"November 6th."Dearest Aunt Jessie:"I am at home alone this evening; Uncle Henry and Aunt Julia have gone out to dinner, and Elsie is at a party. I am going to write you a long, long letter, and try to tell you every single thing that has happened."I have been here just a week, and I think I am beginning to get more accustomed to things. It is all very interesting, but some of it does seem a little queer, and, oh, how I do wish I could have a good talk with Mother or you, and ask you to explain the things I don't understand. Aunt Julia is very kind, but I could never talk to her as I do to you and Mother. The things that puzzle me most are what it is proper to do and what isn't. For one thing, they say it isn't proper to speak to people unless one has been introduced. At home we always speak to every one whetherthey are in the 'Social Register' or not. The Social Register is a book, and Elsie says the names of all the nice people are in it, and when her mother wants to find out who people are, and whether or not she wants to have Elsie know them she just looks for their names in the Social Register, and if she finds them there she knows they are all right. Then it isn't considered proper for girls to go out by themselves in New York. I have seen some nice-looking girls alone in the streets, but Elsie says they can't be the kind one wants to know. Hortense, the French maid, always goes out with Elsie and me, and even carries our books to school for us. Hortense is very nice, but it is rather a bother having her always about, and she wants to do a great many more things for me than I really need. But the greatest difficulty of all is that Elsie isn't fond of walking, and I do miss my tramps dreadfully. We walk to school and back every day, but it isn't far, and in the afternoon Elsie is always having engagements. So I go driving with Aunt Julia, and, oh, but it does seem slow! Aunt Julia hates to drive fast, and I sometimes feel as if I would give anything to jump out of the carriage and have one good run. I know I could easily keep up with those horses if it were onlyproper to run behind the carriage, but of course it isn't."I ought not to object to going out with Aunt Julia, for she has been very good to me. She is having some perfectly lovely dresses made for me, and has bought me two simply wonderful hats. I am not sure whether Mother would quite approve of all my new clothes. Some of them do look very grown-up, but then the girls here are all much more grown-up than I had any idea they would be. Elsie puts up her hair, and wanted me to put mine up, too, but I knew Mother wouldn't like it, and Uncle Henry said I was right."I have been at school every day since Monday, and like it very much indeed. It is not a large school, only a class of twelve girls. The teacher's name is Miss Lothrop, and Elsie and several of the other girls have been going to her since they were quite little. Miss Lothrop is lovely, and all the girls have been very kind and polite to me. The two I like best are Lulu Bell and Winifred Hamilton. Elsie says they are both very young for their age, and I think perhaps that is the reason I like them better than some of the others. Winifred is only thirteen, but she is just as sweet as she can be, and Luluis awfully pretty, and a great favorite. Carol Hastings is another girl in the class, and Elsie's most intimate friend. She is only fourteen, but seems much older. I wonder why New York girls seem to care so much about boys. I like a nice boy ever so much myself, but I can't see the use of giggling and looking silly every time his name is mentioned. Carol Hastings came here to dinner last night, and when Beverly Randolph came over to our table to speak to us, she was so silly I was really ashamed of her. I spoke to Elsie about it afterwards, and she said Carol was a goose, but I think she is a little bit silly herself sometimes. I wrote Mother all about Beverly Randolph, and how much I liked him. I would give anything to have a brother just like him. He adores his mother, and I don't wonder, for she is lovely. He says she is so jolly, and is always interested in everything he is interested in; even the college games. His father died when he was little, and I suppose this is one reason why he and his mother are so much to each other. There is an uncle, who is a doctor, but he only comes to dine with them sometimes, and lives somewhere else. Mrs. Randolph has one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen—yours and Mothers excepted—and she looksvery young to be the mother of a big boy of eighteen. She dresses in black, and looks rather sad sometimes, but I suppose that is when she is thinking of her husband."Elsie is very clever, and Aunt Julia admires her tremendously. She says Elsie has always been the brightest girl in her classes and that she recites Shakespeare quite wonderfully. I haven't heard her recite yet, but she plays the piano very well, and takes music lessons twice a week. She speaks French, too, and is beginning to study German. Of course I am not nearly as far advanced as she is, but Miss Lothrop says I am not backward for my age, and that makes me very happy. I was so proud when she asked me if I had a governess at home, and I told her Father and Mother had taught me everything I knew. I don't think Elsie liked my saying that; she says I mustn't talk about our being poor, but I am sure I can't see why she should object. However, I have promised to try not to say anything she doesn't like; they have all been so good to me that I do want to please them if I can."Last Tuesday was Aunt Julia's birthday, and she gave a family dinner party. She has a good many relatives, and they all came. I should think Elsie would love having so many cousins, but shesays she doesn't care very much about many of them. Aunt Julia's two sisters were here, and I thought the oldest one—Mrs. Lamont—was lovely. Her daughter, Miss Annie, came with her, and she was awfully nice and jolly. She is quite old—about twenty-five I think—and she works downtown in a settlement. I didn't know what a settlement was, but Elsie explained that it is a place where ladies go to live among very poor ignorant people, and try to help them. She and her mother send some of their old clothes to Miss Lamont, and she gives them to the poor women at the settlement. Aunt Julia's other sister is Mrs. Ward. She is quite stout, and talks a great deal about what is good for her to eat and what isn't. She was nice, but I didn't like her as much as the Lamonts. Her husband is fat, too, and is always saying funny things that make people laugh. They have two little girls, but they were not allowed to come because Tuesday was a school night, and they are never allowed to go out anywhere except on Fridays and Saturdays. Elsie can go out any night she likes, because she is so clever that Aunt Julia says it doesn't matter whether she misses her lessons one day or not. There is a Ward boy, too, but he is at Yale. Elsie likes him best of all her cousins,and she says he is very fond of her, too. Aunt Julia says all the boys admire Elsie very much, but I think she is mistaken about Beverly Randolph. He has such an honest face that he can't hide his feelings, and when Elsie and Carol giggled so much that night, and talked so very grown-up, I am sure he was trying not to laugh."You can't begin to imagine how glad I was to get your and Mother's precious letters. I read them over and over until I almost knew them by heart, and slept with Mother's first one under my pillow all night. Father's letter was splendid too, and I was so interested to hear all about the new colts. I am so glad Undine is proving such a comfort. I knew you couldn't help loving her, she is such a dear, and she promised to try to take my place. I told the girls at school about her, and they thought it the most interesting thing they had ever heard. Lulu Bell says she is going to tell her aunt, who is an authoress, about it, and ask her to put Undine in a book. Won't it be too interesting if she really does?"O dear! there is the clock striking ten, and I have been writing ever since half-past eight. I must stop now, and go to bed, or I shall be sleepy to-morrow morning. Ten o'clock at night used to seem very late indeed at home, but itseems quite early here. Elsie doesn't expect to get home from her party before half past eleven. Uncle Henry doesn't approve of late hours for school-girls, but Aunt Julia says everybody in New York keeps them, so it can't be helped. I forgot to say the party is at Bessie Winston's. She is one of the girls at Miss Lothrop's, and one of Elsie's intimate friends. I was invited, too, but Aunt Julia wouldn't let me accept, because my new dresses haven't come home yet. Elsie says I wouldn't have enjoyed it, anyway, because I can't dance. She goes to a dancing class every Saturday morning, and Aunt Julia says she may have me go too after Christmas. I think I should like dancing, for the sake of the exercise if nothing else. Oh, how I do long for exercise! Elsie rides in summer, but her pony is at their country place on Long Island, and they don't think it worth while to bring it in to New York. Aunt Julia says Elsie has so many other things to do in winter she has no time for riding. What wouldn't I give for one good canter on Roland! I can't help envying the girls I see riding in the park, though none of them look as if they were enjoying it as much as I should. They all ride side-saddle, and I don't believe it can benearly as pleasant as riding astride, but Aunt Julia told me not to say so, because it isn't considered the thing to ride astride here. I saw Beverly Randolph riding in the park this afternoon, and he really did look as if he enjoyed it. His home is in Virginia, and he says the people there are very fond of horses. Lulu says Mrs. Randolph owns a large plantation, and I suppose a plantation is something like a ranch."Now I really must stop writing, for my hand is getting tired, and I have made two big blots on this page. So good night, Auntie darling. If I could send all the love that is in my heart, I am afraid no postman would be able to carry the letter, it would be so heavy. So you must just imagine it is there. I am really very happy, though I can't help feeling homesick sometimes, especially at night. I am going to work hard, and try to learn so much this winter that you will all be proud of me when I come home. I have already begun counting the weeks; there are just twenty-eight and a half till the first of June. A winter does seem a very long time, but this week has gone by faster than I expected. I will write to Mother on Sunday, and your next letters ought to be here by Monday. Letters arethe best thing in the world when one is so far away from home, so please all write just as often as you can to"Your own loving"Marjorie."
