick, and we couldn't see very far, I should have liked to stand and look at it for a long time, but Uncle Henry said we must hurry. I never saw such a wonderful place as the dining-room at the 'Blackstone.' There were quantities of little tables, and men waiters to bring you what you wanted. I thought the bill of fare on the train was long enough to satisfy any one, but the one at the 'Blackstone' was simply endless. Uncle Henry told me to choose what I wanted, but there were so many things I couldn't possibly choose, so he ordered a nice lunch, and all the time we were eating music was playing in a gallery overhead."After lunch Uncle Henry took another taxi, and told the driver to show us the city. It was all very interesting, but so noisy and confusing that I got very tired looking at so many things at once, and I was really rather glad when UncleHenry said it was time to go back to the station."This train is called the 'Chicago Special,' and is even grander than the one we were on before. It goes very fast, but doesn't swing so much, because the road-bed is smoother, Uncle Henry says. I was so tired last night that I went to bed right after dinner, and never woke once till morning. We are due in New York this afternoon, and Uncle Henry says I had better post my letter in Albany, because after we leave there he wants me to see the Hudson, which I believe is very beautiful. So good-bye, you dear precious people! Oh, how anxious I am for my first letters from home! Don't forget to tell me about every single little thing that happens. I am thinking of you all every minute, and if I were going to any other people but Aunt Julia and Elsie I would be so unhappy. But of course going to one's own aunt and cousin is very different from being with strangers, and Uncle Henry is really very kind. Oh, I do wonder if Elsie is as much excited about meeting me as I am about meeting her!"Uncle Henry says we shall be in Albany in ten minutes, so good-bye again, with oceans of love from"Your Own Marjorie."
"October 28th, 19—
"The first letter must be to you, of course, and the next to Aunt Jessie. Uncle Henry says if I write now I can post my letter when we stop at Albuquerque this afternoon. Oh, Mother darling, was it only this morning that I said good-bye to you all? It seems as if I had been away a month already.
"I am writing this at the desk in the library car, and the train shakes so I am afraid my writing will be worse than ever. Uncle Henry says I shall soon get accustomed to the motion, but just now it makes my head ache, and the car feels very hot and stuffy. I opened the window, but a great many cinders came in, and a lady in the section next to mine asked me to close it again, so I had to.
"I hope Father didn't tell you what a goose I was at the station. I didn't mean to cry somuch, but when I thought of you and Aunt Jessie waving good-bye to me from the porch, with such a sorrowful look on both your dear faces, I just couldn't help it. I am going to cheer up right away, though, so please don't worry about me.
"It really was very exciting when the train stopped at Lorton, and Uncle Henry and I got in. When it began to move, and I realized that I was actually on board, I gave a kind of gasp, and would have liked to scream, if I hadn't been afraid of shocking Uncle Henry. There are not many people on the train, the colored porter says, and Uncle Henry and I both have sections to ourselves. I thought there would be regular beds to sleep in, but there are not. The porter says they turn the seats into beds at night, and there are curtains to let down. I should think it would be very uncomfortable sleeping so close to other people, but I suppose one gets used to it when one has traveled a good deal. Uncle Henry says Aunt Julia won't travel unless she has a stateroom, but he doesn't object to the sections. I looked into the stateroom in this car, but it didn't look very different from the sections, except that it was larger and there was a place to wash.
"We had lunch at a little table in the dining-car. It was delicious but my head ached a little, and I wasn't very hungry. Uncle Henry talked politics with a gentleman who sat at the same table with us, but they didn't say much to me, so I looked out of the window, and it was all very interesting. We are in Mexico now, and to-morrow we shall be in Kansas. Kansas makes me think of Undine and Mrs. Hicks. Oh, how I do wonder if Undine will ever remember!
"Uncle Henry says we shall be in Albuquerque in a few minutes, so I must stop writing if I want to post my letter there. Good-night, Mother darling; I will write again to-morrow, and indeed, indeed, I will try to remember all the things you said to me last night, and to be always
"Your own loving"Marjorie."
"October 28th.
"I have been a whole night on the train, and when I think of how far away from home we are, I can't help being just a little frightened, though it is all very interesting. I posted Mother's letter at Albuquerque, where the train stopped half an hour. Uncle Henry and I gotout and walked up and down the platform, and, oh, it was good to get a breath of fresh air! I really didn't know that any place could be quite so stuffy as this train. Everybody seems afraid to have the windows open on account of the cinders, but I think I should prefer even cinders to stuffiness. There were some Indians selling blankets and baskets, and a good many people bought things. They crowded round us, and made a good deal of fuss, and I heard one lady say she was afraid of them. Just think of being afraid of poor harmless Indians! I would have liked to tell her how foolish she was, but was afraid Uncle Henry might be displeased. I don't think he is a very friendly person, for he hardly speaks to any of the passengers on the train, and last night he told me I talked too much to the black porter, who was making up the sections. Oh, Aunt Jessie, it was so curious to see him turning all the seats into beds, but you have been on a sleeping car, and know all about it.
"We had a very good dinner, which I enjoyed more than lunch, because my head was better, and in the evening we sat on the platform of the observation car, and it was very pleasant. Uncle Henry was kind, and talked to me a good deal—at least it was a good deal for him. I asked himif he wasn't very anxious to get home to see Aunt Julia and Elsie, and he said of course he should be glad to see them, but didn't seem nearly as excited as I am sure Father would be about seeing us if he had been away from us for three whole weeks. I think Elsie must be very busy, for besides going to school, she has music and German lessons in the afternoons, and goes to a dancing class. Uncle Henry said he hoped she and I would be good friends, and I told him I was quite sure we should. Imagine a girl not being good friends with her own first cousin! Did you know we are to live in a hotel all winter? Uncle Henry has a house on Madison Avenue, but Aunt Julia is tired of housekeeping, so he has rented it, and taken rooms in a hotel instead. Uncle Henry calls the rooms an apartment, and the name of the hotel is the 'Plaza.' It is on Fifth Avenue, and right opposite the park, which must be very pretty. I should think it would seem very queer to live in a house with a lot of other people, but then the people who live in hotels must have a great many friends.
