"I know I should," said Marjorie, with a sob, that was half hysterical.
"I am afraid she was a sad rogue sometimes," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling; "Beverly and I often laugh even now over the memory of some of her pranks. I want him to remember all the bright, pleasant things, and not dwell too much on the sadness."
"Mammy told me about some of Barbara'spranks," said Marjorie, "she showed me her photograph, too."
Mrs. Randolph unfastened a small gold locket from a chain she always wore about her neck, and opened it. Inside was the miniature of a merry-faced girl of twelve—the same face that had looked at Marjorie from the photograph in Mammy's cabin.
"That was taken only a few weeks before my little girl went away," she said. "She was just twelve then. I suppose she would look older now, but I can never think of Babs as growing up."
Then Marjorie had an inspiration. How it came she never knew, but she had yielded to it before giving herself time to think.
"That picture reminds me of some one I know," she said, and the moment the words were out she would have given everything she possessed to have left them unsaid.
"Who is it?" Mrs. Randolph asked, her eyes still resting lovingly on the face of the miniature.
"A girl who has been at my home since last summer," said Marjorie, who was beginning to feel cold and sick with excitement and apprehension, but was determined to go on now thatshe had begun. "She came to the ranch one day all by herself. She had walked all the way from the railroad. It was a very strange case; she had had an accident, and forgotten everything about herself, even her own name."
"Forgotten her name!" said Mrs. Randolph, incredulously. "What a curious thing—are you sure her story was true?"
"Oh, yes, quite sure. She was such a dear girl, we couldn't doubt her. Besides Father wrote to the people she had lived with since her accident, and they said everything Undine had told us was true. We called her Undine because it was pretty, and we didn't know her real name."
"Poor child," said Mrs. Randolph, closing the miniature as she spoke. "Has she never remembered anything about herself since?"
"She hadn't a week ago," said Marjorie, wondering how her shaking lips formed the words, "but perhaps she may some time. Oh, Mrs. Randolph, suppose she should remember, and it should turn out that she had relatives—brothers and sisters, and—and perhaps a mother, who had been mourning her as dead! Can you think how her mother would feel? Can you even imagine it, Mrs. Randolph?"
"I think such joy would be more than anymother could bear," said Mrs. Randolph, softly. "But such strange, romantic things don't often happen in this world, Marjorie dear. The poor child's mother is probably dead, or she would have found her long ago. How did the accident happen?"
Marjorie gave a great gasp.
"We—we are not quite sure," she said. "Undine says the people at the hospital told her a stone must have fallen on her head. She was found in San Francisco under some ruins, after—after the earthquake."
"After the earthquake," repeated Mrs. Randolph in a strange, startled tone, and she grew suddenly pale. "Oh, poor, poor child! At least my little Barbara was spared those horrors. Why have you never told me about this girl before, Marjorie?"
"Because Beverly said it made you sad to have any one speak of the earthquake, and I couldn't have told Undine's story without mentioning it. It was dreadful, of course, but she was saved. Think of it, Mrs. Randolph, she was saved, and perhaps some time—" poor Marjorie's over-strained nerves gave way, and she burst into tears.
Mrs. Randolph had grown very white; she wastrembling, too, but she laid a firm hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Marjorie," she cried sharply, "what does this mean? Why are you telling me all this? Something has happened, I know it has—oh, Marjorie, for God's sake tell me what it is! My little girl is dead; they brought her home to me, though they would not let me see her dear face. Marjorie, why do you cry so? You must tell me at once, do you hear? I say at once."
"Oh, Mrs. Randolph, darling Mrs. Randolph, it isn't anything sad, indeed it isn't," sobbed Marjorie, with her arms about her friend's neck. "It's something beautiful; more beautiful and wonderful than you can ever imagine. I can't say any more, but Beverly will be here very soon, and he will tell you. Try to think of the very greatest joy that could possibly come to any one, and perhaps you will begin to have an idea what it is."
Marjorie paused, conscious of the fact that some one had entered the room. In their excitement neither she nor Mrs. Randolph had noticed the opening of the door, or the sound of an approaching footstep. But now as she lifted her face from her friend's shoulder, Marjorie saw two figures standing on the threshold; they wereDr. Randolph and Beverly. At the same moment Mrs. Randolph also recognized them, and held out her arms to her son.