"November 6th.
"I am at home alone this evening; Uncle Henry and Aunt Julia have gone out to dinner, and Elsie is at a party. I am going to write you a long, long letter, and try to tell you every single thing that has happened.
"I have been here just a week, and I think I am beginning to get more accustomed to things. It is all very interesting, but some of it does seem a little queer, and, oh, how I do wish I could have a good talk with Mother or you, and ask you to explain the things I don't understand. Aunt Julia is very kind, but I could never talk to her as I do to you and Mother. The things that puzzle me most are what it is proper to do and what isn't. For one thing, they say it isn't proper to speak to people unless one has been introduced. At home we always speak to every one whetherthey are in the 'Social Register' or not. The Social Register is a book, and Elsie says the names of all the nice people are in it, and when her mother wants to find out who people are, and whether or not she wants to have Elsie know them she just looks for their names in the Social Register, and if she finds them there she knows they are all right. Then it isn't considered proper for girls to go out by themselves in New York. I have seen some nice-looking girls alone in the streets, but Elsie says they can't be the kind one wants to know. Hortense, the French maid, always goes out with Elsie and me, and even carries our books to school for us. Hortense is very nice, but it is rather a bother having her always about, and she wants to do a great many more things for me than I really need. But the greatest difficulty of all is that Elsie isn't fond of walking, and I do miss my tramps dreadfully. We walk to school and back every day, but it isn't far, and in the afternoon Elsie is always having engagements. So I go driving with Aunt Julia, and, oh, but it does seem slow! Aunt Julia hates to drive fast, and I sometimes feel as if I would give anything to jump out of the carriage and have one good run. I know I could easily keep up with those horses if it were onlyproper to run behind the carriage, but of course it isn't.
"I ought not to object to going out with Aunt Julia, for she has been very good to me. She is having some perfectly lovely dresses made for me, and has bought me two simply wonderful hats. I am not sure whether Mother would quite approve of all my new clothes. Some of them do look very grown-up, but then the girls here are all much more grown-up than I had any idea they would be. Elsie puts up her hair, and wanted me to put mine up, too, but I knew Mother wouldn't like it, and Uncle Henry said I was right.
"I have been at school every day since Monday, and like it very much indeed. It is not a large school, only a class of twelve girls. The teacher's name is Miss Lothrop, and Elsie and several of the other girls have been going to her since they were quite little. Miss Lothrop is lovely, and all the girls have been very kind and polite to me. The two I like best are Lulu Bell and Winifred Hamilton. Elsie says they are both very young for their age, and I think perhaps that is the reason I like them better than some of the others. Winifred is only thirteen, but she is just as sweet as she can be, and Luluis awfully pretty, and a great favorite. Carol Hastings is another girl in the class, and Elsie's most intimate friend. She is only fourteen, but seems much older. I wonder why New York girls seem to care so much about boys. I like a nice boy ever so much myself, but I can't see the use of giggling and looking silly every time his name is mentioned. Carol Hastings came here to dinner last night, and when Beverly Randolph came over to our table to speak to us, she was so silly I was really ashamed of her. I spoke to Elsie about it afterwards, and she said Carol was a goose, but I think she is a little bit silly herself sometimes. I wrote Mother all about Beverly Randolph, and how much I liked him. I would give anything to have a brother just like him. He adores his mother, and I don't wonder, for she is lovely. He says she is so jolly, and is always interested in everything he is interested in; even the college games. His father died when he was little, and I suppose this is one reason why he and his mother are so much to each other. There is an uncle, who is a doctor, but he only comes to dine with them sometimes, and lives somewhere else. Mrs. Randolph has one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen—yours and Mothers excepted—and she looksvery young to be the mother of a big boy of eighteen. She dresses in black, and looks rather sad sometimes, but I suppose that is when she is thinking of her husband.
"Elsie is very clever, and Aunt Julia admires her tremendously. She says Elsie has always been the brightest girl in her classes and that she recites Shakespeare quite wonderfully. I haven't heard her recite yet, but she plays the piano very well, and takes music lessons twice a week. She speaks French, too, and is beginning to study German. Of course I am not nearly as far advanced as she is, but Miss Lothrop says I am not backward for my age, and that makes me very happy. I was so proud when she asked me if I had a governess at home, and I told her Father and Mother had taught me everything I knew. I don't think Elsie liked my saying that; she says I mustn't talk about our being poor, but I am sure I can't see why she should object. However, I have promised to try not to say anything she doesn't like; they have all been so good to me that I do want to please them if I can.
"Last Tuesday was Aunt Julia's birthday, and she gave a family dinner party. She has a good many relatives, and they all came. I should think Elsie would love having so many cousins, but shesays she doesn't care very much about many of them. Aunt Julia's two sisters were here, and I thought the oldest one—Mrs. Lamont—was lovely. Her daughter, Miss Annie, came with her, and she was awfully nice and jolly. She is quite old—about twenty-five I think—and she works downtown in a settlement. I didn't know what a settlement was, but Elsie explained that it is a place where ladies go to live among very poor ignorant people, and try to help them. She and her mother send some of their old clothes to Miss Lamont, and she gives them to the poor women at the settlement. Aunt Julia's other sister is Mrs. Ward. She is quite stout, and talks a great deal about what is good for her to eat and what isn't. She was nice, but I didn't like her as much as the Lamonts. Her husband is fat, too, and is always saying funny things that make people laugh. They have two little girls, but they were not allowed to come because Tuesday was a school night, and they are never allowed to go out anywhere except on Fridays and Saturdays. Elsie can go out any night she likes, because she is so clever that Aunt Julia says it doesn't matter whether she misses her lessons one day or not. There is a Ward boy, too, but he is at Yale. Elsie likes him best of all her cousins,and she says he is very fond of her, too. Aunt Julia says all the boys admire Elsie very much, but I think she is mistaken about Beverly Randolph. He has such an honest face that he can't hide his feelings, and when Elsie and Carol giggled so much that night, and talked so very grown-up, I am sure he was trying not to laugh.
"You can't begin to imagine how glad I was to get your and Mother's precious letters. I read them over and over until I almost knew them by heart, and slept with Mother's first one under my pillow all night. Father's letter was splendid too, and I was so interested to hear all about the new colts. I am so glad Undine is proving such a comfort. I knew you couldn't help loving her, she is such a dear, and she promised to try to take my place. I told the girls at school about her, and they thought it the most interesting thing they had ever heard. Lulu Bell says she is going to tell her aunt, who is an authoress, about it, and ask her to put Undine in a book. Won't it be too interesting if she really does?
