Therewas a marked coolness in Elsie's manner to her cousin the next morning, which Marjorie found decidedly uncomfortable as well as perplexing, but even Elsie was not proof against the weakness of curiosity, and after a few veiled hints, which Marjorie quite failed to understand, she finally softened, and demanded a full account of yesterday's doings, which her cousin was only too glad to give.
"Tell me about Lulu Bell," said Elsie, when Marjorie had reached the part of her story where they had arrived at New Haven, and gone to lunch at the hotel restaurant. "Did Beverly Randolph pay her a lot of attention?"
"Why, no, I don't think so," said Marjorie, innocently, "at least not any more than he paid to any of us. He was very polite to everybody, and I think he's the nicest boy I've ever met."
"Probably that is because you have never metmany people except Mexicans and Indians," remarked Elsie sarcastically.
Marjorie, who had a quick temper of her own, flushed angrily, and was just going to say something sharp when Mrs. Carleton called them to get ready for church. Sunday was always a homesick day with Marjorie; there was not so much to do as on week-days, and she generally wrote a long home letter in the afternoon. Mr. Carleton had returned in time for breakfast, but it was not until after luncheon that Marjorie succeeded in getting him to herself. Then he proposed taking a walk, and asked the girls to accompany him. Elsie protested that she was too tired after the exertions of yesterday, but Marjorie gladly accepted her uncle's invitation, and it was during that walk that she told her little story, concealing nothing not even the battle royal with the brutal driver. Mr. Carleton could not help smiling over his niece's account of that affair, although he grew grave again in a moment, and told Marjorie she must never interfere in such a case. But he saw nothing wrong in her having accepted Mrs. Randolph's invitation.
"I daresay your aunt is right in wishing you to consult her before accepting invitations as a rule," he said, "but in this case I really don't seehow you could have acted differently. The Randolphs are charming people, and it was very kind of them to offer to take you with them. It would have been scarcely courteous to refuse."
Marjorie returned from her walk with a much lighter heart, and in writing a long and detailed account of the game to her father, she quite forgot to worry over Elsie's sulks, or Aunt Julia's warnings.
When the two girls arrived the next morning at the building where Miss Lothrop held her daily classes, they found several of their classmates gathered in an eager group, all talking fast and earnestly.
"The most interesting thing is going to happen," announced Gertie Rossiter, pouncing upon the two new arrivals. "Lulu is getting up a club, and she wants us all to join."
"What sort of a club?" inquired Elsie, doubtfully.
"Oh, an awfully nice one. It's to meet at our different houses on Friday evenings, and we are to sew for the poor for the first hour, and dance and play games the rest of the evening."
"I don't believe I should care to join," said Elsie, indifferently, as she took off her hat, and smoothed out her crimps; "I hate sewing."
"So do I, but the sewing is only for the first hour, and the rest will be such fun. The boys will be invited to come at nine and stay till half-past ten."
"Boys!" repeated Elsie her face brightening; "are there to be boys in the club, too?"
"Yes, but of course they can't sew, so Lulu is going to put them on the amusement committee. My brother Rob is going to be asked, and Bessie's two cousins, and any others we can think of. You'll be sorry if you don't join, Elsie; it's going to be splendid."
"I never said I wasn't going to join," said Elsie loftily, and sauntering over to the window where Lulu Bell and several other girls were still in earnest conversation, she inquired with an air of would-be indifference:
"What's all this about a club somebody is getting up?"
"It's Lulu," said Winifred Hamilton, proudly; "she thought of it yesterday and we all think it's such a good idea."
"The first meeting is to be held at my house next Friday evening," Lulu explained, "and every member has got to read an original poem."
"What for?" demanded Elsie, beginning tolook rather blank. "I don't see what poems have to do with a sewing club."
"Oh, we all have to be initiated," said Lulu, "the way college boys are, you know, and the way we are going to initiate is to make everybody write a poem. It needn't be more than eight lines, and it doesn't matter what it's about, so long as it's poetry. It will be such fun reading the poems and deciding which is the best. The one who writes the best poem is to be president of the club. It will be decided by vote."