"Beverly," she cried, "tell me what it is! You know, I see it in your face. Oh, Beverly, my darling, it isn't—it can't be news of Barbara?"
"Yes, Mother, it is!" cried the boy, gathering her in his strong arms. "Can you bear a great shock, Mother—a great joyful shock?—because if you can, Uncle George and I have something to tell you."
Marjorie waited for no more; such scenes were not for other eyes to see or other ears to hear. With a bound, she was out of the room, and flying across the corridor. In her flight she darted by two other figures without even seeing them; a trembling, white-faced girl clinging nervously to an older woman, whose face was scarcely less white than her own. She had but one thought: to reach her room before the burst of hysterical excitement completely overpowered her. A frantic ring at the Carletons' bell, and then the door was thrown open, and she was clinging to some one—presumably Hortense—crying and laughing both together.
"Oh, Hortense, Hortense," she wailed, "I'vetold her, and they've come! You don't think the shock will kill her, do you?"
But it was not Hortense who answered, or who held the hysterical child in loving, motherly arms.
"Marjorie, my dear little Marjorie, don't tremble so! Everything will be all right, my darling, I know it will, and here are Aunt Jessie and I come all the way from Arizona to give you a big surprise."
Marjoriedeclared afterwards that she was sure that was the happiest moment of her life, but at the time the joyful surprise, coming so soon after the nervous strain of the past hour, proved almost too much for her, and she could do nothing for some time but hold her mother tight, and cry as if her heart would break.
"It's the one thing I've been wishing for every day, and praying for every night since I came to New York," Marjorie said to her aunt, late that evening, when Miss Graham was in bed, and her niece was sitting beside her, holding her hand. "But I never dared hope it would really happen, even when I knew Dr. Randolph had gone to Arizona. We were all so excited about Barbara; it didn't seem as if he or Beverly would be able to think of anything else."
"It was all Undine's doing," said Miss Jessie, smiling. She was looking pale and tired, butvery happy and Marjorie gazed at her aunt, with shining eyes.
"You know it was Undine who told her uncle about my accident," the invalid went on. "Dr. Randolph made an examination, and he hopes that I may be much helped by an operation. He is going to bring another surgeon to see me to-morrow, and if they agree in their opinion, I am to go to a hospital."
Miss Graham spoke cheerfully, but there was a slight tremor in her voice, and Marjorie grew suddenly grave. They were both silent for a moment, and then Marjorie said:
"Isn't Beverly a dear, and don't you like Dr. Randolph ever so much, too?"
"I do indeed," said Miss Jessie, heartily. "I shall never forget their kindness during that long journey. As for Undine, she could not have been more devoted to me if she had been my own little niece. It has been a wonderful experience, Marjorie; I never expected to see the East again."
Marjorie bent and kissed her.
"Beautiful things do happen in the world as well as sad ones, don't they?" she said, softly. "When I think of you and Mother being here, and of Mrs. Randolph having found her Barbara,my heart is so full it seems as if it must surely burst. Here comes Mother; perhaps she will be able to tell us how Mrs. Randolph has borne the shock."
Mrs. Graham's news was most reassuring.
"I have seen Beverly," she said, "and he says his mother is quite calm now. At first they were anxious about her, but only for a little while. Beverly says his uncle thinks it was a fortunate thing you were able to prepare her a little before they came, Marjorie; otherwise it would have been more difficult to break the news to her."
Marjorie gave a long sigh of relief.
"I'm so glad it wasn't wrong," she said. "I was horribly frightened after I had begun, but when Mrs. Randolph showed me that picture, it came to me all at once to tell her about Undine. I thought that if she heard of one girl who was saved from the earthquake, she might be able to believe that another girl was saved, too."
Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie both smiled, and then Mrs. Graham said she must obey the doctor's instructions, and see that her sister-in-law was kept quiet, and went to sleep early.
Marjorie and her mother had a long talk that night, after Aunt Jessie was asleep, and the girl opened her heart as she had not done since leavinghome, and Mrs. Graham learned of many things that she had not been told in letters.