"At about nine o'clock Uncle Henry said he was sleepy, so we went back to our car, and that was when I talked to the porter while he madeup the beds. I thought at first that I should never be able to sleep; the train shook so, and we were going so fast. It was hard work undressing behind the curtain, but I managed somehow, and even had a wash, though I had to hold on to the side of the car with one hand while I washed my face with the other. I did cry a little after I was in bed, but I don't think any one heard. It was my very first night away from home, you know, Aunt Jessie dear, but I tried to remember all the lovely, comforting things you and Mother said to me, and I think I must have been pretty tired, for before I realized I was getting sleepy I was sound asleep, and I never opened my eyes till it was broad daylight.
"To-day we are in Kansas, and it is very flat, and not at all pretty. Uncle Henry says we won't have any more fine scenery till we get to the Hudson. The train seems stuffier than ever, and I am just pining for fresh air and exercise. We sat on the observation platform for a while this morning, but Uncle Henry didn't like the cinders, and wouldn't let me stay there by myself, so we came back to our car. I don't think traveling on a train is quite as pleasant as I thought it was going to be. I am sure I should like an automobile better. We saw automobilesat Topeka, where we stopped for ten minutes this morning, and they looked very queer, going all by themselves, without any horses, but I think I should like a ride in one. Uncle Henry says Aunt Julia is afraid of automobiles, so she still uses a carriage.
"I talked to some people in the observation car—a lady and a little boy, who are going to Chicago—but I think most of the passengers on this train are rather unsociable. They don't talk much to each other but just read magazines and newspapers when they are awake, and take naps about every hour. I have watched the two ladies in the section opposite mine, and they have been asleep at least four times to-day. I heard one of them say she never could sleep on a train; wasn't that funny?
"We can post letters from Kansas City, where we are due at half past eight to-night, so I can send this on from there. We get to Chicago to-morrow morning, and have three hours there; won't that be exciting? Oh, I do hope Uncle Henry will take me for a good long walk! I feel as if I could tramp ten miles.
"Good-bye, you precious Auntie! I send a thousand hugs and kisses to everybody. Tell Undine not to forget Roland's sugar—he alwayshas three lumps—and to be sure the kittens in the barn have their milk every night and morning. I am afraid I forgot to tell her about the kittens; there were so many other things to think of. I am so glad you and Mother have Undine; she is such a dear, and I know will try to take my place. I will write to Father and Mother after I have been in Chicago.
"From your own little niece,"Marjorie."
"October 30th.
"This letter is for you both, and Aunt Jessie must have a share in it, too, because it is the last I shall be able to write on the train.
"I didn't write at all yesterday, it was such an exciting day! We got to Chicago at about noon, and, oh, what a big, noisy, wonderful place it is! I know I could never describe it if I tried for a week, so I will just tell you what we did. It was raining, which was a great disappointment to me, but Uncle Henry didn't seem to mind. He said we would take a taxi and go to the 'Blackstone' for lunch. I had no idea what a taxi was, but didn't like to ask and when Uncle Henry called one what do you suppose it was?One of those wonderful automobiles! I was a tiny bit scared when we first got in, but when we started, and went rushing through those crowded, noisy streets, I just loved it.
"It didn't take us long to get to the 'Blackstone,' which is an enormous hotel, looking out on the lake. The lake is wonderful; I never saw so much water before, and though the fog was thick, and we couldn't see very far, I should have liked to stand and look at it for a long time, but Uncle Henry said we must hurry. I never saw such a wonderful place as the dining-room at the 'Blackstone.' There were quantities of little tables, and men waiters to bring you what you wanted. I thought the bill of fare on the train was long enough to satisfy any one, but the one at the 'Blackstone' was simply endless. Uncle Henry told me to choose what I wanted, but there were so many things I couldn't possibly choose, so he ordered a nice lunch, and all the time we were eating music was playing in a gallery overhead.
"After lunch Uncle Henry took another taxi, and told the driver to show us the city. It was all very interesting, but so noisy and confusing that I got very tired looking at so many things at once, and I was really rather glad when UncleHenry said it was time to go back to the station.
"This train is called the 'Chicago Special,' and is even grander than the one we were on before. It goes very fast, but doesn't swing so much, because the road-bed is smoother, Uncle Henry says. I was so tired last night that I went to bed right after dinner, and never woke once till morning. We are due in New York this afternoon, and Uncle Henry says I had better post my letter in Albany, because after we leave there he wants me to see the Hudson, which I believe is very beautiful. So good-bye, you dear precious people! Oh, how anxious I am for my first letters from home! Don't forget to tell me about every single little thing that happens. I am thinking of you all every minute, and if I were going to any other people but Aunt Julia and Elsie I would be so unhappy. But of course going to one's own aunt and cousin is very different from being with strangers, and Uncle Henry is really very kind. Oh, I do wonder if Elsie is as much excited about meeting me as I am about meeting her!
"Uncle Henry says we shall be in Albany in ten minutes, so good-bye again, with oceans of love from
"Your Own Marjorie."