"O dear! there is the clock striking ten, and I have been writing ever since half-past eight. I must stop now, and go to bed, or I shall be sleepy to-morrow morning. Ten o'clock at night used to seem very late indeed at home, but itseems quite early here. Elsie doesn't expect to get home from her party before half past eleven. Uncle Henry doesn't approve of late hours for school-girls, but Aunt Julia says everybody in New York keeps them, so it can't be helped. I forgot to say the party is at Bessie Winston's. She is one of the girls at Miss Lothrop's, and one of Elsie's intimate friends. I was invited, too, but Aunt Julia wouldn't let me accept, because my new dresses haven't come home yet. Elsie says I wouldn't have enjoyed it, anyway, because I can't dance. She goes to a dancing class every Saturday morning, and Aunt Julia says she may have me go too after Christmas. I think I should like dancing, for the sake of the exercise if nothing else. Oh, how I do long for exercise! Elsie rides in summer, but her pony is at their country place on Long Island, and they don't think it worth while to bring it in to New York. Aunt Julia says Elsie has so many other things to do in winter she has no time for riding. What wouldn't I give for one good canter on Roland! I can't help envying the girls I see riding in the park, though none of them look as if they were enjoying it as much as I should. They all ride side-saddle, and I don't believe it can benearly as pleasant as riding astride, but Aunt Julia told me not to say so, because it isn't considered the thing to ride astride here. I saw Beverly Randolph riding in the park this afternoon, and he really did look as if he enjoyed it. His home is in Virginia, and he says the people there are very fond of horses. Lulu says Mrs. Randolph owns a large plantation, and I suppose a plantation is something like a ranch.
"Now I really must stop writing, for my hand is getting tired, and I have made two big blots on this page. So good night, Auntie darling. If I could send all the love that is in my heart, I am afraid no postman would be able to carry the letter, it would be so heavy. So you must just imagine it is there. I am really very happy, though I can't help feeling homesick sometimes, especially at night. I am going to work hard, and try to learn so much this winter that you will all be proud of me when I come home. I have already begun counting the weeks; there are just twenty-eight and a half till the first of June. A winter does seem a very long time, but this week has gone by faster than I expected. I will write to Mother on Sunday, and your next letters ought to be here by Monday. Letters arethe best thing in the world when one is so far away from home, so please all write just as often as you can to
"Your own loving"Marjorie."
"Themost glorious thing is going to happen, Marjorie," announced Elsie, as her cousin came into the drawing-room to breakfast one November morning, about two weeks after the writing of that long letter to Aunt Jessie.
"What is it?" inquired Marjorie, regarding Elsie's radiant face and sparkling eyes, with interest. Elsie was not, as a rule, a very enthusiastic young person.
"The most delightful invitation you ever heard of," Elsie explained with a glance at the letter her mother was reading. "It's from my cousin Percy Ward. You know he's a sophomore at Yale, and he wants Mamma and me to come to New Haven for the football game next Saturday. It's the big Yale-Harvard game, you know, and I've been simply crazy to go, but it's almost impossible to get tickets. It really was angelic of Percy to get two for us, and he wants us to come up on Friday afternoon so we can go to the dancethat evening. He has engaged a room for us at the hotel."
"It must be wonderful to see a great match like that," declared Marjorie, with hearty appreciation of her cousin's good fortune. "I have seen pictures of the college games, and Father always reads the football news in the papers. He is a Harvard man himself, you know, and used to be on the team."
"I'm sorry you can't go with us," said Elsie, regretfully, "but of course Percy couldn't get more than two tickets. Perhaps you wouldn't enjoy it much, though. It can't be much fun unless you know a lot of the boys. Percy is such a dear; he is sure to introduce me to all his friends."
"I wish your father had not gone to Washington on that tiresome business just now," remarked Mrs. Carleton, laying down her nephew's letter, and looking a little worried. "I should have liked to consult him before answering Percy."
"Why, Mamma, you surely don't think he would object!" cried Elsie in dismay. "What possible reason could he have for not wanting us to go?"
"Oh, no reason whatever, of course, dear. Iwas only thinking of Marjorie. I am not sure that he would like the idea of her being left here alone while we are away."
"Oh, bother! Marjorie won't mind—will you, Marjorie? Besides, she needn't be alone; Hortense can sleep in my room, and it's only for one night."
"Please don't worry about me, Aunt Julia," said Marjorie, blushing. "I shall get on all right, I am sure, and it would be terrible to have you and Elsie miss the game on my account. I can have my meals up here while you are away, and go out with Hortense."
But Mrs. Carleton did not look quite satisfied.
"You are very sweet and unselfish, dear," she said, "but I wish Percy had bought another ticket; then we could have taken you with us. I cannot bear to disappoint Elsie, so I suppose I shall have to accept the invitation, though I dislike the idea of leaving you behind, especially at a time when your uncle is away, too."
So the matter was settled, and as soon as breakfast was over Mrs. Carleton sat down to write her note of acceptance, while the two girls started for school, accompanied as usual by Hortense. Elsie was in high spirits, and entertainedher cousin with a vivid description of the delight and excitement of a college football match.
"Not that I have ever seen one myself," she explained. "Papa hates crowds, and has always said it was too difficult to get tickets, and last year Percy couldn't get any either, being only a freshman. Carol Hastings has been, though, and she told me she was never so excited in her life. The Bells are going this year, and have invited Winifred Hamilton and Gertie Rossiter to go with them. I can't see why they want to take Winifred; she is such a baby, and I don't believe a boy will notice her; but she and Lulu are such chums, one never seems able to go anywhere without the other."
"Beverly Randolph and his mother are going, too," said Marjorie, who was making a great effort to keep down the feeling of envious longing, and to show a real interest and sympathy in her cousin's anticipations. "He told me so yesterday. His uncle, Dr. Randolph, is going to take them in his automobile."
"Yes, I know; I heard him talking about it. I must be sure to tell him Mamma and I are going, so he will look us up. Oh, here come Bessie and Carol; I must tell them the good news."
Percy Ward's letter arrived on Wednesdaymorning, and on Friday afternoon soon after luncheon, Mrs. Carleton and Elsie departed for New Haven. Mr. Carleton had been called to Washington on business, and was not expected home before Saturday night. Aunt Julia was very kind, and kissed Marjorie with more affection than usual.
"I really hate to leave you," she said regretfully. "If it were not for the disappointment it would have been to Elsie, I would never have accepted. I hope you will not be very lonely."
"Oh, no, I won't," promised Marjorie cheerfully. She was really touched by her aunt's solicitude, and had almost, if not quite, succeeded in banishing the feelings of envy and disappointment. "I've got some hard lessons for Monday, and I want to have them all perfect, so I can write Mother that I haven't missed in any of my classes for a week. Then Hortense says she likes walking, so we can have some fine long tramps. To-morrow night will be here before I've begun to realize that you are away."
But despite her cheerful assurances, Marjorie's heart was not very light when she accompanied her aunt and cousin to the lift, and saw them start, Elsie's face wreathed in smiles, and even Aunt Julia looking as if she had not altogetheroutgrown her interest in a football game. She went slowly back to her own room, and taking up her Greek history, determined to forget present disappointment, and spend the next hour with the Greek heroes. But to make up one's mind to do a thing, and to carry out one's good intentions are two very different matters. Marjorie conscientiously tried to fix her thoughts on "The Siege of Troy," but the recollection of Elsie's radiant face kept obtruding itself between her eyes and the printed page, and at the end of half an hour she threw down her book in despair.
"There isn't any use," she said to herself, with a sigh; "I can't remember a single date. I'll ring for Hortense, and ask her to take me for a walk. Perhaps by the time we come back my wits will have left off wool-gathering, and I shall have a good long evening for studying and writing letters."