"I think Elsie really does like me now," finished Marjorie, when she had told of the many heartaches caused by the fear that her cousin did not like her. "She has been very sweet since I came back from Virginia, and just as kind and sympathetic as she could be."
Mrs. Graham looked pleased.
"Elsie has been spoiled," she said, "but I believe she has the right stuff in her, after all. I am glad you have told me all these things, dear, although I understand your reasons for not writing them. You have had a harder time than I suspected, but I don't think it has done you any harm. Do you know, Marjorie, I am inclined to be rather proud of my little girl?"
Those last words of her mother's filled Marjorie's cup to the brim, and I doubt if in all the great city that night, there were two happier beings than she and Barbara Randolph.
But it was not all happiness for Marjorie during the next few days. There followed hours of keen anxiety about Aunt Jessie, and for a time she forgot everything else while she waited in suspense for the verdict of the two great surgeons.
It was on an afternoon three days later, thatshe and Barbara sat together in the Randolphs' parlor, waiting for the news, which was to tell them whether Jessie Graham was to go through life a helpless cripple, or be restored to health and strength once more. The day before she had been taken to a private hospital, and the girls knew that an operation was to be performed that afternoon. They were alone, for Mrs. Graham was with her sister-in-law, and Mrs. Randolph—almost as anxious as the others—had gone to the hospital for news, promising to return as soon as possible. So Marjorie and Barbara sat together side by side on the sofa, holding each other's hands, and waiting in almost breathless suspense.
"Mother will be sure to let us know just as soon as there's anything to tell," whispered Barbara, anxious to cheer her friend. "She says Uncle George told her he was very hopeful."
"I know," said Marjorie, "he told us all so, but I can't help being frightened when I think of all it means to Aunt Jessie. She doesn't say much, but I know how she must feel. Just think how we would feel if we hadn't walked a step for more than eight years."
"Where is your cousin this afternoon?" inquired Barbara, by way of changing the subject.She was almost as anxious as Marjorie, but she had been living at high pressure for so long, it was a relief to get down to commonplaces.
"I don't know," said Marjorie; "she was going out, but it rained so hard Aunt Julia wouldn't let her go, on account of her cold. Aunt Julia is very fussy about colds."
"Don't you think she would like to come in here with us?" suggested Barbara. "She may be lonely all by herself."
"I don't believe she is lonely," said Marjorie, doubtfully, "but if you think she might like to come—"
A ring at the door-bell brought Marjorie's sentence to an abrupt end, and both girls sprang to their feet.
"I'll see who it is," said Barbara; "it may be a message from Mother." And she flew to open the door, while Marjorie sank back in her seat, feeling suddenly cold and sick with fear.
But it was not a message from Mrs. Randolph; it was Elsie.
"I just came to ask if you had heard anything yet," she said, looking rather embarrassed, as she noticed the expression of disappointment on Barbara's face.
"No, we haven't," Barbara answered; "wethought it might be a message when we heard the bell. Won't you come in?"
Elsie hesitated.
"Do you really want me?" she asked, doubtfully; "I thought perhaps you would rather be by yourselves."
"Of course we want you," declared Barbara, heartily, while Marjorie—in the background—gave a little gasp of astonishment. Such humility from the proud Elsie was something that had never entered her imagination.
Elsie made no remark, but she came in, and followed Barbara to the sitting-room, where Marjorie smiled a welcome which appeared to set her cousin more at her ease.
"I am sure you must be almost as anxious as we are," said Barbara, "though of course you don't know Miss Jessie as well. No one could help loving her."
"No, they couldn't," agreed Elsie, in a rather low voice, and then she walked over to the window, and stood with her back to the others, looking out at the falling rain.
Nobody talked much during the next half-hour. Marjorie and Barbara both had lumps in their throats, and words did not come easily. Elsie, too, was unusually silent. There was anotherlittle excitement when the bell rang again, and Beverly came in. Beverly had been through a great deal during the past two weeks, but boys of eighteen cannot live on high pressure for very long without a reaction setting in. Beverly was a very natural, healthy-minded boy, and the reaction in his case took the form of unusually high spirits.