"I think the club sounds very interesting," said Elsie, with a little air of condescension, "but if I were you I would give up the initiation; it's so silly."
"Oh, the initiation is half the fun!" cried Lulu and Bessie both together, and Lulu, who was not very fond of Elsie, added with decision:
"Any one who isn't willing to take the trouble to write a poem can't join the club."
"I am sure I have no objection to writing a poem," said Elsie, shrugging her shoulders. "It's perfectly simple; I could write one every week if I chose, but it's so foolish."
Bessie and Gertie looked at each other, and Gertie formed the word "brag" with her lips, but did not say it aloud. Marjorie saw the lookthat passed between the two girls, and her cheeks grew suddenly hot.
Elsie was certainly very clever, but she could not help feeling that it would be better taste on her cousin's part not to talk about it.
"I wish I found it easy to write a poem," said Winifred, mournfully. "I never made a rhyme in my life, but Lulu says I've got to try. She made me write a story once when we were little girls, and it was the most awful nonsense you ever heard. Have you ever written a poem, Marjorie?"
"Only a few silly doggerels. One of my aunt's favorite games is capping verses, and we used sometimes to play it on winter evenings."
Just then more girls arrived, and in a few moments Miss Lothrop rang her bell, and school began.
"Well, Marjorie, what do you think of the idea of the club?" Elsie inquired of her cousin, as the two were walking home from school together that day.
"I think it will be splendid," declared Marjorie, heartily. "Lulu must be a clever girl to have thought of such a plan, especially of the initiation. I am sure the poems will be great fun."
"They won't amount to anything," said Elsie, with her superior smile. "Nobody will write a decent poem, and I do hate poetry that isn't really good. Papa would never allow me to learn anything but the classics."
"Lulu says we mustn't read our poems to any one until the night of the initiation," said Marjorie. "I know yours will be splendid, Elsie; you are so clever."
Elsie smiled, well pleased by the compliment, and added rather irrelevantly:
"I asked Lulu why she didn't invite Beverly Randolph to join the club. He hasn't many friends in New York and might enjoy it. She says he is older than any of the other boys, but she would be glad to have him if he cares to join, so I am to ask him and let her know to-morrow. The boys are not to be initiated, because they are only the amusement committee, but they are all to come to the first meeting, and vote on the poems."
Nothing more was said on the subject just then, but Elsie was careful to deliver the message to Beverly that evening, and the invitation was readily accepted.
"The girl who writes the best poem is to be president, you know," Elsie explained, with hersweetest smile. "You must be sure to come to the first meeting and vote for the one you like best."
"I am afraid I'm not very well up on poetry," said Beverly, laughing. "It's a lucky thing the boys aren't expected to write poems as well as the girls; I am sure I should disgrace myself hopelessly if I were to attempt anything original."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't," Elsie protested. "You have no idea how easy it really is. Of course some of the poems will be dreadfully silly, but you don't have to vote for them."
It was Thanksgiving week, so school closed on Wednesday, not to open again till the following Monday. Elsie had several invitations for the holidays, but Marjorie, whose New York acquaintances were still limited to the girls at Miss Lothrop's, had only the first meeting of the Club on Friday evening to which to look forward. She wrote her poem on Wednesday evening, while Elsie was at a theater party, and although far from satisfied with it, decided that it would have to do, as she had several hard lessons to prepare for Monday, and there was no more time for writing poetry.
"Of course it won't be nearly as good asElsie's," she told herself cheerfully. "She is sure to be voted president."
She had asked her cousin that evening if she had written her poem, and Elsie had replied carelessly that there was plenty of time, and she would probably do it to-morrow.
"It really isn't worth bothering about," she had added, with some scorn; "it won't take me half an hour."
The next day was Thanksgiving, and the Carletons and their niece were invited to a family dinner at Mrs. Lamont's. Elsie spent a long time in her room that afternoon, and came out looking rather cross. Marjorie, going into her cousin's room for something later in the day, noticed that the waste-paper basket was full of torn papers.
