Kitabı oku: «Marjorie's New Friend», sayfa 4
CHAPTER VII
THE COMING OF DELIGHT
But though Marjorie made her brave resolutions in good faith, it was hard to keep them. School was awful. The very sight of Gladys's empty seat made Midge choke with tears.
Miss Lawrence appreciated the case, and was most gentle and kind to
Marjorie, but still the trouble was there.
"Wouldn't you like to have Katy Black sit with you, dear?" asked the teacher.
"No, thank you." said Midge, "I can't bear to put any one in Gladys's place. Don't bother about me, Miss Lawrence, I'm not going to cry."
She didn't cry, but she sighed so frequently and so deeply, that kind-hearted Miss Lawrence almost wept in sympathy.
At home it was better. The Maynards always had good times at home, and of course when there, Marjorie didn't miss Gladys so much. But the long mornings in the school-room, and the long afternoons when she wanted to run over to Gladys's house were almost unbearable.
Merry, madcap Midget became a sober-faced little girl, who was all the more pathetic because she tried to be cheerful.
Mrs. Maynard felt worried about the matter, and proposed to her husband that she should take Marjorie, and go away for a trip somewhere.
"No," said Mr. Maynard; "let her fight it out. It's hard for her, but it's doing her real good, and bringing out the best side of her nature.
We'll all help her all we can, and if I'm not greatly mistaken our Marjorie will come out of this ordeal with flying colors."
"It's will-power, little daughter," said Mr. Maynard to her one evening. "Just determine that this cloud shall not entirely obscure the sun for you."
"Yes," said Midge, smiling, "it's just an eclipse, isn't it?"
"Yes, and it seems to be a total eclipse; but even total eclipses pass, if we wait long enough. Any letter from Gladys this week?"
"One came this morning. Would you like to read it?"
"Of course I should, very much."
"It's strange," said Marjorie, as she produced the letter, "for all Gladys loves school so, and is a good student, she can't seem to spell right."
"I know another lady who has difficulty in that direction," said Mr.
Maynard, smiling.
"Yes, but Glad is different. She can spell the spelling-book stickers, 'embarrassed,' and 'cleemosynary,' and such words, 'cause she studies them; and then she'll misspell simple every-day words. Now, you see."
Mr. Maynard smiled a little as he read the letter.
Los Angeles, Cal.
DEAR MARJORIE:
We are having a lovely time. We have not found a house yet, but are staying at the hotel till we do find one to suite us, I like it here very much. I miss you very much, dear Marjorie. There are lovely people in the hotel, and we go for walks to pick flowers. The flowers here are beautiful. Now I must close. With lots of love and kisses, your
LOVING GLADYS.
"Between you and me and the post, Midget, I don't think that's a very interesting letter, do you?"
"No, Father, I don't. I thought Glad would write more as she talks. She doesn't talk a bit like that, when we're together."
"I know it, Mops, I've heard her. But some people never can write as they talk. As soon as they get a pen between their fingers, their brain seems to freeze up, and break off in little, cold, hard sentences. Now, what sort of a letter do you write?"
"Here's the answer I wrote to-day to Gladys. I haven't sent it yet."
MY DARLING GLADYS:
I wish you would come back. It's perfectly horrid at school without you, and though Miss Lawrence said Katy Black could sit with me, I don't want her. She's a nice enough girl, but she isn't you. And nobody is, Dear old Glad, I do miss you so. Of course as there's no remedy under the sun, I'm being cheerful and gay about it, but my heart misses you just the same. We don't have the Jinks Club any more. It made me sick to go to it without you. I expect you're having good times in California, and I'm glad of that. Write soon to
YOUR LOVING MOPSY MIDGET.
"Now, of the two, Midge, yours is the much better letter. Don't ever try to copy Gladys's style, will you?"
"No; I'm glad you like mine best. You see, I write without thinking about anything except not to spill the ink."
"A very good plan. Stick to it all your life. Midget, I don't want to be unkind, but has it struck you that Gladys is not so heart-broken over your separation as you are?"
A look of pain came into Marjorie's loyal eyes, as she said:
"It does seem so, I know. But I think it's because Gladys has all sorts of new places and new people to amuse her, while I'm left here alone."
"It's partly that, little girl; and partly because Gladys hasn't such a warm, loving loyal heart as my Marjorie's."
