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CHAPTER VII
THE GLORIOUS FOURTH
The sun rose early on Fourth of July morning. For he knew many patriotic young hearts were beating with impatience for the great day to begin. Moreover, he rose clear and bright, and yet he didn't shine down too hotly for the comfort of those same young people. In fact, it was a perfect summer day.
Marjorie sprang out of bed and began to dress, with glad anticipations. The Bryants were to spend the day at Maynard Manor, until time for the afternoon picnic, and after the picnic came the reception at Bryant Bower.
Midget put on a fresh white piqué, and tied up her mop of curls with wide bows of red, white, and blue ribbon.
When all ready she went dancing downstairs, pausing on her way to tap at King's door.
"All ready, Kinksie?" she called out.
"In a minute, Mops. Wait for me!"
Midget sat down on the staircase window-seat, and in a moment King joined her there.
"Hello, Mopsy-Doodle! Merry Fourth of Ju—New Year's!"
"Hello, yourself! Oh, King, isn't it a gorgeous day? What shall we do first?"
"I dunno! We can't shoot things or make much noise, until Father and Mother get up. It would be mean to wake them."
"Oh, pshaw! they can't be asleep through all this racket that is going on. Hear the shooting all around."
"Well, we'll see. Let's get outdoors, anyhow."
The children opened the front door, and there, sitting on the veranda steps, his head leaning against a pillar, sat Cousin Jack, apparently sound asleep.
"Will you look at that!" said King, in a whisper. "Has he been here all night, do you s'pose?"
"No, 'course not. But I s'pose he's been here some time. Do you think he's really asleep?"
"He looks so. What shall we do with him?"
"Dress him up," commanded Marjorie, promptly, and pulling off her wide hair-ribbons, she proceeded to tie one around Cousin Jack's neck, and one around his head, giving that gentleman a very festive appearance.
After she had arranged the bows to her satisfaction, Cousin Jack obligingly woke up,—though, as a matter of fact, he hadn't been to sleep!
"Why, if here isn't Mehitabel!" he exclaimed; "and Hezekiah, too! What a surprise!"
"How do you like your decorations?" asked Marjorie, surveying him with admiration.
"Oh, are these ribbons real? I thought I was dreaming, and had a Fourth of July nightmare."
"How long have you been here, Cousin Jack?" asked King.
"Well, I was waking, so I called early; I don't know at what hour, but I've been long enough alone, so I'm glad you two young patriots came down to help me celebrate. Polly want a firecracker?" He held out a pack of small ones to Marjorie, but she declined them.
"No, thank you; give those to King. I'd rather have torpedoes."
"All right, my girlie, here you are! And here's a cap to replace the ribbons you so kindly gave me."
Cousin Jack drew from his pocket a tissue-paper cap, that had evidently come in a snapping-cracker. Then he produced another one for King, and one which he laid aside for Rosy Posy. They were gay red, white, and blue caps, with cockades and streamers.
"Now, we'll be a procession," he went on. From a nook on the veranda, where he had hidden them, he produced a drum, a tambourine, and a cornet.
The cornet was his own, and he presented the drum to King, and the tambourine to Marjorie.
"Form in line!" he ordered; "forward,—march!"
He led the line, and the two children followed.
Being a good cornet player, Cousin Jack made fine martial music, and King and Midget had sufficient sense of rhythm to accompany him on the drum and tambourine. After marching round the house once, Cousin Jack went up the steps and in at the front door. Upstairs and through the halls, and down again.
Nurse Nannie and Rosamond appeared at the nursery door, and were instructed to fall in line behind the others. Then Sarah, the waitress, was discovered, looking on from the dining-room, and she, too, was told to march.
At last Mr. and Mrs. Maynard appeared, laughing at this invasion of their morning nap.
They sat in state in the veranda-chairs, as on a reviewing-stand, while the grand parade marched and countermarched on the lawn in front of them.
"All over!" cried Cousin Jack, at last. "Break ranks!"