"I wonder if she can be having trouble with her poem," Marjorie thought innocently, but when she questioned Elsie on the subject, that young lady colored angrily, and replied that of course she wasn't, and she did wish people would stop talking about that silly Club; she was sick of the subject and had a great mind not to join at all.
The dinner at the Lamonts was very pleasant, and Marjorie could not help being conscious of the fact that she looked unusually well in her newdress. Every one was kind to the little Western girl, and she liked Mrs. Lamont and her daughter better than ever. The Ward family were also of the party, and Marjorie was introduced to the Yale boy, Percy, whom she found most agreeable, though not, as she wrote her mother afterward, quite so nice as Beverly Randolph.
"Why didn't you tell me what a jolly girl Marjorie Graham was?" Percy demanded of Elsie, when the cousins were alone together for a moment after dinner.
Elsie flushed.
"I didn't know you'd like her," she said, evasively. "She's dreadfully young for her age, and not a bit like the New York girls."
"Well, she's all right anyway," maintained Percy. "I only wish I'd known about her in time to get another ticket for the game last Saturday. But she went with some other friends, didn't she?"
"Oh, yes, she went," said Elsie, with a rather sarcastic smile. "She got some people at the hotel to take her in their car. You needn't worry about Marjorie; she knows how to take care of herself."
Elsie spent another hour in her room on Friday morning, and was so cross and disagreeableat luncheon, that Marjorie wondered more and more what the matter could possibly be. But in the afternoon Elsie cheered up, and her cousin came to the conclusion that whatever the trouble had been, it was evidently over.
The meeting was to begin at eight o'clock, so immediately after an early dinner, the two girls, accompanied as usual by Hortense, started in the carriage for Lulu's home, which was on Madison Avenue, only a few blocks away.
Lulu was a charming little hostess, and gave her friends a cordial greeting, explaining that her mother and aunt would come down later, but it had been a stipulation with some of the Club members that nobody grown up was to hear the poems or take part in the initiation. Several of Miss Lothrop's girls had already arrived, and there were also present a few more young people, particular friends of Lulu's, who had been invited to join the Club.
"I want you to meet my friend, Betty Randall," Lulu said to Marjorie, as Elsie turned away to speak to other friends. "She's English, and just as nice as can be. She and her mother and brother are visiting us. She can't be a member, because they are all going back to England next week, but she and Jack are the special guestsof the evening, and they are both to be allowed to vote on the poems."
Betty Randall was a quiet, sweet-faced girl of fifteen, and Marjorie liked her at once.
"Have you been in this country long?" she asked, when Lulu had left them together, and gone to greet other arriving guests. She could not help feeling a good deal interested in meeting "a real English girl."
"Only since September," Betty answered, "but we used to live in New York. My mother is English, but she and my father came to this country when they were married, and my brother and I were both born in New York. We lived here until four years ago, when my uncle took us back to England to live with him."
"I should think it would be wonderfully interesting to live in England," said Marjorie. "I suppose of course you have been in London, and seen the Tower and Westminster Abbey?"
"Oh, yes," said Betty, smiling. "One of my uncle's places is quite near London, and we often motor into town. I like America, though; it always seems more like home. Do you know the names of all these girls?"
"I know most of them; we go to the same school, but I haven't been in New York nearlyas long as you have. My home is in Arizona, and I have only come here to spend the winter, and go to school with my cousin."
Betty looked a little disappointed.
"Then I suppose you can't tell me something I want to know very much," she said. "Lulu told me Dr. Randolph's nephew was to be here, and I do want to see him."
"Oh, I can point him out to you," said Marjorie. "He lives at the Plaza, where my uncle has an apartment, and Elsie and I know him very well. There he is, that tall boy, who has just come in. Isn't he handsome?"
"Yes, very," agreed Betty, regarding the new arrival with considerable interest. "I never met him, but his uncle was such a good friend to us once."
"I know Dr. Randolph, too," said Marjorie; "he took us to New Haven in his car to see the game last Saturday. He is very kind."