"Elsie, my dear child, do you know what time it is? Nearly half past five, and you haven't started to dress. Your father will be so annoyed if you are not ready when he arrives."
Mrs. Carleton, a small, fair woman, with a rather worried, fretful expression, paused in the doorway of her daughter's room, and regarded the delinquent with anxiety not unmixed with dismay. Elsie, arrayed in a pink kimono, was lying comfortably on the sofa, deep in the pages of an interesting story-book. At her mother's words she threw down her book, and rose with a yawn. She was a tall girl with dark eyes and hair, and she would have been decidedly pretty if she too had not looked rather cross.
"Is it really so late?" she said, indifferently. "Why didn't Hortense call me? I had no idea what time it was."
"But you ought to have known, dear," Mrs. Carleton protested gently. "I don't suppose Hortense knew you wanted to be called, but Iwill ring for her at once. You will hurry, won't you, darling? What excuse can I possibly make to your father if he asks for you and finds you are not ready?"
"Oh, don't worry, Mamma. You know papa only scolds because he thinks it his duty; he doesn't really care. Besides, the train will probably be late; those Western trains always are."
Mrs. Carleton rang the bell for the maid, whose room was in a different part of the hotel, and went to the closet in quest of her daughter's evening dress.
"I will help you till Hortense comes," she said. "You really must hurry, Elsie. It is not as if your father were coming alone; he will expect you to be ready to greet Marjorie."
Elsie shrugged her shoulders indifferently.
"As if a girl who has been living on a cattle ranch in Arizona would care whether I were dressed or not," she said. "Probably where she comes from people wear kimonos all day long, and never even heard of dressing for the evening."
Mrs. Carleton sighed, and the worried expression deepened in her blue eyes.
"I really wish, darling, that you would try to be a little more gracious about this. Of courseit is a trial, but your father has made up his mind that Marjorie shall spend the winter with us, and it isn't going to make things any pleasanter to be constantly finding fault about them."
"I wasn't finding fault," retorted Elsie, who had by this time taken off the kimono, and begun brushing out her long hair. "I only said Marjorie Graham wouldn't care a fig what I had on, and I don't believe she will. I don't intend to be disagreeable to her, but you know what an awful nuisance it's going to be, and how I hate it. Think of having to take her about everywhere with me, and introduce her to all my friends."
"My dear, she is your own first cousin. Besides, I am sure she is a nice child—your father speaks so affectionately of her in his letters—and her mother is a lovely woman. I was very fond of her when we were girls together."
"Oh, I dare say she is all right," Elsie admitted grudgingly, "but that doesn't alter the fact of its being an awful bother to have her here for a whole winter. You know how papa fusses. He will be sure to get some idea in his head about my not paying Marjorie enough attention, and he will expect me to take her everywhere. Oh, I hate it, I just hate it!" AndElsie's voice actually trembled with vexation.
Mrs. Carleton sighed again.
"I am very sorry, dear," she began, but the entrance of the maid at this moment, put an end to the conversation, and she left the room, with a final admonition to her daughter to hurry as much as possible.
But alas! it was too late for hurrying. Mrs. Carleton had only just entered the drawing-room, when she heard a key turned in the outer door of the apartment, followed by the sound of a familiar voice calling cheerfully—
"Julia, Elsie, where are you? Here we are, safe and sound!"
With a rapidly beating heart Mrs. Carleton hurried forward to greet her husband and his niece.
"My dear Henry, your train must have been just on time," she exclaimed rather nervously. "We had scarcely begun to expect you yet. And so this is Marjorie. I am very glad to see you, dear; I hope you are not quite worn out after that dreadful journey."
"I am not the very least bit tired," returned a fresh young voice, and Marjorie returned her aunt's kiss so heartily that Mrs. Carleton was rather startled.
"We were twenty minutes late," Mr. Carleton said, in answer to his wife's remark, but he kissed her affectionately before putting the question she was dreading.
"And where is Elsie?"
"She will be here in a few moments," Mrs. Carleton explained hurriedly. "Now do come in and have some tea, or is it too late for tea? I am so glad to have you back, Henry dear; we have missed you terribly. I am sure you must be tired even if Marjorie isn't."
"Not so tired as hungry; we had a very poor lunch on the train. It is rather late for tea, though; we can have an early dinner instead. Where is that little witch, Elsie? Isn't she coming to see us?"
"Oh, certainly, dear; I told you she would be here in a few moments. Now I will take Marjorie to her room; she will be glad to wash off some of those horrid cinders, I am sure." She glanced as she spoke at Marjorie's linen shirt-waist, and the straw hat, which certainly did not look as if it had come from a New York milliner.
"Am I not to have the same room with Elsie, Aunt Julia?" Marjorie inquired, in a tone of some disappointment, as Mrs. Carleton led theway down a long, narrow entry, with doors on both sides.
"Oh, no, dear; you are to have a nice little room all to yourself. It was so fortunate that we had this extra room in the apartment. We intended using it for guests, but when your uncle wrote that he was bringing you home with him, we decided to give it to you."
"Oh, I hope I am not going to be in the way," said Marjorie, blushing. "I had no idea I was to have a room to myself, especially when Uncle Henry told me you were living in a hotel. I wouldn't in the least mind rooming with Elsie."
"But you are not at all in the way," said Mrs. Carleton, kindly. "We seldom have guests staying with us, and shall not need the extra room. This is Elsie's room; yours is just opposite."
At that moment Elsie's door opened, and that young lady emerged, followed by the French maid, who was still fastening her dress. At sight of her cousin Marjorie sprang forward, and before Elsie at all realized what was happening to her, two eager arms were round her neck, and she was being hugged in a manner that fairly took away her breath.
