Kitabı oku: «Marjorie's New Friend», sayfa 3

CHAPTER V
A TEARFUL TIME

The New Year was about a week old, and so far, had nobly fulfilled all hopes of happiness.

To be sure, Marjorie had been obliged to begin school again, but as she had the companionship of Gladys Fulton, who dearly loved to go to school, it helped her to bear the trial.

She had been to spend the afternoon with Gladys and was returning home at five o'clock, as was the rule for winter days.

She turned in at her own gate-way, and had there been any one to see her, it might have been noticed that her demeanor and expression were very unlike the usual appearance of gay, laughing Marjorie Maynard.

In fact, she looked the picture of utter despair and dejection. Her head hung down, her steps were slow, and yet she seemed filled with a riot of indignation.

Her face was flushed and her eyes red, and though not exactly crying, great shivering sobs now and then shook her whole body.

Once inside her own home grounds, she quickened her pace a little, and almost ran up the verandah steps and in at the door.

She slammed it behind her, and though, I am sorry to say, this was not an unusual proceeding for Midget, yet she was truly trying to break herself of the habit.

But this time she gave the door a hard, angry slam, and flinging her wraps anywhere, as she went along, she brushed hastily through the various rooms in search of her mother.

But Mrs. Maynard and Kitty had gone out driving, and King wasn't at home, either, so poor Marjorie, her eyes now blinded with surging tears, stumbled on to her own room, and threw herself, sobbing, on her little white bed.

She buried her face in the pillow and gave way to such tumultuous grief that the brass bedstead fairly shook in sympathy.

"I can't bear it!" she murmured, half aloud; "I can't bear it! It's a wicked shame! I don't Want to live any more! Oh, I wish Mother would come home!"

For nearly half an hour Marjorie cried and cried. Now with big, bursting, heart-rending sobs, and at quieter intervals, with floods of hot tears.

Her little handkerchief became a useless, wet ball, and she dried her eyes, spasmodically, on various parts of the pillow-case.

At last, in one of her paroxysms of woe, she felt a little hand on her cheek, and Rosy Posy's little voice said, sweetly:

"What 'e matter, Middy? Wosy Posy loves 'oo!"

This was a crumb of comfort, and Marjorie drew the baby's cool cheek against her own hot one.

The child scrambled up on the bed, beside her sister, and petted her gently, saying:

"Don't ky, Middy; 'top kyin'."

"Oh, Rosy Posy, I'm so miserable! where is Mother?"

"Muvver dawn yidin'. Wosy take care of 'oo. Want Nannie?"

"No, I don't want Nannie. You stay here, little sister, till Mother comes."

"Ess. Wosy 'tay wiv Middy. Dear Middy."

The loving baby cuddled up to her sister, and smoothed back the tangled curls with her soft little hand, until exhausted Marjorie, quite worn out with her turbulent storm of tears, fell asleep.

And here Mrs. Maynard found them, as, coming in soon, she went in search of her eldest daughter.

"Why, Baby," she said; "what's the matter? Is Marjorie sick?"

"No," said Rosamond, holding up a tiny finger. "She's aseep. She kied and kied, Middy did, an' nen she went seepy-by, all herself."

"Cried!" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, looking at Midget's swollen, tear-stained face. "What was she crying about?"

"I donno," answered Rosy, "but she feeled awful bad 'bout somefin'."

"I should think she did! You run away to Nurse, darling; you were good

Baby to take care of Midget, but, now, run away and leave her to Mother."

Mrs. Maynard brought some cool water and bathed the flushed little face, and then sprinkling some violet water on a handkerchief she laid it lightly across Midget's brow. After a time the child woke, and found her mother sitting beside her.

"Oh, Mother!" she cried; "oh, Mother!"

"What is it, dearie?" said Mrs. Maynard, putting her arms round Marjorie.

"Tell Mother, and we'll make it all right, somehow."

She was quite sure Miss Mischief had been up to some prank, which had turned out disastrously. But it must have been a serious one, and perhaps there were grave consequences to be met.

"Oh, Mother, it's the most dreadful thing!" Here Marjorie's sobs broke out afresh, and she really couldn't speak coherently.

"Never mind," said Mrs. Maynard, gently, fearing the excitable child would fly into hysterics. "Never mind it to-night. Tell me about it to-morrow."