Hortense was quite ready for a walk, and really the afternoon was much less forlorn than Marjorie had anticipated. The French maid had taken a fancy to the little Western girl, who was always kind and friendly in her manner, and did not—as she told a friend—treat her as if she were "seulement une machine." Elsie never talked to Hortense during their walks, but thisafternoon Marjorie was longing for companionship, and she and the maid chatted together like old friends. They were both young and far away from home, and perhaps that fact had a good deal to do towards drawing them together. Marjorie was always glad to talk of her life on the ranch, and Hortense told in her turn of the little French village, where she had spent her childhood, and of the widowed mother and little brothers and sisters, to whom she sent more than half of her earnings. She spoke in broken English, with here and there a French expression thrown in, but Marjorie had no difficulty in understanding, and her interest and sympathy for the plucky little French girl, who had left home and friends to earn her own living, grew rapidly.
They took a long walk, for Hortense was almost as fond of tramping as Marjorie herself, and it was almost dusk when they at last came in sight of the big hotel. Then Hortense suddenly remembered an errand she had to do for Mrs. Carleton, and Marjorie—who was not in the least tired—declared her intention of accompanying her.
"It is not far," the maid explained; "only to Sixth Avenue. We shall not be more than a quarter of an hour."
The errand accomplished they turned their steps in a homeward direction, and were about half way up Fifty-seventh Street, on their way to the Plaza, when Marjorie's attention was attracted by a horse and cart, which had come to a standstill only a few feet in front of them. The cart was loaded with boxes and packages, and the horse, which was a mere skeleton, and looked as if his working days had long been over, had evidently completely given out. The driver, a boy of sixteen or seventeen, had sprung down from his seat, and was endeavoring to discover the cause of the trouble.
"Oh, look, Hortense," cried Marjorie, her quick sympathies instantly aroused, "look at that poor horse. He isn't strong enough to drag that heavy wagon, with all those boxes in it. Oh, what a shame! That boy mustn't beat him so—he mustn't!" And before the horrified maid could interpose, impulsive Marjorie had sprung forward to remonstrate.
"Stop beating that horse," she commanded, with flashing eyes; "can't you see he isn't able to go any farther with that load? You ought to be ashamed to load a poor creature like that in such a way!"
The boy stared at her for a moment in stupidamazement; then an ugly look came into his face. He gave one quick glance up and down the street, to make sure there was no policeman in sight; and turned on Marjorie with rough fury.
"You leave me alone, will you? It ain't none of your biz what I do with this here horse." And before the indignant Marjorie could protest he had again laid the whip lash, sharply across the poor animal's back.
Then for one moment Marjorie forgot everything—forgot that she was in the streets of a big city—forgot all Aunt Julia's lectures and Elsie's warnings—and with one quick movement she seized the whip handle, trying with all her strength to drag it away from the boy. She was strong, but her antagonist was stronger, and the end of that momentary struggle was a sharp cry of pain from Marjorie, a muttered imprecation from the driver, and in another second he had sprung into his seat, and horse and wagon were clattering away down the street.
"Oh, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle," gasped Hortense, seizing Marjorie's arm, and fairly trembling with fright and horror; "how could you do such a terrible thing? A young lady to fight with acanaille!Oh, what will Madame say when she hears?"
With One Quick Movement She Seized the Whip Handle.—Page 145.With One Quick Movement She Seized the Whip Handle.—Page 145.
"He is a wicked, cruel boy," panted Marjorie; "he ought to be arrested. He is killing that poor old horse."
"Yes, I know, he is cruel, a beast, but young ladies must not interfere with such things. You might have been hurt. Let us go home quickly; I am near to faint. Thank Heaven no one saw. Madame would never forgive such a disgrace."
"But some one ought to interfere," protested Marjorie, her wrath beginning to cool, "and there wasn't anybody else to do it. I would have taken that whip away from him if I could, but he was so strong, and he has hurt my wrist."
"Hurt your wrist! Let me see. Ah, but it is red. How could you have held on so tight? Come home quickly, and we will bathe it with arnica. How fortunate that Madame and Mademoiselle Elsie are away! Ah, here comes the young gentleman, Mademoiselle Elsie's friend from the hotel; he must not know that anything is wrong."
But Marjorie had no intention of keeping her indignation to herself, and she turned to greet Beverly Randolph with eyes that flashed and cheeks that tingled.
"Oh, Mr. Randolph," she exclaimed, as the young man smilingly took off his hat, and pausedbeside her, "the most dreadful thing has happened. A cruel, wicked boy has been ill-treating a poor old horse. The poor creature had a terribly heavy load, and when he refused to go any further, the boy beat him, and—"
"Where is he?" inquired Beverly, his own eyes beginning to flash. "I'll report the case to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals."
"He has gone," said Marjorie, regretfully. "He gave the horse a dreadful cut with the whip, and it was so frightened it started, and then he jumped into the wagon and went off. I tried to get the whip away from him, but he was terribly strong, and he hurt my wrist so much I had to let go."
Beverly Randolph's face was a mixture of astonishment, amusement and horror.
"You don't mean that you tackled the fellow yourself?" he demanded incredulously.
Marjorie nodded. Now that the excitement was over she was beginning to feel a little startled at what she had done.
"I had to," she said humbly; "there wasn't any one else to do it. Hortense thinks it was very unladylike, but I don't see what else I could have done. I couldn't just stand by and do nothingwhile that poor horse was being ill-treated."
"No, I don't suppose you could," said Beverly, smiling. "I don't think I would do it again, though; you might get hurt. Hello! what's the matter?—don't you feel well?"
For Marjorie had suddenly grown very pale, and leaned against the lamp-post.
"It's—it's my wrist," she faltered; "it hurts dreadfully, and—and I think I feel a little faint."
Without a moment's hesitation Beverly drew the girl's arm through his.
"Come along," he said, peremptorily, and without another word he conducted the wounded soldier back to the hotel. Marjorie, too, was silent; the pain in her wrist was very bad, and she had to bite her lips hard to keep back the rising tears. Hortense, still covered with shame and confusion, followed close behind. At the door of the lift Beverly paused.
"Is your aunt at home?" he inquired.
"No," said Marjorie, unsteadily; "she and Elsie have gone to New Haven for the football game."
"To be sure they have; I had forgotten. Your cousin told me they were going this afternoon. Well, I think I will take you to our apartment.My mother is used to sprains and bruises, and will know what to do for your wrist."
Marjorie protested that she could not think of disturbing Mrs. Randolph, but Beverly, who appeared to be accustomed to having his own way, remained firm, and in the end his companion was forced to yield, much to the distress and horror of Hortense, who considered that the story was already known to more persons than Mrs. Carleton would approve.
Mrs. Randolph and her brother-in-law were having tea in the former's pretty sitting-room, when the door was unceremoniously flung open, and Beverly appeared on the threshold, leading in a trembling, white-faced girl, who immediately collapsed into the nearest chair, and looked as if she were about to faint.
"It's Miss Marjorie Graham, Mother," Beverly explained, "and she has hurt her wrist. Her aunt is away, so I brought her in here. Oh, here's Uncle George; what luck! This is my uncle Dr. Randolph, Miss Marjorie; he is a surgeon, you know, and he'll fix you up in no time."
"To be sure I will if I can," said a pleasant voice, not unlike Beverly's. "Let me see what the trouble is. Ah, this is the hand, isn't it?"And Marjorie felt her wrist taken in firm, kind fingers. She winced at the touch, but the doctor's next words were reassuring.
"I see; only a slight sprain, nothing serious. Have you some arnica, Barbara, and some linen that I can use for a bandage?"
"How did it happen, dear?" Mrs. Randolph inquired sympathetically, as Marjorie leaned back in her chair, with a sigh of intense relief, and the doctor applied a cooling lotion to her aching wrist.
Marjorie's cheeks were crimson again, but not for a moment did she hesitate about telling the truth. Beverly had gone off to his own room, having left his charge in safe hands.
"I am afraid it was my own fault," she said, honestly. "I saw a boy ill-treating a poor old horse, and tried to stop him by getting the whip away from him, but he was much stronger than I, and in the struggle I suppose he must have twisted my wrist. I am afraid your son and my aunt's maid both think I was very unladylike."