"Don't all have such long faces," he remarked, cheerfully, surveying the solemn little group. "Just make up your minds everything is coming out all right, and you'll see it will. I've got more faith in Uncle George than in any other surgeon in the country. Think of what he did for that English boy we met at the Bells'."
"I know Uncle George is wonderful," said Barbara, a trifle more hopeful, "but even he may not be able to cure everybody. You would be just as anxious as Marjorie and I, Beverly, if you knew dear Miss Jessie as well as we do."
"I didn't say I wasn't anxious. I only said I didn't see any use in such long faces before you know whether there was anything to be mournful about. How do you do, Miss Elsie? I haven't seen you in a week of Sundays."
In his present exuberant spirits, Beverly was quite ready to forget past unpleasantness, butElsie had not forgotten, as her heightened color and embarrassed manner plainly showed.
Beverly went to the piano, and began playing rag-time, with the cheerful desire of raising the drooping spirits of the party. He proposed they should sing college songs, but nobody felt inclined for singing and the attempt proved a dismal failure.
"What a very uncomfortable thing suspense is," remarked Barbara, as the clock struck five.
"You would say so if you had been through the suspense Marjorie and I have," her brother said. "We know something of what suspense means, don't we, Marjorie?"
"Indeed we do," said Marjorie, rousing herself from present anxieties with an effort. "Oh, Beverly, those awful days when you and your uncle were on your way to Arizona, and I couldn't be absolutely sure I hadn't made a mistake about that photo after all. Suppose I had been mistaken, and you had had that terrible disappointment!"
"Well, you were not mistaken, you see," broke in Beverly, who felt that the recollection of those days was still too vivid to bear discussion. "Come and sit by me, Babs," and he made room for his sister on the piano stool.
But all suspense, however long, must come to an end at last, and just as the clock was striking half past five, there was another ring at the bell, followed by a simultaneous rush to the door. Only Marjorie remained behind. Until that moment she had scarcely realized how great her anxiety was, and her knees shook so that she could not rise from her chair. She heard all the others talking at once, apparently asking some question, and then Mrs. Randolph's voice, but she could not hear her words.
"Marjorie, Marjorie, where are you?" cried Barbara joyfully; "here's Mother!"
"I'm here," said Marjorie, faintly, and the next moment Mrs. Randolph was beside her, holding both her cold hands. Marjorie's eyes asked the question her lips refused to form, and Mrs. Randolph bent and kissed her.
"Marjorie dear," she said in a voice that was not quite steady, though she was smiling, "your mother wanted me to tell you that the operation is over, and that Dr. Randolph feels almost certain it has been successful."
"Doyou know, Aunt Jessie, that to-morrow will be the first of May? It's nearly four months since you and Mother came to New York."
Miss Graham was leaning back in a comfortable arm-chair by an open window, through which the bright spring sunshine was pouring, flooding every corner of the pleasant hotel bedroom. She was still looking rather frail and delicate, but there was an expression of hope and joy in her face, that had never been there in the old days at the ranch. A crutch stood at her side, but there was no wheeled-chair to be seen. At Marjorie's words she looked round with a smile.
"Time has certainly flown," she said. "Have you had a pleasant ride?"
"It was glorious. Beverly and I had a splendid gallop. I hope you enjoyed your drive."
"Yes, it was lovely," said Miss Jessie, secretly thinking that Marjorie had grown very pretty lately. She looked so well in her perfectly fittingriding habit, with her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. "I wasn't at all tired when I came home either, which Dr. Randolph considers a distinct gain. He says I am one of his star patients. Have you finished your lessons for to-morrow?"
"Haven't any; it's Saturday, you know. I shall have plenty of time to study between now and Monday. I came to have a little chat with you before I dress. I'm going out this evening, you remember. It's the last meeting of the Club, and quite an important occasion. The Bells are sailing for Europe to-morrow, and Lulu is our president."
"I thought you wrote me that Elsie was elected president," said Miss Graham, who seldom forgot anything Marjorie told her.
"She was at first," said Marjorie, hoping her aunt would not notice her suddenly heightened color. She drew a low chair to Miss Jessie's side, and settled herself for a comfortable chat.
"Why did she give it up?" Miss Graham inquired, with interest.
"I—I don't exactly know. It was after I came back from Virginia and Barbara came home. She said she would rather not be president any more, and asked Lulu to take her place."