"N-no,—I w-want to tell you now,—only,—I c-can't talk. Oh, Mother, what shall I d-do? G-Gladys—"

"Yes, dear; Gladys,—what did she do? Or perhaps you and Gladys—"

Mrs. Maynard now surmised that the two girls were in some mischievous scrape, and she felt positive that Marjorie had been the instigator, as indeed she usually was.

"Oh, Mother, darling," as something in Mrs. Maynard's tone made Marjorie smile a little through her tears, "it isn't mischief! It's a thousand times worse than that!"

Middy was quieter now, with the physical calm that always follows a storm of tears.

"It's this; Gladys is going away! Forever! I mean, they're all going to move away,—out west, and I'll never see her again!"

Mrs. Maynard realized at once what this meant to Marjorie. The girls were such good friends, and neither of them cared so much for any one else, as for each other. The Fultons lived just across the street, and had always lived there, through both the little girls' lives. It was almost like losing her own brother or sister, for Marjorie and Gladys were as lovingly intimate as two sisters could be.

Also, it seemed a case where no word of comfort or cheer could be spoken.

So Mrs. Maynard gently caressed her troubled child, and said:

"My poor, darling Midget; I'm so sorry for you. Are you sure? Tell me all about it."

"Yes, Mother," went on Marjorie, helped already by her mother's loving sympathy; "they just told me this afternoon. I've been over there, you know, and Gladys and Mrs. Fulton told me all about it. Mr. Fulton isn't well, or something, and for his health, they're all going to California, to live there. And they're going right away! The doctor says they must hurry. And, oh, what shall I do without Gladys? I love her so!"

"Dear little girl, this is your first trouble; and it has come to you just in the beginning of this happy New Year. I can't tell you how sorry I am for you, and how I long to help you bear it. But there's no way I can help, except by sympathy and love."

"You do help, Mother. I thought I'd die before you came!"

"Yes, darling, I know my sympathy helps you, but I mean, I can't do anything to lessen your sorrow at losing Gladys."

"No,—and oh, Mother, isn't it awful? Why, I've always had Gladys."

"You'll have to play more with Kitty."

"Oh, of course I love Kit, to play with at home, and to be my sister. But Glad is my chum, my intimate friend, and we always sit together in school, and everything like that. Kitty's in another room, and besides, she has Dorothy Adams for her friend. You know the difference between friends and sisters, don't you, Mother?"

"Of course I do, Midget, dear. You and Kitty are two loving little sisters, but I quite understand how you each love your friends of your own age."

"And Kitty can keep Dorothy, but I must lose Gladys," and Marjorie's sobs broke out anew.

"Why, Mopsy Midget Maynard! Why are we having April showers in January?"

Mr. Maynard's cheery voice sounded in Marjorie's doorway, and his wife beckoned him to come in.

"See what you can do for our little girl," she said; "she is trying to bear her first real trouble, and I'm sure, after these first awful hours she's going to be brave about it."

"What is it, Mops?" said her father, taking the seat Mrs. Maynard vacated. "Tell your old father-chum all about it. You know your troubles are mine, too."

"Oh, Father," said Marjorie, brightening a little under the influence of his strong, helpful voice; "Gladys Fulton is going away from Rockwell to live; and I can't have her for my chum any more."

"Yes, I know; I saw Mr. Fulton and he told me. He's pretty ill,

Marjorie."

"Yes, I know it; and I'm awful sorry for him, and for them. But I'm sorry for myself too; I don't want Gladys to go away."

"That's so; you will lose your chum, won't you? By jiminy! it is hard lines, little girl. How are you going to take it?"

Marjorie stopped crying, and stared at her father.

"How am I going to take it?" she said, in surprise.

"Yes; that's what I asked. Of course, it's a sorrow, and a deep one, and you'll be very lonely without Gladys, and though your mother and I, and all of us, will help you all we can, yet we can't help much. So, it's up to you. Are you going to give way, and mope around, and make yourself even more miserable than need be; or, are you going to be brave, and honestly try to bear this trouble nobly and patiently?"

Marjorie looked straight into her father's eyes, and realized that he was not scolding or lecturing her, he was looking at her with deep, loving sympathy that promised real help.

"I will try to bear it bravely," she said, slowly; "but, Father, that doesn't make it any easier to have Gladys go."

Mr. Maynard smiled at this very human sentiment, and said:

"No, Midget, dear, it doesn't, in one way; but in another way it does. You mustn't think that I don't appreciate fully your sorrow at losing Gladys. But troubles come into every life, and though this is your first, I cannot hope it will be your last. So, if you are to have more of them, you must begin to learn to bear them rightly, and so make them help your character-growth and not hinder it."