Mrs. Randolph and the doctor exchanged amused glances, and the latter said kindly:
"I wish more people were moved by the same spirit, though I don't know that I should advise young girls to attack rough drivers. I imagineyou have not been very long in New York or you would be accustomed to such sights."
"No," said Marjorie, much relieved. "I have only been in New York three weeks. My home is on a ranch in Arizona, but I have been accustomed to horses all my life. I think my father would almost kill any boy who dared to treat one of ours like that."
"I daresay he would. Your father raises horses, I suppose?"
"Yes, and cattle, too. I have lived on the ranch ever since I was two years old, and New York seems very strange in some ways."
"It must," said Dr. Randolph gravely, but his eyes twinkled, and Marjorie felt sure he was trying not to laugh. "There, I think the wrist will do nicely now. You can wet this bandage again in an hour, and if I am not mistaken the pain will be gone by that time. I must be going now, Barbara; I have two patients to see before dinner. I'll call for you and Beverly in the car at nine to-morrow morning; that will give us plenty of time to make New Haven before lunch." And with a hurried leave-taking the doctor departed, leaving Mrs. Randolph and Marjorie alone together.
The next half-hour was a very pleasant one. Mrs. Randolph would not allow the girl to goback to her own apartment until the pain in her wrist had subsided, and she made her lie on the sofa, and petted her in a way that recalled Mother and Aunt Jessie so strongly that Marjorie had some difficulty in keeping back the homesick tears. Almost before she knew it, she was chatting away to this new acquaintance as if they had been old friends.
"I hope I shall get accustomed to New York ways soon," she said humbly. "I am afraid I make a great many mistakes, and they distress my aunt and cousin very much. You see, it is all so different on the ranch. I suppose your son told you how I spoke to him that morning in the park, and asked him to take me home. It seemed quite a natural thing to do, because I knew he lived in this hotel, but Aunt Julia was dreadfully shocked."
Mrs. Randolph laughed.
"Beverly was not at all shocked," she said. "He and I have rather old-fashioned ideas about some things; we like little girls to be natural."
"I am so glad you think me a little girl still," said Marjorie in a sudden burst of confidence. "All the girls here seem so grown-up, and I don't want to grow up just yet; I am only fourteen."
"My little girl would have been just about your age if she had lived," said Mrs. Randolph, with a rather sad smile. "I am sure I should not have begun to think of her as grown-up yet."
Marjorie was interested. She would have liked to ask Mrs. Randolph about her little girl, but feared the subject might be a painful one, and just that moment Beverly came back, and the conversation turned on other matters. In a little while Marjorie rose to go.
"You have been very kind to me," she said to Mrs. Randolph. "My wrist feels ever so much better already. I do hope I haven't been a bother."
"Not a bit of it," Mrs. Randolph declared, laughing. "On the contrary, I have enjoyed your call very much, and I hope you will come often, for I am very fond of little girls. By the way, what are you going to do to-morrow?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Marjorie; "walk and read and study, I suppose. Aunt Julia said I might drive in the afternoon, but the horses go so slowly I always feel as though I should like to get out of the carriage and run. Galloping over the prairie is much more fun."
Mrs. Randolph and her son both laughed, and Beverly remarked rather indignantly:
"It's a shame you couldn't have gone to the game with the others."
"Oh, that wasn't Aunt Julia's fault," said Marjorie, loyally. "Her nephew only sent two tickets, and Elsie says it's almost impossible to get extra ones. They were very kind about it, and Aunt Julia hated to leave me behind."
Beverly and his mother exchanged a significant glance, and then Beverly offered to accompany the visitor as far as her own apartment for the purpose of carrying the arnica bottle, which Mrs. Randolph insisted she should keep in case of necessity. Marjorie protested, but Beverly was firm, and the two young people left the room together, after Mrs. Randolph had kissed the girl, and told her she must come again very soon.
"I thinkyour mother is perfectly lovely," declared Marjorie, the moment the door of the Randolph's apartment had closed behind them. "Is she always so kind to strangers?"
"Mother's a brick," said Beverly, heartily. "She's kind to everybody, and always doing things for people. She's a good sport, too. I really believe, she is looking forward to the game to-morrow almost as much as I am. It's because she's so unselfish; she never stops to think of herself so long as other people are having a good time."
"My aunt is like that," said Marjorie, with shining eyes. "She is a great invalid, and suffers very much most of the time, but she never complains, and is always interested in everything we do. Is your uncle a surgeon?"
"Yes," said Beverly, rather surprised by the abruptness of the question; "he is a very fine surgeon, I believe. Why do you want to know?Aren't you satisfied with the way your wrist is bandaged?"
"Oh, it isn't that," said Marjorie, blushing; "it was only something I was thinking of that made me ask the question. This is our apartment; now I can take the bottle, and not bother you any more. Oh, there's a letter in the box; perhaps it's for me!" And forgetting everything else in her eagerness for home news, Marjorie sprang forward to possess herself of the contents of the letter-box.
"It is for me!" she cried joyfully, glancing at the postmark. "It's from Undine; the first one I've had from her."
"Undine," repeated Beverly, his eyes beginning to twinkle; "I had no idea you counted water sprites among your acquaintances."
"She isn't a water sprite," laughed Marjorie. "She's just a girl like anybody else. We call her Undine because nobody knows what her real name is. It's a very strange story indeed. She was found under some ruins in the streets of San Francisco right after the earthquake, and we think a stone or something must have fallen on her head, for she was unconscious for a long time, and now she can't remember anything that happened before the earthquake, not even herown name. She isn't crazy, or anything like that, but she has simply forgotten everything. Did you ever hear of a case like that before?"
"I think I have read of such cases, but I imagine they are rather rare. It is very interesting, but if you don't mind, Miss Marjorie, please don't mention it to my mother. Any mention of the San Francisco earthquake is very painful to her. My little sister was killed there."
"No, indeed I won't," promised Marjorie, "but how very sad about your sister. Would you mind telling me how it happened? Don't talk about it, though, if you would rather not."
"I don't mind in the least," said Beverly, "but it was such a frightful shock to my mother that we don't like to have her dwell on it any any more than can be helped. My sister Barbara was in San Francisco with my aunt at the time of the earthquake. She had been very ill with scarlet fever in the winter, and the doctor had ordered a change for her. My aunt was going to California for a few weeks, and offered to take Barbara with her. Mother couldn't leave home, for she was taking care of my grandmother, who was ill at the time, and I was away at school. So it ended in my aunt and Barbara going by themselves. My aunt intendedtaking a maid, but the one she had engaged disappointed her at the last moment, and as all the railroad accommodations had been secured, she decided to start, and trust to finding a suitable maid in San Francisco, which was to be their first stopping place. They reached San Francisco, and my aunt wrote my mother that she had engaged a very satisfactory girl, and two days later came the earthquake."
Beverly paused abruptly, and Marjorie, her face full of sympathy, laid a kind little hand on his arm.
"Don't tell me any more," she said, gently; "it must have been very terrible."
"It was," said Beverly, sadly. "Part of the wall of the hotel where they were staying fell in, and they were both instantly killed. We feared for a time that my mother would never recover from the shock."
"And was the maid killed, too?" Marjorie asked. She was longing to hear more, but did not like to ask too many questions.
"We never knew; you see, she was a stranger to us. My uncle advertised in all the California papers, in the hope of finding her, and perhaps learn more particulars, but no answer ever came. She was probably killed, poor thing."
"Your mother spoke of her little girl this afternoon," said Marjorie; "she said she would have been just about my age."
"Yes, she would have been fifteen this January. It is rather odd, but when I saw you that first morning in the park you somehow reminded me of Babs. She was such a jolly little girl. She was four years younger than I, but there were only we two, and we were always chums."
There was a look of such genuine sorrow on the boy's face that impulsive Marjorie held out her hand.