"Oh, Elsie, I am so glad!" cried Marjorierapturously. "Isn't it too wonderful and beautiful that we should really meet at last? Do let me look at you; I want to see if you are like what I pictured you." And Marjorie held her astonished cousin off at arms' length, and surveyed her critically.
"What did you expect me to be like?" Elsie inquired, not without some curiosity, as she gently extricated herself from Marjorie's embrace. She had taken in every detail of her cousin's appearance in one glance.
"I don't exactly know—at least it is rather hard to describe," said Marjorie, with an embarrassed laugh. Something in Elsie's expression was making her vaguely uncomfortable. "I didn't think you would be quite so grown up as you are."
"I am nearly fifteen," said Elsie, as if that fact alone were quite sufficient to account for her "grown up" appearance. "Is Papa in the drawing-room, Mamma?"
"Yes, darling; run and speak to him; he is expecting you. This is your room, Marjorie; I hope you will find it comfortable."
"It's a beautiful room," declared Marjorie, heartily, "only—only, are you quite sure you want me to have it, Aunt Julia?"
"Quite sure," said Mrs. Carleton, smiling. "I suppose your trunk will be here before long. Hortense will unpack for you, and help you to dress for dinner."
Marjorie's eyes opened wide in surprise, and she glanced at the white-capped French maid, who still lingered in the background.
"You are very kind, Aunt Julia," she said politely, "but I don't need any help; I always do everything for myself."
Mrs. Carleton looked a little embarrassed.
"You may go, Hortense," she said, turning to the maid; "Miss Marjorie will ring if she wants you. You mustn't let her think you don't need her, dear," she added in a lower tone, as the maid left the room. "She is rather inclined to be lazy, and she will take advantage of you if you are too easy with her."
Marjorie said nothing, but she was both puzzled and uncomfortable. Mrs. Carleton, however, did not appear to notice that anything was wrong.
"I will leave you for a little while now," she said. "You must make yourself at home; your uncle and I want you to be very happy here."
The quick tears started to Marjorie's eyes, and she impulsively held out her hand to her aunt.But Mrs. Carleton did not notice the gesture, and in another moment she had left the room, closing the door after her. In the entry she encountered Elsie returning from the interview with her father. Elsie was not in the best of spirits.
"Papa has sent me to stay with Marjorie," she said in a discontented whisper. "He says he is afraid she is homesick. Oh, Mamma, did you ever see such clothes?"
"Never mind about the clothes, dear," said her mother, with forced cheerfulness; "we shall soon fit her out with new ones. I think she will really be quite pretty when she is properly dressed."
Elsie shrugged her shoulders, but made no further remarks, and the next moment she was tapping at her cousin's door.
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" was Marjorie's joyful greeting. "Now we can have a nice talk before my trunk comes. Sit down in this comfortable chair and I'll take the little one. Isn't this a lovely room, and wasn't it sweet of your mother to say she hoped I should be happy here? Oh, I wonder if you can possibly be one half as glad to see me as I am to see you."
Elsie was puzzled, but she was a little flattered as well. She was not a general favorite amongher companions, and to find a cousin who had evidently been longing to make her acquaintance was rather an agreeable experience. So her face brightened considerably, and her voice was quite pleasant as she remarked, sinking into the comfortable arm-chair Marjorie had indicated—
"It is very interesting to meet you. I have often heard papa speak of you and your mother and father."
"Why, of course you have," laughed Marjorie, wondering in her simple way whether all New York girls of fifteen were as "grown up" as Elsie. "I don't believe though that you have thought half as much about me as I have about you. You see, it's different in Arizona. There aren't very many people, and they all live a long way from each other. Ever since I can remember I have longed for a girl friend. But with you it must be very different, going to school and living in a big city. I suppose you have lots of friends."
"Oh, yes, I have a good many," said Elsie, with her little society air. "I am not very fond of them all, though; some girls are so stupid."
"I hope you will like me," said Marjorie, a little wistfully. "We ought to be even more than friends because we are cousins, and I havealways thought that a cousin must be the next best thing to a sister. Don't you often long for a sister?"
"Why no, I don't," Elsie admitted. "Indeed, I am not sure that I should care for one at all. I think being an only child is very pleasant, though of course having an older brother would have its advantages. He would introduce one to his friends and bring them to the house. Are you fond of boys?"
"Oh, yes, I like them very well, but I have never known many. In fact, I haven't known many people of any kind except Indians and Mexicans."
"Indians and Mexicans!" repeated Elsie in a tone of dismay. "How perfectly awful! You don't mean that you make friends of those dreadful people we saw on the train coming home from California, do you?"
"They are not all dreadful creatures," said Marjorie, flushing. "They are not quite like white people, of course, but some of them are very good. I know a Mexican boy who is just as bright and clever as he can be. His father is going to send him to college next year. Then there is Juanita; she has lived with us for years, and we are all very fond of her."
"Oh, I didn't know you were talking about servants," said Elsie. "I thought you meant friends. Hadn't you any real friends?"
"Not the kind of friends you mean. I had Father and Mother and Aunt Jessie, but until last August when Undine came, I had never spoken to a white girl of my own age."
"Undine, what a queer name. Is she a Mexican or an Indian?"
"She isn't either," said Marjorie, laughing, "and Undine isn't her real name. We only call her that because we don't know what her name is. It's a very interesting story, and I'll tell you all about it, but here comes my trunk, and I suppose I had better unpack and change my dress before dinner."