"But, Father, you see Gladys helps my character a lot. She loves to go to school, and I hate it. But if I go with her, and sit with her I don't mind it so much. But without her,—oh how can I go to school without her?"

Again Marjorie wept as one who could not be comforted, and Mr. Maynard realized it was truly a crisis in the little girl's life.

"Marjorie," he said, very tenderly, "it is a hard blow, and I don't wonder it is crushing you. Nor do I expect you to take a philosophical view of it at present. But, my child, we'll look at it practically, at least. Gladys is going; nothing can change that fact. Now, for my sake, as well as your own, I'm going to ask you to be my own brave daughter, and not disappoint me by showing a lack of cheerful courage to meet misfortune."

"I don't want to be babyish, Father," said Midget, suddenly feeling ashamed of herself.

"You're not babyish, dear; it's right and womanly to feel grief at losing Gladys; but since it has to be, I want you to conquer that grief, and not let it conquer you."

"I'll try," said Midge, wiping away some tears.

"You know, Marjorie, the old rhyme:

 
"'For every evil under the sun,
There is a remedy, or there's none;
If there is one, try to find it,
And if there is none, never mind it.'
 

"Now, I don't say 'never mind it' about this matter, but since there's no remedy, do the best you can to rise above it, as you will have to do many times in your future years."

"Father," said Marjorie, thoughtfully; "that sounds awful noble, but I don't believe I quite understand. What can I do to 'rise above it'?"

"Marjorie, you're a trump! I'd rather you'd be practical, than wise. And there's no better weapon with which to fight trouble than practicality. Now, I'll tell you what to do. And I don't mean today or tomorrow, for just at first, you wouldn't be a human little girl if you didn't nearly cry your eyes out at the loss of your friend. But soon,—say about next Tuesday,—if you could begin to smile a little, and though I know it will be hard, smile a little wider and wider each day—"

"Till the top of my head comes off?" said Marjorie, smiling already.

"Yes; theoretically. But make up your mind that since Gladys must go, you're not going to let the fact turn you into a sad, dolorous mope instead of Mops."

"That's all very well at home, Father dear, but I'll miss her so at school."

"Of course you will; but is there any remedy?"

"No, there isn't. I don't want any other seat-mate, and I don't want to sit alone."

"Oh! Well, I can't see any way out of that, unless I go and sit with you."

Marjorie had to laugh at this. "You couldn't squeeze in the space," she said.

"Well, then you've proved there's no remedy. So, never mind it! I mean that, dearie. When you are lonely and just fairly aching for Gladys, put it bravely out of your mind."

"How can I?"

"Why, fill your mind with something else that will crowd it out. Say to yourself, 'There's that sorrow poking his head up again, and I must push him down.' Then go at something hard. Study your spelling, or go on a picnic, anything to crowd that persistent sorrow out."

"Can't I ever think of Gladys?"

"Oh, yes, indeed! but think gay, happy thoughts. If memories of your good times make you sad, then cut them out, and wonder what sort of fun she's having where she is. Write her nice, cheery letters. Letters are lots of fun."

"Indeed they are," said Marjorie, brightening. "I'll love to get her letters."

"Of course you will. And you can send each other postcards and little gifts, and if you try you can have a lot of pleasure with Gladys in spite of old sorrow."

"Daddy, you're such a dear! You've helped me a heap."

"That's what daddys are for, Midget mine. You're one of my four favorite children, and don't you suppose I'd help you to the earth, if you wanted it?"

"I 'spect you would. And, Father, you said I could cry till about

Tuesday, didn't you?"

"Why, yes; but make it a little shorter spell each day, and,—if perfectly convenient, arrange to do it when I'm at home."

"Oh, Father, that's the time I won't cry! When you're here to talk to me."

"You don't say so! Then I'll retire from business, close up my office, and stay at home all day hereafter. Anything I can do to help a lady in distress, must be done!"

They were both laughing now, and Midge had quite stopped crying, though her heart was heavy underneath her smiles.

But the whole current of her thoughts had been changed by her talk with her father, and as she made herself tidy, and went down to dinner, she felt a responsibility on her to act as became the brave daughter of such a dear father.

And, strange to say, the feeling was not entirely unpleasant.

CHAPTER VI
THE GOING OF GLADYS

Gladys was to go away early one Saturday morning.

On Friday afternoon Marjorie gave a little farewell party for her.