"I'm so sorry," she said and that was all, but Beverly understood, and he went back to his mother's apartment with a very kindly feeling for the little girl from Arizona.
Once in her own room Marjorie speedily forgot the Randolphs and their troubles in the delight of a letter from home. Undine's handwriting was rather immature for a girl of her age, but the letter itself was most interesting and satisfactory.
"November Fifteenth."Dear Marjorie:"Your aunt thinks you would like to have a letter from me, and although I can't see how youcan possibly care about hearing from such a stupid person, I am very glad to write."You have no idea how much I have missed you. If your mother and aunt had not been so very kind I don't think I could have borne it, but, oh, Marjorie dear they are so good; I do hope I can deserve just a little of all they are doing for me. Your mother is making me a new dress—isn't it sweet of her? She sent to Albuquerque for the material; it is dark blue serge with a little stripe in it, and just as pretty as it can be. I take a sewing lesson every day from Miss Jessie, but I know as well as can be that I shall never learn to make things as you do."Another thing that makes me very happy is that your mother is giving me lessons, and letting me recite to her every evening. Even if I am stupid and can't remember my own name, I don't want to grow up ignorant. We are reading English history together, and it is very strange, but I almost always know what is coming next. Mrs. Graham says she feels sure I must have learned the same things before."A very strange thing happened to me one day last week; I think I almost remembered. It was the day your long letter to Miss Jessie came, and she was reading it aloud to us when it happened.It was just like the day I heard Jim singing 'Mandalay' for the first time. It seemed to me just for one minute that I was going to remember everything, and I was so excited I screamed, and frightened Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie. Then in a flash it was all gone again, and I was so unhappy I couldn't help crying. I am afraid I gave them a good deal of trouble, but they were so kind! Afterward Miss Jessie talked to me for a long time, and made me promise to try not to worry any more about not remembering. She said some lovely comforting things about my being helpful and trying to take your place, and they made me very happy, although I am afraid I didn't really deserve them."I ride almost every afternoon, and I think Roland is beginning to like me. I never forget his sugar, and I am teaching him to put his nose in my pocket for it. I think I must have taught another horse that some time, it seemed so natural, but I am not sure. I have promised your aunt not to talk about the things I think I used to do."I had such a beautiful dream last night. I thought some one came and told me I was very rich, and I was so happy, because I would have the money to pay a surgeon to come and see MissJessie. I was just planning out how I was to do it when I woke up. I have thought a great deal about what you told me that last evening, but of course I have never mentioned it to any one. I don't suppose you have had time to meet a surgeon yet."I must stop writing now, and study my history. Everybody is well, and they all send heaps of love and kisses. Your mother says 'don't let Marjorie know how much we miss her,' but I am sure you know that without any telling. I don't want to be selfish, but I should just love a letter all to myself some time. New York must be a very interesting place, and your letters telling about it all are wonderful."With a heart full of love, I am"Your true but nameless friend,"Undine."
"November Fifteenth.
"Your aunt thinks you would like to have a letter from me, and although I can't see how youcan possibly care about hearing from such a stupid person, I am very glad to write.
"You have no idea how much I have missed you. If your mother and aunt had not been so very kind I don't think I could have borne it, but, oh, Marjorie dear they are so good; I do hope I can deserve just a little of all they are doing for me. Your mother is making me a new dress—isn't it sweet of her? She sent to Albuquerque for the material; it is dark blue serge with a little stripe in it, and just as pretty as it can be. I take a sewing lesson every day from Miss Jessie, but I know as well as can be that I shall never learn to make things as you do.
"Another thing that makes me very happy is that your mother is giving me lessons, and letting me recite to her every evening. Even if I am stupid and can't remember my own name, I don't want to grow up ignorant. We are reading English history together, and it is very strange, but I almost always know what is coming next. Mrs. Graham says she feels sure I must have learned the same things before.
"A very strange thing happened to me one day last week; I think I almost remembered. It was the day your long letter to Miss Jessie came, and she was reading it aloud to us when it happened.It was just like the day I heard Jim singing 'Mandalay' for the first time. It seemed to me just for one minute that I was going to remember everything, and I was so excited I screamed, and frightened Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie. Then in a flash it was all gone again, and I was so unhappy I couldn't help crying. I am afraid I gave them a good deal of trouble, but they were so kind! Afterward Miss Jessie talked to me for a long time, and made me promise to try not to worry any more about not remembering. She said some lovely comforting things about my being helpful and trying to take your place, and they made me very happy, although I am afraid I didn't really deserve them.
"I ride almost every afternoon, and I think Roland is beginning to like me. I never forget his sugar, and I am teaching him to put his nose in my pocket for it. I think I must have taught another horse that some time, it seemed so natural, but I am not sure. I have promised your aunt not to talk about the things I think I used to do.
"I had such a beautiful dream last night. I thought some one came and told me I was very rich, and I was so happy, because I would have the money to pay a surgeon to come and see MissJessie. I was just planning out how I was to do it when I woke up. I have thought a great deal about what you told me that last evening, but of course I have never mentioned it to any one. I don't suppose you have had time to meet a surgeon yet.
"I must stop writing now, and study my history. Everybody is well, and they all send heaps of love and kisses. Your mother says 'don't let Marjorie know how much we miss her,' but I am sure you know that without any telling. I don't want to be selfish, but I should just love a letter all to myself some time. New York must be a very interesting place, and your letters telling about it all are wonderful.
"With a heart full of love, I am"Your true but nameless friend,"Undine."
Marjorie spent a busy evening over her lessons, and went to bed at nine o'clock instead of writing the home letters she had intended.
"They would be so sorry to know I was here all by myself while the others were off having a good time," she thought, resolutely crushing down that troublesome little feeling of envy. "If I wrote to-night I should have to mention it, butif I wait till Sunday when Aunt Julia and Elsie are back again, I won't have to say anything about their having been away. I promised Mother to let her know about all the things, but some of them will keep till I get home and can tell her myself."
But in spite of the throbbing pain in her wrist, and the disappointment in her heart, Marjorie soon feel asleep, and did not wake until it was broad daylight, and Hortense, with a note in her hand, was standing by her bedside.
"It is only seven," the maid said apologetically, as Marjorie sat up in bed, and rubbed her eyes. "I would not have called you so early, but the hall boy has brought this note, and waits for an answer."
"What in the world can it be?" exclaimed Marjorie in astonishment, as she tore open the envelope, but at the first glance at the contents her face brightened, and she uttered a joyful little cry. This is what she read.
"My Dear Marjorie:"I know you won't object to my calling you Marjorie, because you say you like being a little girl. I am writing to ask if you will go with us to New Haven to-day. We are going in mybrother-in-law's car, and are to be ready to start at nine o'clock. The friend we expected would go with us has been prevented at the last moment, which gives us an extra seat in the car as well as a ticket for the game, and we should be delighted to have you with us. I am sure your aunt would not object, and I will explain everything to her myself. I would have written you last evening, but it was after ten when we learned that the friend we had expected would be unable to go. We have ordered breakfast for eight o'clock, and would be glad to have you take it with us. Be sure to wrap up well, for it may be a cold ride, and we shall not get back till late."Hoping that you will be able to join us, I remain"Sincerely your friend,"Barbara Randolph."
"I know you won't object to my calling you Marjorie, because you say you like being a little girl. I am writing to ask if you will go with us to New Haven to-day. We are going in mybrother-in-law's car, and are to be ready to start at nine o'clock. The friend we expected would go with us has been prevented at the last moment, which gives us an extra seat in the car as well as a ticket for the game, and we should be delighted to have you with us. I am sure your aunt would not object, and I will explain everything to her myself. I would have written you last evening, but it was after ten when we learned that the friend we had expected would be unable to go. We have ordered breakfast for eight o'clock, and would be glad to have you take it with us. Be sure to wrap up well, for it may be a cold ride, and we shall not get back till late.