The company dispersed, and Sarah returned, giggling, to her duties.
"Such a foine man as Misther Bryant do be!" she said to the cook. "Shure, he's just like wan of the childher."
And so he was. Full of patriotic enthusiasm, Cousin Jack set off bombs and firecrackers, until the elder Maynards declared that their ears ached, and the roisterers must come in to breakfast.
"I must go home," announced their guest. "I have a wife and six small children dependent on me for support."
As a matter of fact, the Bryants had no children, and Mrs. Maynard declared she should telephone for Cousin Ethel to come to breakfast, too, so Cousin Jack consented to stay.
The breakfast party was an unexpected addition to the day's festivities, but Mrs. Maynard was equal to the occasion. She scurried around and found flags to decorate the table, and tied a red, white, and blue balloon to the back of each chair, which gave the room a gay appearance.
The vigorous exercise had produced good appetites, and full justice was done to Ellen's creamed chicken and hot rolls and coffee.
"Who's for a dip in the ocean?" asked Cousin Jack, when breakfast was over.
All were included in this pleasing suggestion, and soon a bathing-suited party threw themselves into the dashing whitecaps.
Cousin Jack tried to teach Marjorie to swim, but it is not easy to learn to swim in the surf, and she made no very great progress. But Mr. Maynard and Mr. Bryant swam out to a good distance, and King was allowed to accompany them, as he already was a fair swimmer.
Marjorie held fast to the rope, and jumped about, now almost carried away by a big wave, and now thrown back toward the beach by another.
It was rather rough bathing, so the ladies of the party and Midget left the water before the others.
"Aren't we having fun!" exclaimed Marjorie, as she trudged, dripping, through the sand, to the bath-house. "Oh, Cousin Ethel, I'm so glad you came down here."
"I'm glad, too, dear. I believe Jack enjoys you children more than he does any of his friends of his own age."
"Jack's just like a boy," said Mrs. Maynard, "and I think he always will be. He's like Peter Pan,—never going to grow up."
And it did seem so. After the bath, Mr. Bryant marched the children down to the pier for ice cream.
Mrs. Maynard remonstrated a little, but she was informed that Fourth of July only came once a year, and extra indulgences were in order.
So King and Midget and Cousin Jack went gayly along the long pier that ran far out into the ocean. On either side were booths where trinkets and seaside souvenirs were sold, and Cousin Jack bought a shell necklace for Midget, and a shell watch-fob for King.
Then he ordered a dozen little tin pails sent to his own house.
"For my picnic," he explained, as Midget looked at him wonderingly. "It's to be a sand-pail picnic, you know."
As they neared the ice-cream garden, Marjorie noticed a forlorn-looking little boy, near the entrance. So wistful did he look, that she turned around to look at him again.
"Who's your friend, Mehitabel?" said Mr. Bryant, seeing her glance.
"Oh, I don't know, Cousin Jack!" she cried, impulsively; "but he seems so poor and lonesome, and we're all so happy. Couldn't I go without my ice cream, and let him have it? Oh, please let me!"
"H'm! he isn't a very attractive specimen of humanity."
"Well, he isn't very clean, but, see, he has a nice face, and big brown eyes! Oh, do give him some ice cream, Cousin Jack; I'll willingly go without."
"I'll go without," said King, quickly; "you can have mine, Mops."
Cousin Jack looked quizzically at the children.
"I might say I'd give you each ice cream, and the poor kiddie also. But that would be my charity. Now, if you two really want to do the poor little chap a kindness, you may each have a half portion, and give him a whole plate. How's that?"
"Fine!" exclaimed Marjorie; "just the thing! But, truly, Cousin Jack, it isn't much sacrifice for us, for we'll have ice cream at the picnic, anyhow."
"That's right, girlie; don't claim any more credit than belongs to you. Well, next thing is to invite your young friend."
So Marjorie went over to the poor little boy, and said, kindly:
"It's Fourth of July, and we'd like you to come and eat ice cream with us."