"Kind!" repeated Betty, with shining eyes; "he is more than kind, he is wonderful. He cured my brother, and made him walk, when he had been a cripple all his life."
Marjorie gave a little gasp, and some of the color went out of her face.
"Tell me about it," she said, clasping herhands, and regarding her new acquaintance with such an eager expression in her eyes, that Betty was quite startled.
"It was before we went back to England," she said. "We were living here in New York, and Winifred Hamilton and her father and mother had an apartment in the same house. My mother was taken very ill, and Winifred went for Lulu Bell's father, whom you know is a doctor. He was very good to us, and while attending mother he became very much interested in my brother, who was nine years old then, and had never walked a step since he was born. He brought Dr. Randolph to see Jack, and he felt sure something could be done for him, and persuaded Mother to let him be taken to a hospital. Mother consented, and Dr. Randolph performed a wonderful operation."
"And does your brother walk now?" Marjorie asked almost breathlessly.
"There he is," said Betty, smiling, and pointing to a tall boy of thirteen, who was standing near the door, talking to Winifred Hamilton. "You would never believe that he was a helpless cripple only four years ago, would you?" she added proudly.
"No, indeed," said Marjorie; "it seems verywonderful. Do you suppose Dr. Randolph often performs such operations?"
"I think so. Dr. Bell says he is one of the finest surgeons in the country. Why are you so much interested? Do you know some one who is a cripple, too?"
"Yes," said Marjorie, with a sigh. "It's my aunt; she had a terrible accident eight years ago, and has never walked since. But she is away in Arizona; we could never ask Dr. Randolph to go all that distance to see her."
"No, I suppose not," Betty admitted regretfully, "but couldn't your aunt be brought here to him? I know people come from all parts of the country to consult him. There was a little girl at the hospital when Jack was there, who had been brought all the way from Texas."
Marjorie thought of the long three-days journey, and of her father's desperate struggle to make both ends meet, but before she could answer, Lulu, as mistress of ceremonies—rapped sharply on the table, and the Club was called to order.
"Ladiesand gentlemen," began Lulu, speaking in the tone she had heard her mother use when conducting a meeting of a charitable board of which she was president, "I think every one is now here, and I must request you all please to keep quiet during the reading of the poems. After the reading, votes will be taken as to the best poem, and the girl who gets the most votes will be elected president of this Club. The boys are particularly requested not to laugh at any of the poems. The first to be read is by Miss Winifred Hamilton, and is called 'Ria and the Bear.' Miss Hamilton wishes me to explain that she has never heard the name Ria, but chose it because it was the only word she could think of that rhymed with fear."
There was a general titter from the audience, followed by a burst of applause, as Winifred, very red, and looking as if she were being led to execution, rose and announced:
"It's perfectly awful, but it's the first poem I ever wrote in my life, and I want to say that I sha'n't be in the least offended if everybody laughs." Then, unfolding a small sheet of paper, she began to read very fast.
"Ria And The Bear.
"The sky was of the darkest hue,The grass beneath was wet with dew,And through the trees the wind did howl,Causing the hungry bears to growl."All were protected from the storm,All but one wee, shivering form,She stood beneath an old elm tree,The boughs of which from leaves were free."A big bear darted through the wood,His instinct told him where she stood.Soon the monster came close to Ria,But the child showed no sign of fear."As the big bear drew very close,She gave a pat to his cold nose,At this touch the bear did cease to growl,And for response a joyful howl."Then these two friends lay down together,Quite heedless of the raging weather,Upon the hard and frozen ground,The two friends slept, both very sound."But one of the two never awoke;Long, long after the wind storm broke,She was discovered lying there,Where she had died beside the bear."
"Bravo! Winifred, that's fine!" shouted Jack Randall, and then followed a shout of laughter, in which everybody joined, Winifred herself as heartily as any of the others.
"I told you it was awful," she said between gasps, "but Lulu said no one could be a member who didn't write a poem, so I had to do my best."
"I should die of mortification if I were laughed at like that," whispered Elsie to Carol, who sat next to her. To which her friend replied sympathetically:
"Of course you would, but then everybody isn't a genius like you."