"Hoping that you will be able to join us, I remain
"Sincerely your friend,"Barbara Randolph."
Marjorie was out of bed almost before she had finished the last line. Her eyes were dancing, and her heart pounding with excitement.
"Tell the boy to say I shall be delighted to go," she cried. "There isn't time to write a note; I shall have to hurry. Oh, Hortense, did you ever hear of anything quite so splendid?"
It was a very radiant Marjorie who presented herself at the Randolphs' apartment an hour later, and Beverly and his mother felt fully repaid for the kindly impulse which had prompted the invitation. The breakfast that followed was a very pleasant one, and Marjorie chatted away to her new friends as if she had known them all her life, and enjoyed herself more than she had done at any time since coming to New York.
"I really didn't know how disappointed I was about not going till your mother's note came," she said to Beverly, when breakfast was over, and Mrs. Randolph had gone to put on her hat. "I have always longed to see a football game. My father was on the team at Harvard."
"You seemed to take your disappointment rather cheerfully," said Beverly with characteristic bluntness.
Marjorie blushed.
"It was just one of the things that couldn't be helped," she said simply. "My aunt says there are some things every one has to make the best of."
"Your aunt must be a sensible woman," remarked Mrs. Randolph, who had returned just in time to hear Marjorie's last sentence. Thereupon Marjorie launched forth into an account ofAunt Jessie's bravery and cheerfulness, in which both her companions seemed interested.
Marjorie was sure she would never forget the delight of that motor ride to New Haven. It was her first ride in an open touring car, and the bright sunshine, the keen frosty air, and the swift motion, all combined to render the trip a truly enjoyable one. She sat in the tonneau, between Mrs. Randolph and the doctor, and Beverly occupied the front seat with the chauffeur.
"It's the most heavenly motion I ever imagined," murmured Marjorie, as they bowled swiftly out of the park and along the grand boulevard. "I always thought riding was the most delightful thing in the world, but I believe motoring is even better."
The doctor laughed.
"You must be an accomplished horsewoman," he said. "Beverly tells me you have spent a good part of your life on a ranch."
"I rode my first pony before I was five, and helped Father train a colt when I was nine," said Marjorie. "I suppose that is one reason why I love horses so much, and can't bear to see one ill-treated."
"I have no doubt of it, but if I were you I think I would leave the punishment of crueldrivers in future to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. By the way, how is the wrist this morning?"
"Oh, it's ever so much better," said Marjorie, blushing at the memory of her escapade. "I don't believe I have thought of it once since Mrs. Randolph's note came. I have been so anxious to see a real college football match. My father was on the team at Harvard."
"Indeed!" said the doctor, looking interested. "I am a Harvard man myself, and there was a Graham on the team in my time; a splendid chap—what is your father's name?"
"Donald, and he was in the class of 1890," said Marjorie, eagerly. "Oh, I wonder if you can really have known Father."
"I certainly did. Ninety was my class, too, and I remember Donald Graham very well, though we have never met since the old college days."
"How perfectly delightful!" cried Marjorie, with sparkling eyes. "Father will be so interested when I write him about it."
Dr. Randolph was really pleased to hear of his old classmate, forgotten for nearly twenty years, and he and Marjorie were soon in the midst of an animated conversation; she telling of herfather's busy life on the Arizona cattle ranch, and he relating college stories, and growing young again himself in recalling those old merry days.
That was a wonderful ride, and Marjorie enjoyed every moment. Dr. Randolph told her the names of all the towns they passed through, and Beverly and his mother were so kind and so merry. It was noon when they reached New Haven, where they found the streets crowded with people and automobiles, and many of the buildings decorated with flags and Yale colors.
"Have all these people come to see the game?" Marjorie asked breathlessly.
"Yes, and a good many more as well," Dr. Randolph told her. "There is always a big crowd for these games; the railroads run special trains on purpose. We are going to have lunch now, and then go out to Yale Field."
"I wonder if we shall meet Aunt Julia and Elsie," said Marjorie. "How surprised they will be to see me if we do. Aunt Julia will be pleased, I know, for she hated to leave me at home."
"We shall meet the Bells and their party at any rate," said Beverly. "They came yesterday by train, and are saving a table for us at therestaurant. You know Lulu Bell, don't you, Marjorie?"
"Yes, she is in my class, and I like her ever so much. I like Winifred Hamilton, too, and she is to be with the Bells, I believe."
At that moment they drew up before the hotel where they were to lunch, and Mrs. Randolph and Marjorie hurried away to the dressing-room to remove wraps and motor veils, while the doctor and his nephew went to order luncheon.
"I reallydon't know when I've been so pleased about anything!" exclaimed Lulu Bell, a pretty, bright-faced girl of fourteen, as she and her friends greeted Marjorie in the restaurant. "We were all so glad when Beverly Randolph told us you were here. Won't Elsie be surprised? She hadn't the least idea you were coming. Come here and sit between Winifred and me."
"I don't believe any one can be much more surprised than I am myself," said Marjorie, laughing, as she took the proffered seat, and received the kindly greeting of her other schoolmates. "Wasn't it just heavenly of the Randolphs to bring me with them?"
"It was nice," Winifred Hamilton agreed heartily. "This is my first football game, too, and I'm almost too excited to eat. Did you ever see such a crowd in your life?"
"No, never," said Marjorie, with a glance round the packed restaurant. "I wonder if theywill really have lunch enough for all these people. Do you suppose Aunt Julia and Elsie are here?"
"No, I don't think so," said Winifred. "We saw Elsie at the dance last night, and she said they were going to lunch with some friends of her cousin's. She will be at the game, of course, and perhaps you may see her there."
"I think it was real mean of Elsie to come without you," chimed in Gertie Rossiter, who was not noted for tact. "I should have hated to go off for a good time and leave my cousin at home alone."
"Oh, Elsie couldn't help it," protested Marjorie; "her cousin could only get two tickets."
"Nonsense!" retorted Gertie indignantly. "He could have gotten an extra one as well as not if he had known in time; he told me so last night. I know Percy Ward very well, and he's an awfully nice boy. He felt dreadfully sorry when he heard about your being left behind. He said it was just like Elsie."
"Isn't Mrs. Randolph pretty?" broke in Winifred, anxious to change the subject before Gertie made any more uncomfortable revelations. "She looks awfully young to be that big boy's mother."
"She is perfectly lovely," declared Marjorie,and Lulu added, by way of keeping the conversation in safe channels:
"Papa knows her brother-in-law, Dr. Randolph, very well, and he says she is the bravest woman he has ever met. You've heard about her little girl, haven't you?"
"Yes," said Marjorie, "it was very sad; I don't see how poor Mrs. Randolph ever got over it."
"She didn't," said Lulu. "Dr. Randolph says it nearly killed her, and even now she can't bear to speak of it, but she doesn't think it right to sadden her son's life, and so she is always bright and cheerful. If I ever write a book I shall make my heroine just that sort of person."
At this moment Beverly, who had gone to speak to some friends at another table, joined the party, and the subject of his family was dropped. The luncheon was a very merry one. They were a large party, for besides Lulu's father and mother and the three girls, there were a couple of Yale students, friends of the Bells, and everybody seemed in excellent spirits. Marjorie felt a little shy at first, but soon thawed under the genial atmosphere, and before the meal was over she was chatting and laughing as merrily as any of the others.
"Isn't Marjorie a nice girl?" whispered Winifred to Lulu, as they were leaving the restaurant. "I'm so glad she got the chance to come, but I do wonder what Elsie will say."