The child's face brightened up, but immediately a look of distrust came into his eyes, and he said:
"Say, is youse kiddin' me?"
"No," said King, for Marjorie didn't know quite what he meant; "we mean it. We're going to have ice cream, and we want you to have some with us."
"Kin I bring me brudder?"
"Where is he?" asked Cousin Jack, smiling at this new development of the case.
"Over dere, wit' me sister. Kin I bring 'em both?"
Marjorie laughed outright at this, but Mr. Bryant said, gravely:
"How many in your entire family? Let me know the worst at once!"
"Dat's all; me brudder an' sister. Kin they come, too?"
"Yes, if they're fairly clean," and the boy ran to get them. He came back bringing a boy but little smaller than himself, and a tiny girl.
Though not immaculate, they were presentable, and soon the six were seated at a round table.
Cousin Jack conformed to his decree that the Maynard children should have but a half-portion each, but he added that this was partly due to his consideration for their health, as well as his willingness that the charity should be partly theirs. But he told his three guests that they could eat as much as they chose; and noting their generally hungry appearance, he ordered a first course of sandwiches for them, which kindness was greatly appreciated.
"Gee! Youse is a white man!" exclaimed the oldest visitor, as he scraped his saucer almost through its enamel.
"What does he mean?" asked Midget, laughing. "Of course, you're a white man."
"That's slang, Marjorie, for a desirable citizen."
"Funny sort of slang," Midget commented; "a white man is plain English, isn't it?"
"I mean, he's white clear through," volunteered the boy, whose quick eyes darted from one face to another of his benefactors.
"Yes, I can understand that," said Midget, slowly; "it just means you're good all through, Cousin Jack, and I quite agree to that."
After the small visitors' hunger was entirely appeased, Cousin Jack presented them each with a flag and a packet of torpedoes, and sent them away rejoicing.
"Poor little scraps of humanity," he said; "I hope, Mehitabel, you'll always bring a little sunshine into such lives when opportunity presents itself."
"I will, Cousin Jack. Are they very poor?"
"No, not so very. But they never have any fun, or anything very good to eat. Of course, you can't be an organized charity, but once in a while, if you can make a poor child happy by the expenditure of a small sum, do it."
"We will," cried King, impressed by Cousin Jack's earnestness. "But we don't have much money to spend, you know."
"You have an allowance, don't you?"
"Yes; we each have fifty cents a week, Mops and Kitty and I."
"Well, Kitty isn't here, so I can't ask her; but I'm going to ask you two dear friends of mine, to give away one-tenth of your income to charity. Now, how much would that be?"
"Five cents a week," replied Marjorie.
"Well, will you do it? Every week give a nickel, or a nickel's worth of peanuts or lemonade or something to some poor little kiddie who doesn't have much fun in life? And you needn't do it every week, if it isn't convenient, but lay aside the nickel each week, and then give a larger sum, as it accumulates."
"Sure we will, Cousin Jack," said King, and Midget said, "Yes, indeed! I'll be glad to. We can most always catch a poor child, somewhere."
"Well, if not, just save it up till you do. You'll find plenty of opportunities in the winter, in Rockwell, I'm sure."
"Yes, sir-ee!" said Midget, remembering the poor family whose house burned down not long ago. "And I'm glad you advised us about this, Cousin Jack. I'm going to ask the Craig boys and Hester to do it, too."
"Better be careful, Mehitabel. I can advise you, because we're good chums, and I'm a little older than you, though I don't look it! But I'm not sure you ought to take the responsibility of advising your young friends. You might suggest it to them,—merely suggest it, you know, and if their agree and their parents agree, why, then, all right. And now home to our own luncheon. I declare it made me hungry to see those children eat!"
Promptly at three o'clock that afternoon the Sand Club gathered for the Sand-Pail Picnic. By making two trips the Maynards' big motor carried them all to the picnic grove, about a mile distant.