"The next poem," announced Lulu, when order had been restored, "is by Miss Marjorie Graham of Arizona. Get up, Marjorie."
Marjorie's heart was beating rather fast as she rose, but there was a merry twinkle in her eye, and if her voice shook a little when she began to read, it was more from suppressed laughter than from fear.
"The Boring Life of New York.
"Some think it delightful to live in New York,But with them I do not agree;'Tis nothing but hustle and bustle and talk,All very distasteful to me."I love all the pleasures the country can give,The beautiful flowers and the birds;The city produces not one of these things,Only traffic and crowds by the herds."The city is good as a workshop for men,Who in parks idle moments may pass,But the pleasure for children e'en there is quite spoiled,When a sign bids them 'Keep off theGrass.'"
A burst of genuine applause followed this production, and Marjorie sat down again quite covered with confusion.
"It's splendid; I couldn't have written anything half so good," whispered Betty encouragingly. "I am rather glad I am not to be a member of the Club, for I know I could never have written two lines that rhymed."
"The next poem," continued Lulu, in her business-like tone, "is by Miss Gertrude Rossiter," and Gertie, looking very much embarrassed, rose, and began:
"The Storm at Sea.
"The waves did beat on a rocky shore;The noise resounded more and more;A little craft was tossed on the sea,And all knew that saved she might not be."The crew were gathered on the deck,Awaiting the crash of the awful wreck;Many hearts stopped beating as the time drew nearTo bid good-bye to their children dear."The babies and children all did shriek,And now their voices grew very weak.The staunch big men grew white with fear,At the thought of death that was so near."But all at once the winds did cease,The waves stopped tossing, and there was peace,The children stopped crying; with joy they all laughed,And gladness prevailed on that safe little craft."
There was more applause, mingled with laughter, and Elsie whispered to Carol, quite loud enough to be heard by several others:
"Did you ever hear anything so silly? Even the meter is wrong; there are too many words in some lines, and not enough in others."
"Read yours next, Lulu," said Winifred, beforeher friend could make another announcement. "Lulu writes beautiful poetry," she added in a lower tone to Jack Randall; "I'm crazy to know what she's written this time."
Lulu protested that as hostess her turn should come last, but several other girls joined their entreaties to Winifred's, and she was forced to yield. Blushing and smiling, she took a sheet of paper from her pocket, and began to read:
"The Fire.
"The forest trees were waving in the wind;The sun was slowly sinking o'er the hill,The clouds in purple, gold and blue outlined,Were mirrored in the still pond by the mill."The birds were twittering their last good-night;The dainty flow'rets closing up their eyes,When all at once a fearful lurid lightShone in the many-colored sunset skies."Quickly that awe-inspiring fire spread,And many a tall and stately tree there fell.The timid animals and birds all fled,And naught but charred remains were left the tale to tell."At morn when in his glory rose the sun,Over the blackened, devastated hill,The scene that there the traveler looked uponSeemed to his inmost heart to send a chill."
"Isn't she wonderful?" whispered Winifred excitedly to Jack. "I told you hers would be the best."
"It's very pretty," Jack admitted, "but I think I like the one about Ria and the Bear the best of all."
"The next poem," announced Lulu, when the applause had subsided, "is by Miss Elsie Carleton."
There was a little flutter of excitement as Elsie rose—as the brightest girl in the school, a good deal was expected of her. Some of the girls noticed with surprise, that Elsie had grown rather pale, but her voice was as calm and superior as ever, when she unfolded her paper, and began:
"GOD KNOWS.