"I like Elsie," said Miss Jessie. "She is very clever, and has been rather spoiled in consequence, but there is much that is fine about her. She will make a noble woman, I am sure."
Marjorie looked pleased.
"Elsie likes you," she said, "and I don't think she is really fond of many people. She hasn't nearly as many friends as most of the girls at school have, but I love her dearly, and so does Babs."
"I had a letter from your father this afternoon," Miss Jessie said, after a little pause; "I am keeping it for you to read. He says things are looking up at the ranch, and he is hoping for a better season than last. He thinks he may possibly be able to come East for us himself next month. I do hope he can, for it would be such a treat for him."
"I suppose he is thankful to get Mother back," said Marjorie, "but, oh, how we do miss her, don't we, Aunt Jessie?"
"Yes, indeed, but it wouldn't have been fair to have kept her any longer when she was so anxious to get home to your father. After all, she had a good long rest, and your father declares she is looking ten years younger in consequence."
"What a wonderful winter it has been," said Marjorie, reflectively, resting her knee against her aunt's knee. "When I left home last October, how little any of us dreamed of all the strange, beautiful things that were going to happen. Those first weeks were pretty hard; I was a good deal more homesick than I let any of you know, but I knew everybody meant to be kind and I did try hard to make the best of things. Then came the Randolphs' invitation to spend the holidays in Virginia, and the wonderful discovery about Undine. And then—as if that wasn't happiness enough—Dr. Randolph saw you, and brought you and Mother back to New York with him. The operation was pretty dreadful, but ever since Dr. Randolph told us he was sure it had been a success, everything has been simply heavenly."
Miss Jessie said nothing, but softly stroked Marjorie's hair, and there was such a look of joy in her eyes, that the girl could not help being struck by it.
"Aunt Jessie," she said, laughing, "do you know, I never realized before how young you are. I used to think of you as quite a middle-aged lady, but I don't know how it is, you look different now somehow—almost like a girl."
"I was twenty-nine last week," said Miss Jessie, smiling; "I suppose twenty-nine may seem middle-aged to fifteen."
"But it doesn't," protested Marjorie; "not a bit; I think I must have been a goose ever to have thought such a thing. Beverly calls you a perfect trump, and he wouldn't say that about any one he considered middle-aged; it wouldn't be respectful."
"I am very much obliged to Beverly for his good opinion," said Miss Jessie, laughing and blushing in such a very girlish manner that her niece regarded her in growing astonishment.
"I believe it's the thought of being well and strong again that has made all the difference," she said. "Oh, Aunt Jessie darling, think of it, you'll never have to sit in that dreadful wheeled-chair again! What walks and rides we'll have together. Are you sure Dr. Randolph will let you go back to the ranch in June?"
"He says I shall be quite strong enough for the journey by that time," Miss Graham answered, but she did not meet Marjorie's direct gaze as she spoke. "I feel that I ought not to trespass on the Randolphs' hospitality any longer than is necessary. Think of what they have done for me, Marjorie. First all those weeks at thehospital, and then insisting on my coming here, and all of it just because we were kind to Undine."
"I don't think that is the only reason," said Marjorie, eagerly. "That was the beginning of it, of course, but now they all love you for yourself. Babs says her mother loves you dearly, and she and Beverly were both so pleased because you said they might call you 'Aunt Jessie.' As for the doctor, I'm sure he likes you ever so much."
"There's some one at the door; go and see who it is, Marjorie."
Marjorie rose obediently, wondering what could have possibly caused her aunt's sudden embarrassment, and when she returned she was followed by Barbara, who had also dropped in for a little chat, Miss Jessie's room being a favorite rendezvous with all the young people.
"Well, and what have you been doing this afternoon?" Miss Graham asked pleasantly, as Barbara settled herself for a comfortable half-hour.
"I went for a walk with Elsie and Hortense. We had a nice time, but I don't think Elsie felt very well, she was so quiet. I asked her if herhead ached, and she said no, but I'm afraid it did."
"I don't think Elsie has seemed quite like herself for several days," said Miss Jessie, a little anxiously. "Perhaps she is studying too hard; her mother tells me she is so very ambitious."