Here Cousin Jack provided all sorts of sports for them. At a target, they shot with bows and arrows, and the boys were allowed a little rifle-shooting.
There was that funny game of picking up potatoes with teaspoons, followed by a rollicking romp at Blindman's Buff. Then Cousin Jack marshalled his young friends into line, and they all sang "Star-Spangled Banner," and "Columbia," and "America," and cheered, and fired off mild explosives, and had a real Fourth of July celebration. Then the feast was brought on.
The children sat cross-legged on the grass, and each one was given a tin sand-pail.
But instead of sand, the pail was found to contain sandwiches and crisp little cakes known as sand-tarts.
After these there were served dainty little paper pails, from a caterer's, filled with ice cream.
"What a lovely sand picnic!" exclaimed Marjorie, as she sat on the sand, blissfully disposing of her ice cream. "I'm going to call Cousin Jack, The Sandman!"
"Ho! a Sandman puts you to sleep!" cried Tom Craig; "let's get a better name than that for Mr. Bryant."
"Call him Sandy Claus," piped up Dick, and they all laughed.
"A little out of season, but it's all right, my boy," said Cousin Jack. "Call me anything you like, as long as you call me early and often. Now, shall we be trotting home again, to continue our revels?"
With a sigh of utter content, Marjorie climbed into the motor, and they went spinning home to dress for the "Reception."
At the reception more guests were invited, and Bryant Bower quite justified its pretty name.
Japanese lanterns dotted the grounds, and hung among the vines of the veranda. Flags and bunting were everywhere, and a small platform, draped with red, white, and blue, had been erected for the receiving party.
This consisted of King, Midget, and Rosy Posy in patriotic costume.
King, as Uncle Sam, presented a funny figure with his white beaver hat, his long-tailed blue coat, and red and white striped trousers. Midget wore a becoming "Miss Columbia" costume, with a liberty cap and liberty pole and flag. Rosamond was a chubby little Goddess of Liberty, but she preferred to run around everywhere, rather than stand still and receive.
King and Midget did the honors gracefully, and after all the guests had assembled, they took seats on the lawn to watch the fireworks.
These were of a fine quality, and as the flowerpots and bombs burst into stars in the sky both children and grown-ups joined in loud applause.
There was patriotic music, and more ice cream, and when, at last, it was all over, the Sand Club went together to thank Cousin Jack for the entertainment.
"Glad you liked it," he said, heartily; "and now, scamper home and to bed, all of you, so your parents won't say I made you lose your beauty sleep."
CHAPTER VIII
A REVELATION
Marjorie was practising.
It was a lovely afternoon, and she wanted to go out and play, but her hour's practising must be done first. She was conscientious about it, and tried very hard to hold her hands just right, as she counted, one—two—three—four; one—two—three—four.
Mrs. Corey, Hester's mother, was calling on Mrs. Maynard, and the two ladies sat on the veranda, just outside the window near which the piano stood.
Marjorie did not listen to their conversation, for it was of no interest to her, and, too, she was devoting all her attention to her exercises. Usually, she didn't mind practising, but to-day the Sand Club was waiting for her, and her practice hour seemed interminable.
"One—two—three—four," she counted to herself, when something Mrs. Corey said arrested her attention.
"Your oldest daughter?" Marjorie heard her exclaim; "you amaze me!"
Midget had no thought of eavesdropping, and as the piano was near the open window, surely they could hear her practising, and so knew she was there.
But Mrs. Maynard answered, in a low, serious voice, "Yes, my oldest girl. She is not our child. She is a foundling. We adopted her when an infant."
"Really?" said Mrs. Corey, much interested. "How did that happen?"
"Well," said Mrs. Maynard, "my husband desired it, and I consented. She has grown up a good girl, but of course I can't feel toward her as I feel toward my own children."
"No, of course not," agreed Mrs. Corey. "The others are all your own?"
"Yes, they are my own."
"She doesn't know this, does she?"