"Oh, wild and dark was the winter's nightWhen the emigrant ship went down,But just outside the harbor bar,In the sight of the startled town.And the wind howled, and the sea roared,And never a soul could sleep,Save the little ones on their mothers' breasts,Too young to watch and weep."No boat could live in that angry surf,No rope could reach the land—There were bold, brave hearts upon the shore;There was many a helping hand;Men who strove, and women who prayed,Till work and prayer were vain;And the sun rose over that awful void,And the silence of the main."All day the watchers paced the sand;All day they scanned the deep;All night the booming minute gunsEchoed from steep to steep.'Give up thy dead, oh cruel sea!'They cried athwart the space,But only a baby's fragile formEscaped from its stern embrace."Only one little child of all,Who with the ship went down,That night while the happy babies sleptAll warm in the sheltered town.There in the glow of the morning lightIt lay on the shifting sand,Pure as a sculptor's marble dream,With a shell in its dimpled hand."There were none to tell of its race or kin—'God knows,' the pastor said,When the sobbing children crowded to askThe name of the baby dead.And so when they laid it away at last,In the churchyard's hushed repose,They raised a slab at the baby's head,With the carven words 'God knows.'"
There was a general murmur of admiration, as Elsie sat down again, in the midst of a burst of applause louder than had greeted any of the other productions.
"Wasn't it lovely?" whispered Winifred to Jack, as she wiped her eyes. "I do love those sad pieces, don't you?"
"They're all right," said Jack, a little doubtfully, "but don't you like the funny ones that make you laugh, better? Ria and the Bear was so funny."
"That poem is really beautiful," declared Betty Randall, turning to Marjorie, and speaking in a tone of hearty admiration. "She must be an awfully clever girl to have written it; it's quite good enough to be published."
But Marjorie did not answer. She had given one violent start when Elsie began the first line of her poem, and at the same moment she had caught the expression on Beverly Randolph's face. After that she had sat quite still, with crimson cheeks, and a heart that was beating so loudly she was almost afraid people must hear it. In her mind was a mild confusion of feelings; astonishment, mortification, and incredulity, and, worst of all, the knowledge that at least oneother person in the room besides herself knew. When the burst of applause came she was conscious of a momentary sensation of relief. At least no one was going to speak yet. She cast an imploring glance at Beverly, but his face expressed nothing beyond amusement and a sort of indifferent contempt.
There were more poems read; some funny, some sentimental; but Marjorie scarcely heard them. In her thoughts there was room but for one thing. Even the wonderful story Betty had told about her brother and Dr. Randolph was swept away in the shock of the discovery she had made. Several times she glanced at Elsie, fully expecting to see some expression of shame or remorse but that young lady was looking the picture of smiling content.
When the poems had all been read, there was a general move, and pencils and bits of paper were handed around.
"One of the boys will pass round a hat," Lulu explained, "and you must all drop your votes into it." Then, with a sudden generous impulse, she went up to Elsie and held out her hand.
"Yours was ever so much the best, Elsie," she said, frankly; "you certainly deserve to be president."
Elsie just touched the outstretched hand with the tips of her fingers, and for one moment her eyes dropped and her color deepened.
There was a moment of dead silence while the names were being written, then Gertie Rossiter's brother passed round the hat, and each girl and boy dropped a bit of paper into it.
"I shall vote for Elsie Carleton, sha'n't you?" whispered Betty to Marjorie, but Marjorie shook her head.
"I am going to vote for Lulu Bell," she said shortly.
It was an exciting moment when Beverly Randolph and Rob Rossiter—the two oldest boys present—counted the votes and announced the results: "Elsie Carleton, thirteen. Lulu Bell, nine. Marjorie Graham, five. Gertie Rossiter, three, and Winifred Hamilton, one."
The presidency of the Club was unanimously accorded to Elsie.
Then came an hour of games and dancing, followed at half-past nine, by light refreshments. But although Marjorie entered into the gayety with the rest, her heart was very heavy, and she did not join in the congratulations which were being showered upon the new president, in which even Lulu's mother and aunt, who had comedownstairs as soon as the initiation was over, joined heartily. Beverly Randolph was a general favorite, and devoted himself in turn to almost every girl in the room, but he, too, held aloof from the new president. He and Marjorie had no opportunity for private conversation till the refreshments were being served, when he approached her corner, with a plate of ice-cream.
"Your 'Boring Life of New York' was fine," he remarked, pleasantly, taking the vacant chair by her side. "I quite agree with your sentiment. I voted for you."