"She is different," admitted Midget; "but I know she loves me, even if it doesn't say so right out in her letter."
"Perhaps she forgot to put it in, because she was so busy trying not to spill the ink."
"Perhaps so," agreed Marjorie, answering the twinkle in her father's eye.
"And now, Miss Mops, I have a bit of news for you. The Fulton house is rented to some people from New York."
"Is it?" said Marjorie, indifferently.
"And in the family is a girl twelve years of age."
"And you think she'll take Glad's place!" cried Midge, indignantly. "Well, I can just tell you she won't! A girl from New York! She'll be stuck-up, and superior, and look down on us Rockwell girls!"
"How do you know all this?"
"I know; 'cause Katy Black had a girl from New York visiting her, and she was just horrid! All stiff and mincy, and dropping curtseys every two minutes!"
"But you're taught to drop curtseys."
"Yes, when I enter or leave a room where there are ladies, but that girl was always at it, in school and everywhere."
"Sort of a jumping-jack, wasn't she? Well, try to like this new girl, dearie; it's the best I can do for you in the way of neighbors."
"Oh, I may like her,—and I'll be polite to her, of course; but I know I shan't want her for an intimate friend, like Glad."
"Perhaps not; but I was so pleased when I heard a little girl was coming to live across the street, that I think you ought to be pleased too."
"Well, I will! I am! And if she isn't too stuck-up, I'll try to like her."
A few afternoons later, King, who was sitting by a front window, called out:
"Hi! I say, Mops! Here's the new family moving into the Fulton house!"
Marjorie only upset a waste-basket and a very small table as she ran to the window to look out.
Kitty raced after her, and Rosy Posy toddled up too, so in a moment the four were eagerly gazing at the new-comers, themselves quite hidden by the lace curtains.
"Nice looking bunch," commented King, as he watched a well-dressed lady and gentleman get out of the carriage.
"And there's the girl!" cried Marjorie, as a child followed them. "Oh, she is a stuck-up!"
"How do you know?" said King. "I think she's a daisy!"
They could only see her back, as the new neighbor walked up the path to the house, but she seemed to be of a dainty, not to say finicky type.
She wore a large hat with feathers, and a black velvet coat that covered her frock completely.
A mass of fluffy golden hair hung below the big black hat, and the little girl tripped along in a way that if not "mincing," was certainly "citified."
"No, I don't like her," declared Midge, as she watched the stranger go up the steps and into the house; "she isn't a bit like Gladys."
"Neither am I," said King, "but you like me."
"Yes, you dear, cunning little sweet thing, I do like you," said Midget, touching King's hair in a teasing way.
He promptly pulled off her hair-ribbon, and as Marjorie felt in the humor, this began one of their favorite games of make-believe.
"The diamond tiara!" she shrieked, "the villain hath stole it!"
"Horrors!" cried Kitty, "then shall he be captured, and forced to restore it!"
She pounced on King, and aided by Marjorie, they threw him on the couch, and wrapped his head in the afghan. Horrible growls came from the prisoner, but no word of surrender.
"Art vanquished?" asked Kitty pulling the afghan away from one of his eyes.
"I art not!" he declared in a muffled voice, but with so terrific a glare from that one eye, that they hastily covered him up again.
But he managed to free himself, and stood towering above the terror-stricken girls, who now knelt at his feet and begged for mercy.
"Spare us!" moaned Kit. "We are but lorn damsels who seek food and shelter!"
"Me wants a selter, too," announced Rosy Posy, joining the others, and clasping her little fat hands as they did. "What is a selter?"
"A selter for none of you!" roared King, with threatening gestures. "To the dungeon, all three! Ha, varlets, appear, and do my bidding!"
"I'll be a varlet," said Midge, suddenly changing her rôle. "We'll put Lady Katherine in the dungeon, and let the fair Lady Rosamond go free!"
"As thou sayest," said King, agreeably, and, though bravely resisting, Kitty was overpowered, and thrown into a dungeon under the table. From this she contrived to escape by the clever expedient of creeping out at the other side, but as it was then time to get ready for dinner, the game came to an untimely end.
"We've seen the new girl, Father," said Marjorie, as they sat at the table.