In spite of Marjorie's reiterated assurances that she didn't need any help, Hortense reappeared, and insisted on making herself useful. She was very polite and talked volubly in broken English about Mademoiselle's beingfatiguerand how glad she, Hortense, would be to assist her in every way, but Marjorie could not help feeling uncomfortable, and wishing that the well-intentioned maid would go away and leave her to unpack by herself. But what made her still more uncomfortable was the fact that Elsie alsolingered, and regarded every article that came out of that modest leather trunk, with a keen, critical eye.
"What are you going to wear down to dinner?" she inquired anxiously as the last things were being stowed away in the bureau drawers.
"I don't know," said Marjorie; "I hadn't thought about it. I suppose my gray flannel suit, or else a clean shirt-waist and duck skirt."
Elsie clasped her hands in horror.
"Oh, you can't, you can't possibly!" she cried in real dismay. "Those things will do very well for breakfast and luncheon, but everybody dresses here in the evening. Let me see what you can wear. You haven't got much, but I suppose that white muslin will do."
"But that is my very best dress," protested Marjorie, her cheeks crimsoning from embarrassment and distress. "I don't think Mother would like to have me wear it the first evening. I won't have anything left for really grand occasions if I do."
"Oh, yes, you will," said Elsie, confidently. "Mamma is going to buy you a lot of new clothes; that was all arranged before you came. It would never do to have you going about everywhere in these things."
Marjorie glanced at her cousin's stylish, well fitting blue chiffon and her heart was filled with dismay. Was it possible that all her mother's and aunt'sstitcheshad been taken in vain? It was very kind of Aunt Julia to wish to buy her pretty clothes, but she did not like to have her present wardrobe spoken of as "those things." Before she had time to say any more on the subject, however, Mrs. Carleton appeared, to tell them to hurry, as her husband was impatient for his dinner.
That first dinner in the big crowded hotel restaurant was a wonderful revelation to Marjorie. The bright lights, the gay music, the ladies in their pretty evening dresses, it was all like a vision of fairyland, and for the first few minutes she could do nothing but gaze about her and wonder if she were awake.
"And do you really know all these people?" she whispered to Elsie, when they were seated at one of the small tables, and a waiter had taken their order.
"Good gracious, no," laughed Elsie, who was beginning to find this unsophisticated Western cousin decidedly amusing. "We don't know one of them to speak to."
Marjorie's eyes opened wide in astonishment.
"How very strange," she said. "I supposed people who lived in the same house always knew each other. We know everybody at home, even if they live ten miles away."
"Well, this isn't Arizona, you know," said Elsie, shrugging her shoulders, and Marjorie, feeling as if she had somehow been snubbed, relapsed into silence.
Just then a lady and a gentleman and a boy of eighteen or nineteen came in, and took their seats at an opposite table. Elsie, who had appeared quite indifferent to all the other guests, instantly began to show signs of interest.
"There they are," she said eagerly, addressing her mother. "The gentleman is with them again to-night, too. I forgot to tell you, Mamma; I've found out their name, it's Randolph."
"How did you find out?" Mrs. Carleton asked, beginning to look interested in her turn.
"Lulu Bell told me to-day walking home from school. That boy passed us on the Avenue, and I asked her if she didn't think he was handsome. She said she knew who he was, though she had never met him. His uncle is a Dr. Randolph, and a friend of her father's. This boy and hismother are from Virginia, and are spending the winter here. He is a freshman at Columbia, and his mother doesn't want to be separated from him, because she is a widow, and he is her only child. Lulu says Dr. Randolph has asked her mother to call on his sister-in-law. He said they had taken an apartment at this hotel for the winter. I made Lulu promise to introduce me if she ever had the chance, but she may never even meet him. She is such a queer girl; she doesn't care the least bit about boys."
"A very sensible young person, I should say," remarked Mr. Carleton, dryly. "How old is your friend Lulu?"
"Nearly fourteen; quite old enough to be interested in something besides dolls, but she's dreadfully young for her age."
"I wish some other little girls were young for their age," said Mr. Carleton; "it doesn't appear to be a common failing in these days."
Elsie flushed and looked annoyed.
"That boy really has a very nice face," put in Mrs. Carleton, anxious to change the subject, "and his devotion to his mother is charming. I suppose her husband must have died recently; she is in such deep mourning."
While the others were talking, Marjorie,whose eyes had been wandering rapidly from one group to another, had finally fixed themselves upon the party at the opposite table. They certainly looked attractive; the gentleman with the strong, clever face, and hair just turning gray; the pretty, gentle little mother in her black dress, and the handsome college boy, with merry blue eyes. It was quite natural that Elsie should want to know them, but why in the world didn't she speak to them herself without waiting to be introduced? It seemed so strange and inhospitable to live in the same house with people and not speak to them. So when her aunt had finished her remarks about the Randolph family, she turned to Elsie and inquired innocently:
"If you want to know that boy so much why don't you tell him so?"
There was a moment of astonished silence; then Elsie giggled.
"You are the funniest girl I ever met, Marjorie," she said. "Why don't you do it yourself?"
"Elsie," said her mother in a tone of shocked reproof, and turning to Marjorie, she added gravely:
"When you have been in New York a little longer, my dear, you will learn that it is not theproper thing for young girls to speak to strangers to whom they have not been introduced."
There was no doubt about the snub this time, and poor Marjorie was horribly embarrassed. She cast an appealing glance at her uncle, but he appeared to be absorbed, and finding no help from Elsie either, she relapsed into silence, and did not speak again for at least five minutes.