Neither of the girls had any explanation to suggest, and they all chatted on pleasantly on various subjects until it was time to go away and dress for dinner. Barbara was also going to the Club that evening, having been admitted as a guest of honor some months before. Indeed, she was quite the heroine of the hour, for the romantic story had quickly spread from friends and acquaintances to strangers, and she had even been written about in several newspapers, a circumstance which had filled the breasts of some other girls with envy. For several weeks there was not a girl in the city so much talked about as Barbara Randolph, the child who had been mourned as dead by her family for nearly three years, and then reappeared under conditions sufficiently interesting and romantic to fill the pages of a thrilling story-book. The Randolphs disliked the publicity, but Barbara was pursued by reporters and photographers until Beverly losthis temper, and positively refused to allow any member of the family to grant another interview.
"How does it feel to know that everybody in New York is talking about you, and all the papers asking for your picture?" Elsie had asked one day, to which Barbara had answered, with a laugh:
"I don't know that I have any particular feelings about it. I am too happy at being at home again with Mother and Beverly to care for anything else in the world."
Elsie was nowhere to be seen when Marjorie returned to her uncle's apartment, and the cousins did not meet till they were both dressed for the evening, and had joined Mr. and Mrs. Carleton in the drawing-room. Then Mrs. Carleton's first words were an anxious question.
"Are you sure you are feeling quite well this evening, Elsie darling? You are very pale."
"Of course I'm all right," said Elsie, crossly. "I do wish you wouldn't fuss so much about me, Mamma."
Mrs. Carleton sighed.
"I am sure I don't intend to fuss," she said, plaintively, "but how can I help worrying when I see you looking so badly, especially when you will insist on studying so hard?"
"Nonsense," said Mr. Carleton, looking up from his evening paper, with a frown. "I have looked over Elsie's lessons, and there is nothing wrong there. She isn't studying any harder than a healthy girl of her age should. What's the matter, Elsie—don't you feel quite up to the mark?"
He spoke kindly, but his tone was a trifle impatient, and before Elsie could reply, her mother began again.
"She won't tell you; she insists there is nothing the matter, but she has not looked like herself for days. If she isn't better to-morrow I shall have the doctor see her, and give her a tonic."
Mr. Carleton threw down his newspaper.
"My dear Julia," he said, "I believe you consider a tonic a cure for every evil in the world. The girls are ready, so let us go down to dinner, and see if Elsie doesn't make up for her loss of appetite at luncheon."
But Elsie did not make up for her lack of appetite at luncheon. She toyed with her food, and her color changed so often, from white to red, and back to white again, that by the time dinner was over even her father began to look at her curiously. But when Mrs. Carleton suggested that she should not go to Gertie Rossiter's, wherethe Club was to be held that evening, she protested that she was perfectly well, and was so decided in her determination to go, that, as usual, she had her way.
The meeting was at eight, and Marjorie and Elsie were obliged to hurry away from the dinner table to join the two Randolphs, as the four were to go together in the Carletons' carriage.
"Uncle George says we might have had his car as well as not," remarked Barbara, as they took their seats in the carriage. "He has come to spend the evening with Mother and Aunt Jessie, and won't need it."
"Your uncle is very generous with his car," said Marjorie, innocently. "He lent it to your mother and Aunt Jessie this afternoon, you know, and Aunt Jessie said they had a beautiful ride."
"Oh, Uncle George would do anything in the world for Aunt Jessie," remarked Barbara, at which her brother smiled a rather mischievous smile, but said nothing.
There was an unusually large gathering of the Club that evening, in honor of the president, who, with her family, was to sail for Europe the following day. As it was a gala occasion, no sewing was to be done, and the boys were invited tocome with the girls, and devote the evening to dancing and games.
"I'm afraid our sewing really hasn't amounted to very much," Winifred Hamilton remarked ruefully. "Mother says she's afraid the Blind Babies would be badly off if they had to depend upon us for clothes, but we've had an awfully jolly winter, and I'm sorry it's over, aren't you, Mr. Randolph?"
"Well, summer is pretty jolly, too, you know," answered Beverly, smiling. "I sha'n't be sorry to have vacation begin. We are going abroad as soon as college closes."