"Have you? Well, I've seen the new man,—that is, if you refer to our new neighbors across the street."
"Yes, in Gladys's house. What's his name, Father?"
"Mr. Spencer. I met him at the post-office, and Mr. Gage introduced us. Mr. Gage is the agent who has the Fulton house in charge, and he told we before that these newcomers are fine people. I liked Mr. Spencer exceedingly. I'm sorry, Mops, you're so determined not to like the daughter. Mr. Spencer tells me she's a lovable child."
"Oh, of course he'd think so,—he's her father."
"Well, I admit, fathers are a prejudiced class. Perhaps I have too high an opinion of my own brood."
"You couldn't have," said Kitty, calmly, and Mr. Maynard laughed as he looked at the four smiling faces, and responded:
"I don't believe I could!"
"Don't spoil them, Fred," said Mrs. Maynard, warningly, but King broke in:
"Too late, Mother! We're spoiled already. Father's high opinion of us has made us puffed up and conceited."
"Nonsense, King," cried Midge; "we're not conceited. Not nearly as much so as that girl across the way. You ought to see, Father, how she hopped up the walk! Like a scornful grasshopper!"
"Marjorie," said Mrs. Maynard, repressing a smile, "you must not criticise people so; especially those you don't know."
"Well, she did, Mother. She thinks because she came from New York,
Rockwell people are no good at all."
"How do you know that, Midge?" said her father, a little gravely.
"Oh, Midget is a reader of character," said King. "She only saw this girl's yellow hair, hanging down her back, and she knew all about her at once."
"She had a velvet coat," protested Marjorie, "and a short dress and long black legs—"
"You wouldn't want her to wear a train, would you?" put in Kitty.
"No, but her frock was awful short, and her hat was piled with feathers."
"That will do, Marjorie," said her father, very decidedly, now. "It isn't nice to run on like that about some one you've never met."
"But I'm just telling what I saw, Father."
"But not in a kind spirit, my child. You're trying to make the little girl appear unattractive, or even ridiculous; and you must not do that. It isn't kind."
"That's so," said Marjorie, contritely; "it's horrid of me, I know, and
I'll stop it. But she did look like a flyaway jib!"
"What is a flyaway jib?" said her father, with an air of one seeking information.
"I haven't an idea," said Mops, laughing; "but I know I've heard of it somewhere."
"And so you describe a girl whom you don't know, in words whose meaning you don't know! Well, that's consistent, at any rate! Now, I do know something about this young lady. And, to begin with, I know her name."
"Oh, what is it?" said Midge and Kitty together.
"Well, Mops is such a reader of character, she ought to be able to guess her name. What do you think it is, Midget?"
Marjorie considered. She dearly loved to guess, even when she had no hint to go by.
"I think," she said, slowly, "it is probably Arabella or Araminta."
"'Way off," said her father; "you're no good at guessing. Kitty, what do you say?"
"It ought to be Seraphina," said Kitty, promptly. "She looks like a wax doll."
"Wrong again! King, want to guess?"
"'Course I do. I think her name is Flossy Flouncy. She looks so dressy and gay."
"That's a good name, King," said Marjorie, "and just suits her. I shall call her that, what ever her real name is. I suppose it's Mary Jane, or something not a bit like her. What is it, Father?"
"Well, it's not a common name, exactly. It's Delight."
"Delight!" cried King. "What a funny, name! I never heard of it before."
"I think it's lovely," declared Marjorie. "It's a beautiful name. Why didn't you name me Delight, Mother?"
"You didn't say you wanted me to," returned Mrs. Maynard, smiling, for Marjorie often wished for various names that pleased her better than her own for the moment.
"Well, I think it's sweet, don't you, Kit?"
"Beautiful!" said Kitty, enthusiastically.
"And she's not at all 'stuck-up,'" went on Mr. Maynard; "she's rather shy, and though she wants to get acquainted with you children, she's afraid you won't like her. I didn't tell Mr. Spencer that you had decided already not to like her."
"I like her name," said Marjorie, "but I don't like her because she lives in Gladys's house, and she isn't Gladys!"
"So that's where the shoe pinches!" said Mr. Maynard, laughing at Marjorie's troubled face. "A foolish resentment because strangers are in your friend's home. Why, dearie, Mr. Fulton was most anxious to rent the house, and he'll be glad to have such good tenants. And, by the way, Midge, don't say anything more unpleasant about the little Spencer girl. You've said enough."