"Oh, no, we have never let her suspect it. She thinks I am her mother, and she thinks I love her as I do my own children. But it is hard for me to pretend affection for her, when I remember her humble origin."
"Your husband? Does he care for her?"
"He feels much as I do. You see, she is not of as fine a nature as our own children. Of course he can't help seeing that. But we both do our best for the girl."
"Good for you, Mrs. Maynard; that's fine!"
"Do you really think so, Mrs. Corey? I'm afraid that–"
But Marjorie heard no more. She had stopped her practising at the first words of these awful disclosures.
Not her mother's own child! She, Marjorie Maynard! It couldn't be possible! But as the conversation went on, perfectly audible, though not in loud tones, she could no longer doubt the truth of what her mother was saying.
Dreadful it might be,—unbelievable it might be,—but true it must be.
"One—two—three—four," mechanically she tried to strike the keys, but her fingers refused to move.
She left the piano, and went slowly up to her own room.
Her pretty room that her mother,—no, that Mrs. Maynard,—had fixed up for her with flowering chintz hangings and frilly white curtains.
Not her mother! Who, then, was or had been her mother?
And then Marjorie's calm gave way. She threw herself on her little white bed, and burying her face in the pillow she sobbed convulsively. Her thoughts flew to her father,—but no, he wasn't her father! King wasn't her brother,—nor Kitty her sister! Nor Rosy Posy–?
It was all too dreadful. At every fresh thought about it, it grew worse. Dear old King, she had never realized before how much she loved him. And Kitty! And Father and Mother! She would call them that, even though they were no relation to her.
For a long time Marjorie cried,—great, deep, heart-racking sobs that wore her out.
At last she settled down into a calm of despair.
"I am going away," she said, to herself. "I won't stay here where they have to pretend they love me! Oh, Mother, Mother!"
But no one heard the little girl's grief. Mrs. Maynard still sat on the veranda, talking to Mrs. Corey; King was down at Sand Court; and the nurse had taken Rosamond out for a walk.
"I must go away," poor Marjorie went on; "I can't stay here, I should suffocate!"
She sat up on the edge of her bed, and clasped her hands in utter desolation. Where could she go? Not to Cousin Ethel's, she'd only bring her back home. Home! She hadn't any home,—no real home! She thought of Grandma Sherwood's, but she wasn't her grandma at all! Then she thought of Grandma Maynard. That was a curious thought, for though Grandma Maynard wasn't her own grandmother, either, yet, a few months ago, she had begged Marjorie to live with her and be her little girl. Surely she must have known that Midget wasn't really her granddaughter, and yet she had really loved her enough to want her to live there.
Then Grandma Maynard wouldn't have to pretend to love her.
Clearly, that was the only thing to do. She couldn't run away, with no destination in view.
She had no claim on Grandma Sherwood or Uncle Steve, but Grandma Maynard had wanted her,—really wanted her.
Marjorie looked at the little clock on her dressing table. It was almost three o'clock. She knew there was a train to New York about three, and she resolved to go on it.
At first she thought of taking some things in a bag, but she decided not to, as she didn't want any of the things the Maynards had given her.
"Oh," she thought, while the tears came afresh; "my name isn't even Maynard! I don't know what it is!"
She put on a blue linen dress, and a blue hat with roses on it. Some instinct of sadness made her tie her hair with black ribbon.
As she went downstairs, she heard Mrs. Corey say, "I am astounded at these revelations!" and her mother replied, "Dear friend, I knew you would be."
Marjorie wasn't crying then, she felt as if she had no tears left. She shut her teeth together hard, and went out by a side door. This way she could reach the street unobserved, and she walked straight ahead to the railroad station. She had a five-dollar gold piece that Uncle Steve had sent her on Christmas, and that, with a little silver change, she carried in her pocketbook. But she left behind her pearl ring and all the little trinkets or valuables she possessed.
She felt as if her heart had turned to stone. It wasn't so much anger at Mr. and Mrs. Maynard as it was that awful sense of desolation,—as if the world had come to an end.