"How nice," said Winifred, looking interested; "perhaps you'll meet the Bells. They expect to stay over till October. I really don't know how I shall manage to get on so long without Lulu."
"Why don't you go, too?" Beverly asked, good-naturedly.
"I should love to, but I couldn't leave Mother. Dr. Bell offered to take me, and Father and Mother said I might go if I liked, but I couldn't make up my mind to leave them. Perhaps some day we shall go ourselves," finished Winifred, trying to look hopeful.
"I'll let you into a little secret if you'll promise not to tell," said Beverly, who had a genuine liking for Winifred, despite the fact that she was "young for her age." "My mother is very anxious to have Marjorie go with us, provided her parents will consent. Miss Graham thinks they will, and Mother has written to ask them before speaking to Marjorie herself. Mind you don't tell, for it's a great secret. Even Babs doesn't know, for she and Marjorie are such chums she would be sure to let something out. Hello! what's up? Lulu is going to make a speech."
There was a sudden hush as Lulu, with Elsie at her side, stepped forward, and rapped sharply on the table, to call the club to order.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began in what the girls called "her presidential tone," "I didn't expect to have any regular meeting this evening, but Miss Elsie Carleton has an announcement to make, and has asked me to tell you she would like to speak. As you all know Miss Carleton was your president until she resigned in favor of another, I am sure you will all be pleased to hear what she has to say. Go ahead, Elsie; everybody's listening."
All eyes were turned in surprise upon Elsie, as she stood before them, very pale, but with a lookof settled determination on her face. Twice she tried to speak, and stopped, and they could all see that she was very nervous. Then the words came, very low, but sufficiently audible to reach every ear in the room.
"Girls," she began, looking straight before her, and clasping and unclasping her hands as she spoke, "girls and boys, too, for I want you all to hear. I have a confession to make. It's about something that happened at the first meeting of this Club—the night we were all initiated. That poem I wrote—some of you thought it was the best, and you made me president—it—it wasn't original; I learned it when I was a little girl, but I thought nobody would recognize it. I didn't mean to cheat at first, but I couldn't make up anything that I thought was good enough, and I hated to have the other poems better than mine. I haven't anything more to say except that I've been ashamed of myself ever since, and I can't have you go on thinking me cleverer than I am, any longer." And then, without waiting to note the effect of her startling announcement, Elsie turned and fled.
Marjorie and Barbara found her upstairs in the dressing-room, crying as if her heart would break. Neither of them said a word, but Marjorieput her arms round her cousin's neck and hugged her.
"It Takes a Lot of Pluck to Get up and Say a Thing like that."—Page 355."It Takes a Lot of Pluck to Get up and Say a Thing like that."—Page 355.
"What are they saying about me?" whispered Elsie, burying her face on Marjorie's shoulder. "Do they all despise me?"
"Not a bit of it," declared Marjorie, reassuringly. "They're all saying how plucky it was of you to confess. Lulu says she never liked you so much before in her life. As for me, I'm so proud of you I don't know what to do. Oh, Elsie darling, I'm so glad you did it!"
"It was you who made me do it," sobbed Elsie, clinging to her cousin. "You were so splendid about it all. You knew, and yet you never told any one, not even Papa when he was provoked with you, because you wouldn't explain what the trouble between us was. Your brother knew too, Babs, and he has never said a word, but I know how he has despised me. I've despised myself too—oh, how I have despised myself! I've been selfish and conceited all my life, and I didn't care much, but one can't help feeling mean and ashamed beside girls like you, and brave, wonderful women like Aunt Jessie. I don't believe I've got one real friend in the world."
"You've got lots," protested Marjorie andBarbara both together. "Just come downstairs and see if you haven't."
It was a very quiet, subdued Elsie who reëntered the drawing-room, escorted by her two staunch friends, but the welcome she received was such that, before the evening was over, she found herself able to smile, and take a passing interest in life once more. Elsie had many faults, but she was not a bad girl, and she had learned a lesson that would last her all her life. One of the first to approach her and hold out his hand, was Beverly Randolph.
"You're a trump, Elsie," he said, in his blunt, boyish way. "It takes a lot of pluck to get up and say a thing like that. Let's shake hands and be friends." And at that moment Elsie was happier than she had been in months.