Mrs. Maynard arranged this as a pleasant send-off for Marjorie's friend, and determined that though it was a sad occasion, it should be also a merry one.

So, instead of depending on the guests to make their own entertainment, a professional entertainer had been engaged from New York, and he sang and recited and did pantomimes that were so funny nobody could help laughing.

And, too, though all the children liked Dick and Gladys Fulton, yet none felt so very sorry to have them leave Rockwell as Marjorie did.

Even Kingdon, though he was good chums with Dick, had other chums, and, while sorry to have Dick go, he didn't take it greatly to heart.

Marjorie was truly trying to be brave, but she looked at Gladys with a heart full of love and longing to keep her friend near her.

As for Gladys, herself, she, too, was sad at leaving Marjorie, but she was so full of wonder and curiosity about the new home they were going to, in the land of flowers and sunshine, that she was fairly impatient to get there.

"Just think, Mopsy," she said, as the two girls sat together at the party feast, "the roses out there are as big as cabbages, and bloom all the year round."

"Are they really?" said Midget, interested in spite of herself.

"Yes, and I'll send you a big box of them as soon as I get there. They'll keep all right, 'cause mother received a box the other day, and they were as fresh as fresh."

"And you'll write to me, Glad, won't you?" said Marjorie, a little wistfully.

"'Course I will! I'll write every week, and you write every week. What day do you choose?"

"Monday; that comes first."

"All right. You write to me every Monday, and I'll write to you every Thursday."

"You can't answer a Monday letter on Thursday," put in Gladys's brother Dick; "it takes five or six days for a letter to go."

"Well, I'll write the Monday after you go," said Marjorie, "and then you answer it as soon as you get it; then I'll answer yours as soon as I get it, and so on."

"All right, I will. And I'll write you a letter while I'm on the train, travelling. Of course we'll be five or six days getting there ourselves."

"So you will. Oh, Gladys, California is awful far away!"

"Yes, isn't it! But, Mops, maybe you can come out there and visit me some time."

Marjorie looked doubtful. "No," she said, "I don't think I could go and leave them all, and I don't s'pose you mean for us all to come."

"No, I meant just you. Well, I'll come here and visit you, some time, how's that?"

"Lovely!" cried Midge, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, will you, Gladys? That will be something to look forward to. Will you?"

"Of course I will, Mops, dear. I know mother'll let me, and I'd love to come."

This was a real consolation, and Marjorie laid it up in her heart for comfort on lonely days.

After the party supper was over, most of the young guests gave Gladys or

Dick little gifts which they had brought them as remembrances.

They were merely pretty trifles, but the Fulton children were greatly pleased, and declared they should never forget their Rockwell friends for any they might make in California.

Marjorie gave Gladys a gold neck-chain, with a little gold heart containing her picture, and Gladys had already given Midge her own portrait framed in silver to stand on her dressing-table. The young guests all went away except the two Fultons, who were to stay to dinner. Mr. Maynard came home, and with a determination to keep Marjorie's spirits up, he was especially gay and nonsensical.

"I suppose Uncle Sam will have to put on extra mail service when you two girls get to corresponding," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Maynard," said Gladys. "Marjorie and I are both going to write every week, and I'm going to send her flowers by mail."

"Well, don't send any live rattlesnakes or Gila monsters in the mail.

They might starve on the way."

"I'd rather they'd starve on the way than reach here alive," said

Marjorie, with a little shudder.

"Do they have those things where you're going, Glad?"

"I don't know. Isn't it strange to be going to live in a place that you don't know anything about?"

"It's strange to have you live anywhere but in Rockwell," said Marjorie, and Gladys squeezed her hand under the table.

But at last the time came for the real farewells.

"Cut it short," cried Mr. Maynard, gaily, though there was a lump in his own throat as Gladys and Marjorie threw their arms about each other's neck for the last time.

The Fultons were to leave very early the next morning, and the girls would not meet again.

Both were sobbing, and Dick and Kingdon stood by, truly distressed at their sisters' grief.

"Come, dearie, let Gladys go now," said Mrs. Maynard, for knowing

Marjorie's excitable nature, she feared these paroxysms of tears.

"No, no! she shan't go!" Midge almost screamed, and Gladys was also in a state of convulsive weeping.

Mr. Maynard went to Marjorie, and laid his big cool hand on her brow.

"My little girl," he whispered in her ear "father wants you to be brave now."

Midget look up into his dear, kind eyes, and then, with a truly brave effort she conquered herself.