At one moment she would think she missed King the most; then with the thought of her father, a rush of tears would come; and then her poor little tortured heart would cry out, "Oh, Mother, Mother!"
She knew perfectly well the way to New York, and though the station agent looked at her sharply when she bought a ticket, he said nothing. For Marjorie was a self-possessed little girl, of good manners and quiet air when she chose to be. With her ticket in her hand, she sat down to wait for the train. There were few people in the station at that hour, and no one who knew her.
When the train came puffing in, she went out and took it, in a matter-of-fact way, as if quite accustomed to travelling alone.
Really, she felt very much frightened. She had never been on a train alone before, and the noise of the cars and the bustle of the people, and the shouting of the trainmen made her nervous.
And then, with a fresh flood of woe, the remembrance of why she was going would come over her, and obliterate all other considerations.
For perhaps half an hour she kept the tears back bravely enough; but as she rode on, and realized more and more deeply what it all meant, she could control herself no longer, and burst into a paroxysm of weeping.
She was sitting next the window, and, as there were few passengers, no one was in the seat with her.
But when she raised her head, exhausted by her outburst of tears, a burly red-faced man sat beside her.
"Come, come, little one, what's it all about?" he said.
His tone was kind, but his personality was not pleasant, and Marjorie felt no inclination to confide in him.
"Nothing, sir," she said, drawing as far away from him as possible.
"Now, now, little miss, you can't cry like that, and then say there's nothing the matter."
Marjorie wanted to rebuke his intrusion, but she didn't know exactly what to say, so she turned toward the window and resolutely kept looking out.
The trees and fields flying by were not very comforting. Every mile took her farther away from her dear ones, for they were dear, whether related to her or not.
She pressed her flushed cheeks against the cool window pane. She was too exhausted to cry any more. She seemed to have only enough strength to say, brokenly, "Oh, Mother, Mother!" and then from sheer weariness of flesh she fell into a troubled sleep.
Meantime Marjorie was missed at home. The Sand Club grew tired of waiting for her, and King went up to the house to investigate the delay.
He trudged, whistling, up the driveway, and seeing Mrs. Corey, he whipped off his cap, and greeted her politely.
"Where's Midget, Mother?" he asked.
"I don't know, son; isn't she with you?"
"No'm, and I'm tired waiting for her."
"Is Hester there?" asked Mrs. Corey.
"Yes, Mrs. Corey, Hester's been with us an hour, and we're waiting for Mopsy. She said she'd come as soon as she finished her practising."
"She stopped practising some time ago," said Mrs. Corey. "I haven't heard the piano for half an hour or more."
"I'll bet she's tucked away somewhere, reading!" exclaimed King; "I'll hunt her out!"
"Perhaps she's gone over to Cousin Ethel's," suggested Mrs. Maynard.
"I'll hunt her up," repeated King, and he went into the house.
"Marjorie Mops! I say! Come out of that!" he cried, banging at the closed door of her bedroom.
Getting no reply, he opened the door and looked in, but she wasn't there.
"You old scallywag Mops!" he cried, shaking his fist at her empty room, "I never knew you to go back on your word before! And you said you'd come to Sand Court as soon as you could!"
He looked in the veranda hammock, and in the library, and any place where he thought Midget might be, absorbed in a book; he inquired of the servants; and at last he went back to his mother.
"I can't find Mopsy," he said.
"Then she must be over at Cousin Ethel's. She does love to go over there."
"Well, she oughtn't to go when she's promised to come out with us. I never knew old Midge to break a promise before."
"Perhaps Cousin Ethel telephoned for her," suggested Mrs. Maynard. "Though in that case, she should have told me she was going. Run over there and see, son."
"I'll telephone over, that'll be quicker," said King, and ran back into the house.
"Nope," he said, returning; "she isn't there, and hasn't been there to-day. Mother, don't you think it's queer?"
"Why, yes, King, it is a little queer. But she can't be far away. Perhaps she walked down to the train to meet Father."