After all, that first evening could scarcely be called a success. Mr. and Mrs. Carleton were very kind, and Elsie seemed disposed to be friendly, but Marjorie was conscious of a sensation of disappointment for which she could scarcely account even to herself. She struggled bravely against the homesickness which threatened every moment to overwhelm her, and tried to take an interest in all her new relatives' conversation, but when dinner was over, and they had gone upstairs again, she was not sorry to avail herself of Aunt Julia's suggestion that she must be "quite worn out," and slip quietly off to bed. It was not easy to dispense with the services of Hortense, who showed an alarming tendency to linger and offer to assist, but even she was finally disposed of, and with a sigh of intense relief, Marjorie closed her door, switched off the electric light, and crept into bed. Thenfollowed a good hearty cry, which somehow made her feel better, and then, being young and very tired as well, she fell into a sound, healthy sleep, from which she did not awaken until it was broad daylight.
WhenMarjorie opened her eyes the next morning, she lay for some minutes thinking over the events of the previous day, and listening to the unusual noise in the street. There was so much noise that she began to fear it must be very late, and jumping out of bed, she went to look at the clock. It was only just half-past six. She had forgotten to ask at what hour the family breakfasted, but seven o'clock was the usual breakfast time at the ranch, so she decided that it might be well to dress as speedily as possible. She felt very wide awake indeed this morning, and suddenly remembered that she had not had a walk or ride since leaving home.
"I'll get Elsie to come with me for a good long tramp after breakfast," she said to herself. "If she can't go on account of school, I'll ask Uncle Henry to let me walk with him to his office, and I can come back by myself."
Greatly to Marjorie's relief, no Hortense appearedwith offers of assistance, and she performed her morning toilet in peace. She put on the gray flannel suit, which Elsie had pronounced "good enough for breakfast and luncheon," and then once more glancing at the clock, discovered that it was still only five minutes past seven.
"If they breakfast at seven I shall be only five minutes late," she said, with a feeling of satisfaction; "I should have hated to be late the first morning. Perhaps they won't have it till half-past, and then I shall have time to write a few lines to Mother first."
She opened her door, and crossed the hall to the drawing-room, where her aunt had told her the family usually breakfasted, in preference to going downstairs to the restaurant, but somewhat to her surprise, she found the room just as she had left it on the previous evening, and the whole apartment seemed very quiet. She went to one of the windows and looked out.
"What a lot of people there are in the street," she remarked reflectively, "and they all seem in such a hurry. I wonder where they are going. How pretty the park is. Oh, how I should love a gallop on Roland before breakfast."
The door behind her opened, and a woman with a duster in her hand came in. She lookedvery much surprised at finding the room occupied.
"Good morning," said Marjorie, with her friendly smile; "it's a lovely day, isn't it?"
"It's very pleasant," returned the chambermaid, still looking surprised. "You are up early, Miss," she added politely.
"Am I?" said Marjorie, surprised in her turn. "I didn't know I was. At what time do my aunt and uncle generally have breakfast?"
"Never before half-past eight, and sometimes later. Mrs. Carleton generally has her breakfast in bed, but Mr. Carleton and the young lady have theirs in here."
"Half-past eight," repeated Marjorie in dismay, "and it's only a little after seven now. I should say I was early."
The maid smiled, and began dusting the ornaments without making any further remarks. She did not appear to be a very communicative person, and Marjorie decided that she might as well go back to her room, and write the letter to her mother, which could now be a much longer one than she had at first intended. But on the way she suddenly changed her mind.
"I can write later just as well," she decided, "and it really is much too beautiful to stay indoors.I'll go and have a walk in that lovely park. I shall feel much more like breakfast when I've had some fresh air and exercise."
Marjorie had not the least idea that she was doing anything unusual as she ran lightly down the broad marble stairs five minutes later, and stepped out through the open street door into the fresh morning air. The Carleton's apartment was on the fifth floor, but Marjorie scorned to use the lift, which had struck her the evening before, as a very wonderful but unnecessary invention.
Several people in the hall looked at her curiously, and a man in brass buttons asked her if he should call a cab.
"Oh, no, thank you," said Marjorie, pleasantly; "I'm going for a walk," and she passed out, without another backward glance.
It really was a glorious morning, and Marjorie drew in long deep breaths of the keen autumn air, as she crossed the broad avenue and entered the park. She was not disappointed in her first impression that the park was beautiful, and the further she walked among the trees and broad asphalt paths, the more attractive it became. It was the last of October, but the autumn had been a warm one, and the grass was almostas green as in summer. To Marjorie, accustomed all her life to the arid prairie, where trees and flowers were practically unknown, it all seemed very wonderful, and she enjoyed every step. She walked rapidly on for some distance, paying no particular attention to the direction she was taking. The possibility of getting lost never once entered her mind. She met very few people, and they all seemed in a hurry, and looked like men and women on their way to their day's work. Once she passed a forlorn-looking man asleep on a bench, and remembered what Undine had once said about a tramp. This must be a tramp, she felt sure, and she paused to regard him with interest as a new specimen of humanity.
Suddenly she came to a standstill and looked about here. She was in a quiet path, with rocks on both sides, and there was not a soul in sight.
"I must turn back," she said, with an uncomfortable recollection of the passing of time. "I was enjoying my walk so much I never realized how far I was going, but I'm afraid I shall have to hurry now if I don't want to be late for breakfast."
Accordingly she turned her steps in the direction from which she had come, and walked onrapidly for several minutes. But alas! she had taken more than one turn since entering the park, and going back was no such easy matter as she had imagined. The more she tried to remember the way she had come, the more bewildered she became.
"I declare, I believe I am lost!" she said at last, with a feeling of amused dismay. "I must be more careful to notice where I am going next time. Oh, there is one of those men in uniform, that Uncle Henry said were policemen. He will be able to tell me if I'm going right."