It seemed to Marjorie that the next three hours must be the most exciting period of her life. To most girls a college football game is looked upon as a rather important event, but to Marjorie, fresh from her Arizona home, it was an experience never to be forgotten. It was on the whole a peaceful game, and there were no serious accidents to mar the general enjoyment and as the sun continued to shine, and the day was comfortably warm, there were not even the usual discomforts of weather to be endured. Marjorie and her friends were about equally divided in their championship; Lulu, Winifred and Gertie being for Yale, while Beverly and Marjorie herself favored Harvard, and joined in the cheers and rejoicing when the "Crimson" at last carried off the honors of the day, although Yale ran so close behind that at one time fears had been entertained that the game would be a tie.
"Are you tired, Marjorie?" Beverly asked, as they were making their way through the dense throng to the waiting motor-car.
"I don't know whether I am or not," saidMarjorie, laughing. "It has all been so wonderful, and I don't feel as if I could quite realize it yet. Oh, there they are!"
"Who?" demanded Beverly, looking round in surprise. "Oh, I see, your aunt and cousin—do you want to speak to them?"
"Yes, of course I do; they'll be so surprised. Why, Elsie is staring at me as if she didn't know me."
To say that Mrs. Carleton and her daughter were surprised would be but a mild way of expressing their feelings. They were for the moment literally speechless with astonishment. Elsie was the first to recover her power of articulation.
"Is it really and truly you, Marjorie?" she demanded, regarding her smiling cousin with round-eyed amazement.
"Yes, it really and truly is," laughed Marjorie. "I've been trying to find you all the afternoon, but there was such a crowd. I knew you'd be surprised."
"Surprised!" echoed Elsie, looking from Marjorie to her tall companion, "I was never so surprised in my life. But how did it happen—who brought you?"
"Mr. Randolph and his mother," said Marjorie,"wasn't it perfectly lovely of them?" And she proceeded to give her aunt and cousin an account of recent events.
"I am sure it was extremely kind of Mrs. Randolph," Mrs. Carleton said, when Marjorie had finished her story. "I only hope this little girl hasn't been a trouble to your mother, Mr. Randolph."
"Indeed she hasn't," declared Beverly, not without some indignation in his tone. "We've had a splendid time, haven't we, Marjorie?" To which Marjorie, who felt suddenly as if a pail of ice water had been dashed over her, answered rather meekly:—
"It was beautiful. I never had such a good time in my life."
"I am afraid that we must hurry along, Mrs. Carleton," said Beverly. "My mother and uncle have gone ahead, and will be waiting for us at the entrance. Don't worry about Marjorie; we'll take good care of her, and bring her home safely. We may be a little late, as my uncle doesn't like to run his car fast after dark."
"Oh, I shall not worry," said Mrs. Carleton, with her sweetest smile. "I know Marjorie is in excellent hands, and between ourselves, I think she is a very fortunate little girl."
Marjorie was rather silent during the long ride back to New York that evening. Mrs. Randolph and the doctor thought she was tired after all the excitement of the day, and kindly left her alone, but Beverly was of a different opinion, and his feelings towards Marjorie's aunt and cousin were not of the kindest.
"I suppose your aunt was very much surprised to see you," Mrs. Randolph said kindly, merely for the sake of conversation.
"Very much indeed," said Marjorie, in a tone that was not altogether steady. "Oh, Mrs. Randolph, I do hope I haven't been a trouble to you."
"A trouble! My dear child, what nonsense. It has been perfectly delightful to have you with us, and you have added greatly to our pleasure. I hope we may have many more little trips together before the winter is over. You know I am very fond of little girls."
Marjorie was much relieved, but her heart was not as light as it had been all day.
"Be sure to remember me to your father when you write," were Dr. Randolph's parting words to Marjorie, as they drew up before the big hotel at ten o'clock that night. "Tell him he mustn't forget to look me up when he comes to New York."
"Indeed I will," promised Marjorie; "he will be so interested. I don't suppose—" with sudden eagerness—"that you ever go to Arizona?"
"I have never been there as yet, but nobody knows what may happen. If I ever go to Arizona, though, I shall certainly call on my old college friend, Donald Graham."
"Isn't your uncle a dear?" remarked Marjorie to Beverly, as her friend was taking her upstairs to the Carletons' apartment.
"He's a brick," was the young man's hearty rejoinder. "I'm glad you like him, for I know he likes you. He doesn't take to everybody, but he's been awfully good to Mother and me, and he was very fond of my little sister. Here's your door, so I'll say good-night. Hasn't it been a jolly day?"
"It has been one of the loveliest days I've ever had," said Marjorie earnestly. "I'm sorry Aunt Julia thought I might have been troublesome, but your mother said I wasn't."
"Troublesome! I should say not. Don't bother about what your aunt says; she doesn't know anything about it, and it's all nonsense, you know."
Elsie had already gone to bed, and Mr. Carleton had telegraphed that he was taking the midnighttrain from Washington, and would not reach home till the following morning. But Aunt Julia was still up and dressed, and awaiting her niece's return.
"My dear child, how late you are," was the rather reproachful greeting. "Do you know it is nearly half-past ten? Elsie went to bed more than an hour ago; she was quite worn out, poor child, as indeed I am myself, but I couldn't make up my mind to undress until I knew you were safely at home. I am horribly afraid of those automobiles."
"I'm so sorry you worried about me, Aunt Julia," said Marjorie, regretfully. "I think we were quite safe, though; Dr. Randolph's chauffeur seems very careful, and they don't like going fast. I wasn't a bit frightened."
"No, I don't suppose you were; children seldom realize danger. Sit down, Marjorie; I want to have a little talk with you before you go to your room."
Marjorie complied, drawing a chair close to the fire, and stretching her cold hands out to the welcome blaze. She was longing to tell all about the day's pleasures, and was glad of the prospect of a little chat with Aunt Julia before going to bed.
"Now my dear," began Mrs. Carleton, speaking fast and rather nervously, "I don't want you to let what I am going to say make you unhappy. I am not in the least displeased with you, because I am sure you had no intention of doing anything wrong; I have told Elsie so. But, Marjorie dear, it is not quite the proper thing for a girl of your age to accept invitations from strangers without first consulting the people under whose care she has been placed."
"Oh, Aunt Julia," cried Marjorie, clasping her hands in dismay, while all the brightness died suddenly out of her face, "I am so sorry! I had no idea you would object to my going with the Randolphs; I thought you would be pleased because you were so sorry about leaving me at home. Mrs. Randolph said she was sure you wouldn't mind."
Mrs. Carleton moved uneasily in her chair, and her eyes did not meet Marjorie's honest, astonished gaze.
"I am sure it was very kind of Mrs. Randolph to think of giving you so much pleasure," she said. "I am not displeased with you either, Marjorie; I am only warning you not to make such a mistake another time. The Randolphs are merely slight acquaintances of ours, and onedoesn't like being under obligations to strangers, you know. Elsie feels this quite as strongly as I do."
"Elsie," repeated Marjorie, with a start, "why does she care? Didn't she want me to go to the game?"
"Nonsense, dear; of course Elsie wanted you to go. She would have been delighted if only the circumstances had been a little different. Don't look so distressed, Marjorie; there is really nothing tragic in the situation. You have done nothing wrong, and I am glad you have had such a pleasant day, but don't accept another invitation without consulting either your uncle or me. Now kiss me good-night; I am tired to death and simply cannot sit up another minute."
Marjorie cried herself to sleep that night for the first time in weeks. In spite of the memories of her happy day, she was more homesick than she had been at any time since coming to New York. She was so anxious to do right; to please her uncle and aunt in every way, and show them how grateful she was for all they were doing for her. And now, without having the slightest idea of having done anything wrong, she had annoyed Aunt Julia. She was thankful Hortense had not mentioned the episode of the cruel driver,and that her wrist no longer required a bandage. What would her aunt say if she knew of this delinquency as well as the other? But Marjorie was a very honest, truthful girl, and she decided to make a clean breast of everything to Uncle Henry when he came home. There was only one thing she could not understand, and that was why Elsie should have objected to her going to New Haven with the Randolphs.