"Oh, Mother, that would be a crazy thing to do, when she knew we were waiting for her."
"Well, maybe she went walking with Rosamond and Nurse Nannie. She's certainly somewhere around. Run away now, King. Mrs. Corey and I are busy."
King walked slowly away.
"It's pretty queer," he said to Hester and the Craig boys; "Mops is nowhere to be found."
"Well, don't look so scared," said Tom; "she can't be kidnapped. If it was your baby sister, that would be different. But Midget has just gone off on some wild-goose chase,—or she is hiding to tease us."
"Perhaps she wrote to Kitty," suggested Hester, "and went down to the post-office to mail it."
"Not likely," said King. "She knows the postman collects at six o'clock. Well, I s'pose she is hiding somewhere, reading a book. Won't I give it to her when I catch her! For she said she'd come out here, right after her practice hour."
A dullness seemed to fall on the Sand Club members present. Not only was Marjorie their ringleader and moving spirit, but somehow King's uneasiness impressed all of them, and soon Dick Craig said, "I'm going home."
King raised no objection, and, after sitting listlessly around for a few moments, the others all went home.
But Tom turned back.
"I say," he began, "you know Mopsy is somewhere, all right."
"Of course she's somewhere, Tom, but she never did anything like this before, and I can't understand it. The only thing I can think of is, that she's gone down on the pier. But she never goes there alone."
"Well, there's lots of things she might be doing. Come on, let's go down on the pier and take a look."
The two boys walked out to the end of the pier and back again, but saw no sign of Marjorie.
On their way home, Tom turned in at his own house.
"Good-by, old chap," he said; "don't look so worried. Midget will be sitting up laughing at you when you get home."
King said good-by, and went on. He felt a strange depression of heart, as if something must have happened to Midget. He knew his mother felt no alarm, and perhaps it was foolish, but the fact remained that Midge had never acted like that before. Mr. Maynard came home at six o'clock, and Marjorie had not yet made an appearance.
He looked very much alarmed, and at sight of his anxiety, Mrs. Maynard grew worried.
"Why, Ed," she exclaimed, "you don't think there's anything wrong, do you?"
"I hope not, Helen, but it's so unusual. I can only think of the ocean. Does she ever go down and sit on the beach alone?"
"No," said King, positively; "she never does anything like that, alone. We're always together."
"And you hadn't had any quarrel, or anything?"
"Oh, no, Father; nothing of the sort. She went to practise right after luncheon, and said she'd be out in an hour."
"I heard her practising, while Mrs. Corey was here," said Mrs. Maynard, reminiscently; "but I don't remember just when she stopped."
"Well," said Mr. Maynard, "it's extraordinary, but I can't think anything's wrong with the child. You know she always has been mischievous, and I think she's playing some game on us. We may as well go to dinner."
But nobody could eat dinner. The sight of Midget's empty chair began to seem tragic, and King choked and left the table.
Mrs. Maynard burst into tears, and rose also. Her husband followed her.
"Don't worry, Helen," he urged; "she's sure to be safe and sound somewhere."
"Oh, I don't know, Ed! Such a thing as this never happened before! Oh, find her, Ed, do find her!"
King had run over to the Bryants' and now returned, accompanied by those two very much alarmed people.
"We must do something!" exclaimed Cousin Jack. "Of course something has happened to the child! She isn't one to cut up any such game on purpose. Have you looked in her room?"
"What for?" asked Mrs. Maynard, helplessly.
"Why, to see if you can discover anything unusual. I'm going up!"
Mr. Bryant flew upstairs two steps at a time, and they all followed. But nothing unusual was to be seen. The pretty room was in order, and no clothing of any sort was lying about.
Mrs. Maynard looked in the cupboard.
"Why, her blue linen is gone!" she said, "and here's the white piqué she had on at luncheon. And her blue hat is gone; she must have dressed up to go out somewhere to call, and unexpectedly stayed to dinner."