"You are very kind," said Marjorie, blushing, "but it wasn't nearly as good as several of the others. Lulu's was splendid. You—you didn't like Elsie's?"
"No, I didn't," said Beverly bluntly, "and you didn't, either."
Marjorie's cheeks were crimson, but she made one desperate effort to save her cousin.
"It was a beautiful little poem," she faltered, "only—only I thought—but perhaps I was mistaken—I'm sure Elsie wouldn't have done such a thing; it must have been a mistake."
Beverly said nothing, but he did not look convinced.
"Where—where did you see it before?" Marjorie went on desperately.
"In an old volume of 'St. Nicholas' at home. My mother used to take the magazine when she was a little girl, and has all the volumes bound. I used to be very fond of some of the old stories, and so was my sister Barbara. I remember she learned that poem once to recite to Mother on her birthday."
Marjorie's heart sank like lead. Well did she remember the old worn volumes of St. Nicholas—relics of her own mother's childhood—over which she had pored on many a rainy day at home. She cast an appealing glance at Beverly.
"You won't tell?" she said unsteadily.
"Of course I won't; I'm not a cad. And look here, Marjorie; I wouldn't bother my head about it if I were you. Miss Elsie is quite able to fight her own battles."
"But she is my cousin," said Marjorie in a very low voice, "and I'm so ashamed."
Beverly's face softened, and his voice was very kind when he answered:
"You're a brick, Marjorie; lots of girls wouldn't care. But don't let it make you unhappy. If I were you I'd have it out with Elsie; perhaps she'll have some excuse to offer."
Before Marjorie could answer Lulu came up to ask Beverly to come and be introduced to Betty Randall, who was particularly anxious to meet him, and he was obliged to hurry away.
"What were you and that English girl talking about so long?" Elsie inquired, as she and Marjorie were driving home together half an hour later.
Marjorie roused herself from uncomfortable reflections with a start.
"Oh, nothing in particular," she said, "at least nothing you would be interested in. She was telling me about her brother, who used to be a cripple till Beverly Randolph's uncle cured him. He is a fine, strong-looking boy now—did you notice him?"
"Yes. Did you know their uncle was a lord?"
"Is he?" said Marjorie indifferently, and once more relapsed into silence. Elsie regarded her cousin in evident surprise.
"What's the matter, Marjorie?" she inquired curiously. "You seem to be in the dumps, and I'm sure I can't see why. You really danced much better than I supposed you could. You're not jealous, are you?"
"Jealous," repeated Marjorie, stupidly, "what about?"
"Why, your poem, of course, because you didn't get more votes. It really wasn't bad; I heard several of the girls say so."
"Of course I wasn't jealous," said Marjorie, indignantly. "I never dreamed of getting many votes. I think people were very kind to vote for me at all; it was just silly doggerel."
"Well, you needn't fly into a temper even if you're not jealous," laughed Elsie. "Do you know you never congratulated me on my poem. I think people thought it rather queer, when every one was saying how much they liked it."
"I couldn't," said Marjorie in a low voice.
"Why not?" demanded Elsie, sharply. She was evidently startled but beyond a slightly heightened color, she showed no sign of embarrassment.
"I'll tell you when we get home," whispered Marjorie, with a glance at Hortense, who was sitting in the opposite seat.
Not another word was spoken until the carriage drew up before the big hotel. Mr. and Mrs. Carleton were out, and the girls went at once to their rooms, without exchanging the usual good-nights. Marjorie's heart was beating painfully fast, and her cheeks were burning, but she did not waver in her determination to"have it out" with Elsie before they went to bed. So instead of beginning to undress, she sat down to wait until Hortense should have finished waiting on her cousin and gone away. She had, with some difficulty, at last succeeded in convincing the maid that she did not require assistance herself.
"Elsie will be terribly angry," she told herself mournfully, "and it will be very horrid and uncomfortable, but it wouldn't be honest not to let her know I recognized that poem. Perhaps she can explain—oh, I do hope she can—and then I can tell Beverly, and everything will be all right again."