"I think I'll just stop a minute to say good-night to Aunt Jessie," remarked Marjorie, as they were going up to their apartment in the lift. "I don't believe she has gone to bed yet if Dr. Randolph is spending the evening. Tell Aunt Julia I'll be right up, Elsie."
So Marjorie stepped out of the lift with the Randolphs, while Elsie went up another floor to her own apartment. Mrs. Randolph had insisted that Miss Graham should be her guest on leavingthe hospital, and one of the most comfortable rooms in the apartment had been assigned to her.
It was Mrs. Randolph herself who opened the door for the young people; she was smiling, and looked as if she were pleased about something.
"Has Aunt Jessie gone to bed?" Marjorie asked.
"No, dear, she is in the parlor with Uncle George, and I think she wants to see you."
Barbara hurried her mother off to her room, to tell of the events of the evening, and Beverly followed, at a mysterious signal from Mrs. Randolph, so Marjorie was the only one to enter the cozy little parlor, where she found her aunt and the doctor sitting on the sofa side by side.
"I just came in for a minute to say good-night," she began. "I've had a lovely evening, and—and—" here Marjorie paused abruptly, struck by something unusual in the faces of her two listeners.
"Is—is anything the matter?" she inquired anxiously.
"Do we look as if there were?" inquired the doctor, and he smiled such a radiant smile that Marjorie's sudden anxiety melted into thin air.
"No, not exactly, but Aunt Jessie looks so—sodifferent. Oh, Aunt Jessie darling, I know something has happened—is it good news?"
"The very best news in the world for me," said the doctor, laughing, while Aunt Jessie drew her niece into her arms, and hid her smiling, blushing face on Marjorie's shoulder. "Your aunt has promised to give me something that I want more than anything else. Marjorie, do you think you would like to have me for an uncle?"
"And that was just the crowning happiness of all," said Marjorie, when she and Elsie were talking things over half an hour later. "I thought I was just as happy as any girl could be before, but when I saw that look on Aunt Jessie's face, and thought of all she had suffered, and how brave she had been, it seemed as if my heart would burst with gladness. It's just the most beautiful ending to a beautiful winter."
"I wish I had done more to make the first part of the winter happy," said Elsie, with a remorseful sigh. "I don't see why you didn't hate me, Marjorie; I'm sure I deserved it."
"Why, I couldn't," said Marjorie, simply, "you were my own cousin, you know."
Elsie went up to her cousin, and put her arms round her. That was such an unusual proceedingfrom cold, undemonstrative Elsie that Marjorie was speechless with astonishment.
"I believe you are the best girl in the world, Marjorie," she said, unsteadily. "I'm not worthy of your friendship, but if you will really love me, and forgive me for all the mean, hateful things I've done, I will try to deserve it—I will indeed."
THE END
Illustrated by Elizabeth Withington Large 12moCloth $1.50
Dorothy Brown
THIS is considerably longer than the other books by this favorite writer, and with a more elaborate plot, but it has the same winsome quality throughout. It introduces the heroine in New York as a little girl of eight, but soon passes over six years and finds her at a select family boarding school in Connecticut. An important part of the story also takes place at the Profile House in the White Mountains. The charm of school-girl friendship is finely brought out, and the kindness of heart, good sense and good taste which find constant expression in the books by Miss Rhoades do not lack for characters to show these best of qualities by their lives. Other less admirable persons of course appear to furnish the alluring mystery, which is not all cleared up until the very last.
"There will be no better book than this to put into the hands of a girl in her teens and none that will be better appreciated by her."—Kennebec Journal.
"There will be no better book than this to put into the hands of a girl in her teens and none that will be better appreciated by her."—Kennebec Journal.
Marion's Vacation
By NINA RHOADESIllustrated by Bertha G. Davidson 12mo Cloth $1.25
THIS book is for the older girls, Marion being thirteen. She has for ten years enjoyed a luxurious home in New York with the kind lady who feels that the time has now come for this aristocratic though lovable little miss to know her own nearest kindred, who are humble but most excellent farming people in a pretty Vermont village. Thither Marion is sent for a summer, which proves to be a most important one to her in all its lessons.