"I will, Father," she whispered back, and then, with one last embrace, she said, "Good-bye, Gladys, dear Gladys, good-bye."

She let her go, and Dick took his sister's arm in silence, and they went away.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Maynard were somewhat shaken by the children's tragedy, but neither thought it wise to show it.

"Now, Mopsy Moppet," said her father, "what do you think I have here?"

He took a parcel from the mantel, and held it up.

"I don't know," said Midge, trying to smile; "what is it?"

"Well, it's a game,—a brand new game, and none of your poky old go-to-sleep affairs either. It's a lively, wide-awake game, that only lively, wide-awake children can play. So come one, come all!"

They all gathered round the table, and Mr. Maynard explained the rules of the new game. Marjorie loved games, and as this was really a most interesting one, she couldn't help enjoying it, and was soon absorbed in the play. It combined the elements of both skill and chance, and caused many moments of breathless suspense, as one or another gained or lost in the count.

When it was finished, Marjorie was again her own rosy, smiling self, and though she still felt the vague weight of sorrow, she had spent a pleasant, enjoyable hour.

"And now to bed, chickadees," cried their father, "it's long past nine!"

"Is it really?" exclaimed Midget, "how the time has flown!"

"That's because you were my own brave girl, and tried to rise above misfortune," said Mr. Maynard, as he bade her good-night. "No teary pillows to-night, girlie."

"No, Father, dear, I hope not."

"Just go to sleep, and dream that you have a few friends still east of the Rockies."

"More than I'll ever have west of them," responded Marjorie, and then with her arm round Kitty's waist, the two girls went upstairs to bed.

The next morning at the breakfast table, Mr. Maynard made a sudden and unexpected announcement.

"Mother Maynard," he said, "if you can spare your eldest daughter, I think I'll borrow her for the day."

"What!" cried Marjorie, looking up in surprise.

"You may have her," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling, "if you'll return her safely."

"Oh, I can't promise that. I'm of rather careless habits, and I might mislay her somewhere."

"Well, I'll trust you for this once. Mops, do you want to go to town with Father?"

Marjorie's eyes flashed an answer, and Kitty exclaimed:

"Without us?"

"I grieve to disappoint you, Kitsie," said Mr. Maynard, "but you still have your friend Dorothy. Midget is cruelly deprived of her chum, and so for one day she is going to put up with a doddering old gentleman instead. Get your bonnet and shawl, my child."

Marjorie looked at her mother for confirmation of this good news, and receiving an answering smile, she excused herself from the table and ran away to her room. Nannie helped her, and soon she tripped downstairs prettily dressed in a dark blue cloth frock and jacket, a blue felt hat, and her Christmas furs.

"Whew! what a fine lady!" said her father. "I shall have to don my best hat and feathers, I think."

"I've lost my chum, too," said King, as he watched the pair about to start.

"Yes, you have, my boy, but he wasn't your 'perfectly darling confidential friend,' as girls' chums are! Moreover, you haven't shed such gallons of first-class well-salted tears as this young person has. No, Son, I'm sorry to leave you behind, but you didn't weep and wail loud enough!"

King had to laugh at the way his father put it, but he well knew Marjorie was given a day's pleasure to divert her mind from Gladys's departure, and he didn't begrudge his sister the trip.

"We must be extra kind to old Midge, Kit," he said, as Marjorie and her father walked briskly down the drive.

"Yes," said Kitty, earnestly, "she does feel awful about losing Gladys.

I'm going to make fudge for her, while she's gone to-day."

"I wish I could do something for her. Boys are no good!"

"You are too!" cried loyal little Kitty. "You can help her with her arithmetic every night. She can do it all right, if she has a little help, and Glad used to help her a lot."

"Good for you, Kitsie! of course I will. Dear old Midge, I'm terrible sorry for her."

Meantime, Marjorie, by her father's side, was rushing along in the train to New York.

While Mr. Maynard read his paper, he glanced sometimes at his daughter, and rejoiced that she was interestedly gazing out of the window at the flying scenery.

Occasionally, she turned and smiled at him, but she said little, and he knew she was being brave and trying not to think too much about her loss.

Gladys had gone away early and when they had passed the closed and deserted-looking Fulton house, Marjorie had swallowed hard and looked the other way.

But once in New York, the child had no time to think of anything but the present hour, so full of joy was the whole day.

"My time is yours," announced Mr. Maynard, as they reached the city. "I've telephoned to the office that I won't be there at all today, so what shall we do?"