She heard the outer door close behind Hortense, and was just about to go to her cousin's room, when her door was pushed unceremoniously open and Elsie herself came in. Elsie's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were flashing, but whether with anger or excitement Marjorie could not tell.
"Well," she began in a tone which she evidently intended to be quite cheerful and indifferent, "I've gotten rid of Hortense. She seemed to think she ought to stay till Papa and Mamma came home, but I told her we didn't need her. Now you can tell me what you said you wouldwhen we got home. Do be quick about it, though, for I'm awfully sleepy, and I want to go to bed."
Before answering Marjorie went over to her cousin's side, and laid a timid hand on her shoulder.
"Elsie," she said gently, "I'm so sorry; I hate to say it, but I've got to. It's—about that poem; I've read it before. You didn't think you really made it up, did you?"
With an angry gesture Elsie pushed away her cousin's hand.
"Of course I made it up," she said angrily; "how dare you say I didn't? I don't believe you ever saw a poem like it before in your life; you only say so because you're jealous."
"Oh, Elsie, how can you say such dreadful things?" cried poor Marjorie, clasping her hands in her distress, and on the verge of tears. "How could I possibly be jealous of any one so much cleverer than myself? I've been so proud of you, Elsie—indeed, indeed I have—but I read that poem in an old 'St. Nicholas' at home. I remembered it because it was so pretty. Beverly Randolph remembers it, too; he—"
"Beverly Randolph!" cried Elsie, her eyesflashing ominously; "so you told him about it, did you? That accounts for his not congratulating me when all the others did. Marjorie Graham, you are the meanest, most contemptible girl I have ever known. To think of your doing such a thing after all Papa and Mamma have done for you! But if you suppose for one moment that any one is going to take your word against mine, you'll find yourself very much mistaken. I shall write a note to Beverly Randolph to-morrow. A nice opinion he must have of you already—boys hate sneaks."
"I'm not a sneak," retorted Marjorie, her own eyes beginning to flash. "I wouldn't have told Beverly Randolph or any one else such a thing for the world; I would have been ashamed to have them know. He recognized the poem, too. I saw he did the minute you began to read—and afterwards he spoke of it. But he won't tell; he promised not to, and—oh, Elsie I thought you might be able to explain it in some way."
"There isn't anything to explain," said Elsie, obstinately. "If you and that horrid Randolph boy choose to say wicked things about me you can, but you are not everybody, and when my friends hear about it I think they'll have somethingto say." And without another word, Elsie walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and her cousin was left to cry herself to sleep undisturbed.
Marjorieawoke the next morning with a very heavy heart. Although Elsie's companionship had not proved quite all she had anticipated, still they had hitherto been perfectly good friends. Marjorie had looked upon her clever cousin with genuine admiration, and if in some things Elsie had disappointed her, she had explained the fact to herself by remembering how different life in New York was from life in Arizona.
"Elsie has so many friends," she had told herself over and over again; "of course I can't expect her to be as fond of me as I am of her."
But last night's discovery had been a cruel disappointment, and her cousin's parting words had hurt more than perhaps Elsie herself fully realized. She had lain awake a long time, hoping—almost expecting—that Elsie would come back to tell her she was sorry. She was so ready to forgive, herself, and even to make allowances, but no sound had come from the adjoining room, and she had fallen asleep at last,still hoping that morning might bring about the longed-for reconciliation.
It was still very early, but accustomed all her life to the early hours of the ranch, she had not yet learned to sleep as late as the other members of the family. She tossed about in bed for half an hour, vainly trying to go to sleep again, and then suddenly determined to get up.
"If I could only have a canter on Roland, or a good long tramp before breakfast," she thought, with a regretful sigh, "I know it would clear the cobwebs from my brain, and I should feel ever so much better. But since that is out of the question, I may as well answer Undine's letter. She will like a letter all to herself, and I shall have plenty of time to write before the others are up."
Accordingly, as soon as she was dressed, she sat down at her desk, and began a letter, which she was determined to make as bright and cheerful as possible.