She quickened her steps, and approaching the officer, inquired politely:
"Will you please tell me if this is the way to the entrance?"
"Which entrance?" inquired the policeman, regarding her curiously.
"I don't know," said Marjorie; "the entrance I came in—are there more than one?"
"A good many more; which avenue do you want?"
Marjorie's heart was beginning to beat rather fast. For the moment she could not remember; even the name of the hotel—which she had only heard once or twice—had escaped her recollection.
"I have forgotten the name of the street," she said helplessly, "but it's the entrance opposite the big hotel."
The policeman looked uncertain, but at that moment a young man riding a bicycle appeared upon the scene, at sight of whom Marjorie's face brightened, and she uttered a little gasp of relief.
"That young gentleman knows," she exclaimed joyfully, and, quite forgetful of her aunt's snub of the evening before, she darted forward, and hailed the youth on the bicycle quite as if she had been an old friend.
"Oh, please excuse me for stopping you," she cried, eagerly, "but you know where I want to go, and I have forgotten the name of the hotel."
The young man brought his bicycle to a standstill; sprang to the ground, and snatched off his cap. He was evidently very much surprised, but too polite to show it.
"I beg your pardon," he said in a very pleasant voice; "can I be of any assistance to you?"
"Yes," said Marjorie, frankly. "I saw you in the hotel dining-room last night, and I heard my cousin say you lived there. I came out for a walk before breakfast, and—it's very stupid I suppose—but I can't find my way back to the entrance where I came in."
A look of comprehension came into the young man's pleasant face, and he regarded Marjorie with interest not unmixed with amusement.
"I understand," he said; "you are staying at the 'Plaza,' and want to go back there."
"Yes, that is the name," said Marjorie, looking much relieved; "will you please show me the way to the gate?"
"Certainly," said her new acquaintance, smiling, and he at once began to lead the way, pushing his bicycle along beside him.
"Oh, don't you want to get on your wheel again?" Marjorie inquired anxiously. "I can easily follow if you don't go too fast."
The young man protested that he had ridden quite long enough, and would be glad of a little walk.
"You are very kind," said Marjorie, heartily. "It was very stupid of me to lose my way; I never was lost before."
"And do you often walk here in the park?" her new friend inquired, politely.
"Oh, no, I was never here before. I only came to New York yesterday; my home is in Arizona."
"You have come a long distance," he said."And how do you like New York—that is to say as much as you have seen of it?"
"I think it is very noisy and rather smoky, but the hotel is beautiful, and so is this park. I haven't seen much of New York yet, but I am going to spend the winter here."
"I quite agree with you as to the noise and smoke," said her companion, smiling, "but New York is a pretty jolly place notwithstanding. It isn't my home either; I am from Virginia."
"Yes, I know you are," said Marjorie, innocently. "You came here to go to college, and your mother is with you. My cousin told us all about it last evening at dinner."
The young man laughed outright. It was such a merry laugh that Marjorie could not help joining in it, and after that they were excellent friends.
"Now I wonder if you would mind telling me how your cousin obtained her information," Marjorie's new friend said when he had recovered his gravity. "I haven't met her, have I? What is her name?"
"Elsie Carleton. No, she hasn't met you yet, but she wants to very much. A friend of hers has promised to introduce you if she has a chance. Your name is Randolph, isn't it?"
"Yes, Beverly Randolph, at your service. I shall be very glad to meet your cousin, I am sure. Perhaps you will introduce us."
"Of course I will if you like. It seems very queer not to know a person who lives in the same house with one, but Elsie says they don't know any of the people at the hotel. It was all so different at home."
Then Beverly Randolph asked some questions about Arizona, which set Marjorie off on a description of the ranch, and her life there, which lasted until they reached the Fifth Avenue entrance.
"That's the gate I came in," exclaimed Marjorie. "I wasn't so far away, after all. Would you mind telling me what time it is?"
Beverly Randolph took out his watch.
"Ten minutes past nine," he said, looking somewhat dismayed in his turn; "I had no idea it was so late. Luckily it is Saturday, so there are no recitations to miss."
"O dear! I am afraid I am terribly late for breakfast," said Marjorie, feeling very much ashamed of herself. And without another word, they hurried across the avenue, and entered the hotel, where the very first person Marjorie saw in the entrance hall was her uncle.
"Oh, Uncle Henry, I am so sorry to be late!" she cried remorsefully, springing to Mr. Carleton's side. "I hope you and Aunt Julia aren't annoyed with me."
"Where in the world have you been, Marjorie?" her uncle demanded, ignoring the latter part of her remark. He was looking decidedly annoyed as well as worried.
"Why, I got up early," Marjorie explained, "and the girl who was dusting said you never had breakfast before half-past eight, so I thought I would go for a walk in the park. I got lost, and couldn't remember the name of the hotel, but fortunately, just as I was beginning to be a little frightened, I met Mr. Beverly Randolph, and he brought me home."
"And who is Beverly Randolph? I had no idea you had friends in New York."
"Oh, he isn't exactly a friend—at least he wasn't till this morning. You know who he is, Uncle Henry; that nice-looking boy Elsie was talking about at dinner last night. Wasn't it fortunate I recognized him. He is just as nice as he can be, and I'm going to introduce him to Elsie."
"Come upstairs at once," said Mr. Carleton, a trifle less sternly. "We have been very anxiousabout you; you must never do such a thing again."