"Oh, Father, a whole Ourday, all for you and me?" Marjorie's eyes danced at this unheard of experience.

"Yes, Midget; partly because I'm sorry for my troubled little girl, and partly because you are bearing your trouble bravely and cheerfully."

"Who wouldn't be cheerful, with a whole Ourday, and a whole father, all to myself!"

"Well, you'll probably never have another, alone with me. So make the most of it. Where shall we go first?"

"Oh, I don't know; it's all so lovely."

"Then I'll choose. Step this way, Madame."

This way, was toward a line of waiting taxicabs, and Mr. Maynard engaged one, and handed Marjorie in.

"A taxy ride! Oh, lovely!" she cried, as they started off at a fine pace.

On they went, spinning across town, till they reached Fifth Avenue, and turned up that broad thoroughfare.

Marjorie enjoyed every minute, and looked out of the open window at the bustling city life all about. Up town they went for blocks and blocks, and stopped at the Metropolitan Art Museum.

They went in here, after Mr. Maynard had dismissed the cab, and staid the rest of the morning.

Marjorie, perhaps, would not have cared so much for the pictures and statues had she been alone; but her father called her attention to certain ones, and told her about them in such a way, that she was amused and instructed both.

They looked at strange and curious relics of ancient times; they studied the small models of the world's greatest buildings; and they lingered in the hall full of casts of the noblest statues of all time.

"Hungry, Chickadee?" said Mr. Maynard, at last, looking at his watch.

"Why, yes, I believe I am; but I hadn't thought of it."

"I'm glad you are, for I can assure you I am. Suppose we make a mad dash for a pie-shop."

"Come on," said Marjorie, and away they went, through the turnstiles, and out upon Fifth Avenue again.

Mr. Maynard hailed a motor-omnibus, and Marjorie carefully climbed the spiral staircase at the back. Her father followed, and sitting up on top of the 'bus, in the crisp, wintry air and bright sunshine, they went whizzing down the avenue.

"Isn't it fun, Father!" said Marjorie, as she held tightly to his arm.

"Yes, and there's a fine view to-day." He pointed out many famous buildings, and when they neared a large hotel, he said:

"We'll have to get out, Midge. I shall pine away with hunger before another block."

"Out we go!" was the reply, and they clambered down the twisty stair.

"Is there anything that would tempt your appetite, Miss Maynard?" said her father, as, seated at a small round table, he looked over the menu.

"No, thank you; I don't think I can eat a thing!" said Midge, dropping her eyes, and trying to look fragile and delicate.

"No? But really, you must try to taste of something. Say, the left wing of a butterfly, with hard sauce."

This made Marjorie laugh, and she said, "I couldn't eat it all, but I might nibble at it."

Then what Mr. Maynard really did, was to order Marjorie's favourite dishes.

First, they had grape-fruit, all cut in bits, and piled up in dainty, long-stemmed glasses. Then, they had a soft, thick soup, and then sweetbreads with mushrooms.

"You're not to get ill, you know," said Mr. Maynard, as Marjorie showed a surprising appetite, "but I do want you to have whatever you like to-day."

"Oh, I won't get ill," declared Marjorie, gaily, "and now, may I select the ice cream?"

"Yes, if you won't ask for plum pudding also."

"No, but I do want little cakes, iced all over. Pink and green and white and yellow ones."

These were allowed, and Marjorie blissfully kept on nibbling them, while Mr. Maynard sipped his coffee. In the afternoon they went to a matinée. It was one of the gorgeous spectacular productions, founded upon an old fairy tale, and Marjorie was enraptured with the beautiful tableaux, the wonderful scenery, and the gay music.

"Oh, Father," she said, "aren't we having the gorgeousest time! You are the beautifulest man in the whole world!"

After the performance, Mr. Maynard spoke of going home, but Marjorie's eyes held a mute appeal, which he could not resist.

"Ice cream again!" he said, though she had not spoken the words. "Well, ice cream it is, then, but no rich cakes this time. I promised Motherdy I'd bring you home safe and sound. But I'll tell you, we'll buy some of those cakes to take home, and you may have them to-morrow."

"And Kitty and King, too," said Midge. "And let's take them some buttercups."

So the candy and cakes were bought and carried home by two tired but very happy people, and Marjorie fully appreciated the lovely day her father had given her, because of Gladys's going away.

"And I will be good and brave," she resolved to herself, on her way home in the train. "I'm going to try to be just as cheerful and pleasant as If Gladys hadn't gone away at all, but was in her own house, across the street."