Marjorie was dumb with astonishment. Beyond being late for breakfast she had no idea that she had done anything wrong. She followed her uncle in silence, and did not utter another word until they had reached their own apartment, where they found Mrs. Carleton in a condition bordering on hysteria, and Elsie trying to look solemn, but secretly rather enjoying the situation. "I should really think, Marjorie, that you might have known," said Mrs. Carleton in a tone of deep reproach, when she had heard her niece's explanation, "your own common sense should have told you that to go wandering off by yourself in a strange city at seven o'clock in the morning, was a most extraordinary thing to do. You must never again go out alone at any hour. Elsie has never been out without a maid."
Marjorie's eyes opened wide in amazement.
"Not go out alone?" she repeated stupidly. "Why I've always gone everywhere by myself ever since I was a little girl."
"Well, you are not to do it here, whatever you may have done in Arizona," said Mrs. Carleton, crossly. "As for speaking to a strange young man, and getting him to bring you home, I reallynever heard of anything so outrageous. We have been frightened to death about you."
"There, there, Julia," put in Uncle Henry, "don't you think you have said enough? I am sure Marjorie will never do such a thing again; she will soon be accustomed to New York ways. Now suppose you let the child have some breakfast; she looks about ready to drop."
But it was not want of food that had driven the color from Marjorie's cheeks and the light from her eyes. Indeed, she had but small appetite for the tempting breakfast that was set before her, and it was only by a mighty effort that she was able to keep back the burst of homesick tears which threatened every moment to overpower her.
At the same moment that Mrs. Carleton was administering her reproof to Marjorie, Beverly Randolph was giving his mother an account of the morning's adventure, as they sat together at breakfast in their pleasant sitting-room on the floor below.
"I know you would like the little girl, Mother," he ended; "she is such a natural, jolly sort, and there isn't one bit of nonsense about her."
Mrs. Randolph smiled as she poured her son'scoffee, and regarded him with proud, loving eyes.
"You never have admired the 'sort' with nonsense about them, have you, dear?" she said rather mischievously.
"I haven't any use for them," said Beverly with decision. "I like girls well enough when they behave decently, but the silly giggly ones get on my nerves. This one—Marjorie Graham she says her name is—is all right, though. I think I know the cousin by sight, and I don't feel so sure about her."
"You mustn't be too fastidious, Beverly," said his mother, laughing. "I dare say they are both nice little girls. By the way, I have received an invitation from that charming Mrs. Bell, who called the other day, asking us both to dine with her next Tuesday. Her husband is an old friend of Uncle George's, you know. Mrs. Bell told me she had a daughter of thirteen or fourteen, so that will be another acquaintance for you."
"Well, if she is like most of the New York girls I've seen I sha'n't care much about her," declared Beverly. "I prefer the ones that come from Arizona. Honestly, Mother, I want you to meet that little girl. I don't know what it was about her, but she reminded me of Babs."
A look of pain crossed Mrs. Randolph's sweet face, but her voice was still quite cheerful as she answered—
"Very well, dear, be sure to introduce her to me; I want to know all your friends."
As soon as she could escape from her relatives after breakfast, Marjorie fled to her own room, there to have her cry out, and pull herself together, before starting on a shopping expedition with her aunt. Elsie was going to lunch with a schoolmate, but Aunt Julia had ordered the carriage and told Marjorie that she intended devoting the day to shopping.
"You are to begin school on Monday," she explained, "and I must get you some decent clothes as soon as possible."
Marjorie supposed she ought to be grateful, but she could not help resisting the fact that her aunt evidently did not consider her present wardrobe "decent," and this, added to her other troubles, resulted in a very unhappy half-hour. But Marjorie was a plucky girl, and she had plenty of common sense.
"I won't write a word about all this to Mother or Aunt Jessie," she decided as she dried her eyes. "It wouldn't do any good, and they would be so sorry. I am sure Aunt Julia means to bekind, and I suppose I did frighten them, but it does seem so silly not to be allowed to go out for a walk by one's self."
She had just bathed her red eyes, and was sitting down to write the deferred letter to her mother, when the door opened, and Elsie came in.
"Mamma says you are to be ready to go out with her in fifteen minutes," she began, then paused, regarding her cousin curiously. "You look as if you'd been crying," she said abruptly. "Mamma did pitch into you pretty hard, but it was an awfully queer thing to go out by yourself at seven o'clock in the morning."
"I'm very sorry I did what was wrong," said Marjorie, "but I had no idea any one would object. I often go for a gallop on my pony before breakfast at home."
"Oh, I daresay you do, but that is very different. I think it was too funny that you should have met Beverly Randolph. Do tell me what he is like."
"He is very nice indeed," said Marjorie, frankly; "I liked him ever so much."
"You'll be sure to introduce us, won't you? It will be such fun to tell Lulu Bell I've met him first; not that she'll care much, she's such a baby.Mamma thinks she may call on Mrs. Randolph to thank her."
"What does she want to thank her for?" inquired Marjorie, innocently.
"Why, for her son's bringing you home, and being so kind to you. You might have been lost for hours if he hadn't done it."
"But his mother had nothing to do with that," persisted Marjorie. "Besides, he was on his way home, anyway. He was very nice, but I don't see what there is to thank his mother for."
Elsie reddened, and looked a little annoyed.
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," she said carelessly. "Mamma would like to call on Mrs. Randolph, and this makes a good excuse, that's all. She says the Randolphs of Virginia are a very old family. Now hurry and get ready; the carriage will be here in a few minutes."
Marjorie said no more on the subject, but she was puzzled. It was only natural that Aunt Julia should wish to make the acquaintance of a lady who lived in the same house with her, but why was it necessary to have an excuse for doing so? She was beginning to think that there were going to be a great many new things to learn in New York.