"I won't, Father," said Midget, with an honest glance from her big, dark eyes into his own, for truth to tell, she felt a little ashamed of her foolish criticisms already.
"Delight!" she said, musingly as she and Kitty were preparing for bed that night. "Isn't it a dear name, Kit? What does it make you think of?"
"A princess," said Kitty, whose imagination Was always in fine working order; "one who always wears light blue velvet robes, and eats off of gold dishes."
"Yes," agreed Marjorie, falling in with the game, "and she has white doves fluttering about, and black slaves to bow before her."
"No, not black slaves; they're for princesses named Ermengarde or Fantasmagoria." Kitty was not always particular about any authority for names, if they sounded well. "A princess named Delight would have handmaidens,—fair-haired ones, with soft trailing white robes."
"Kit, you're a wonder," said Marjorie, staring at her younger sister; "how do you know such things?"
"They come to me," said Kitty, mystically.
"Well, they sound all right, but I don't believe handmaidens ought to wear trailing gowns. How could they handmaid?"
"That's so," said Kitty, a little crestfallen.
"Never mind; I spect they could. They could gracefully throw the trails over their arms, as they glide along in their sandalled feet."
"Yes, and strains of music came from concealed luters—"
"Huh! looters are burglars, and it's slang besides."
"No, not that kind. Luters that play on lutes, I mean. And the Princess Delight would sniff attar of rose, and fan herself with waving peacock feathers."
"A slave ought to do that."
"Well, all right, let him. And then the Princess falls asleep 'neath her silken coverlet, and lets her sister put out the lights,—like this!" and with a jump, Kitty bounced into her own little bed, and pulled up the down coverlet to her chin.
Imitating the white-robed handmaidens, Marjorie swayed around to an improvised chant of her own, and putting out the electric lights with much dramatic elaboration, she finally swayed into her own bed, and after they had both chanted a choric good-night, they soon fell sleep.
CHAPTER VIII
A VISIT TO CINDERELLA
One afternoon Marjorie sat by the fire reading. She was not specially interested in her book, but Kitty had gone to see Dorothy Adams, and King was off somewhere, so she had no one to play with.
Presently Sarah entered.
"There's somebody wants you on the telephone, Miss Marjorie," she said, and Midget jumped up, wondering who it could be.
"Hello," she said, as she took the receiver.
"Hello," said a pleasant voice; "is this Marjorie Maynard?"
"Yes; who is this?"
"This is Cinderella."
"Who!"
"Cinderella. My two stepsisters have gone to a ball, and my cruel stepmother has beaten me and starved me—"
"What are you talking about? Who is this, please?"
"Me. I'm Cinderella. And I'm so lonely and sad I thought perhaps you'd come over to see me."
A light began to dawn on Marjorie.
"Oh," she continued, "where do you live?"
"Across the street from your house."
"Then you're Delight Spencer."
"Yes, I am. Can't you come over and let's get acquainted?"
"Yes, I will. I'd like to. Shall I come now?"
"Yes, right away. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
Marjorie hung up the receiver and after a hasty brush at her curls, and a few pinches at her hair ribbons, she flung on hat and coat and flew across the street.
If only this new girl should be a desirable chum!
That opening about Cinderella sounded hopeful,—she must know how to play.
Well, at any rate, Midget would soon know now.
She rang the bell at Gladys's house, with a queer feeling, and as she went in, and saw the familiar rooms and furniture, and no Gladys, she almost started to run away again—
"Miss Delight wants you to come right up to her room, Miss," said the maid who admitted her, and Marjorie followed her upstairs, glad to find that at least the new girl didn't have Gladys's room for her own. The maid indicated the room, and stood aside for Marjorie to enter, but at the first glance Midget stood still on the threshold.
In the first place the room was transformed. It had been the Fultons' playroom, and furnished rather plainly; but now it was so full of all sorts of things, that it looked like a bazaar.
In a big armchair sat Delight. She had on a Japanese quilted kimona of light blue silk, and little blue Turkish slippers. Her hair was pure golden, and was just a tangle of fluffy curls topped by a huge blue bow.
But her face, Marjorie thought at once, was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. Big blue eyes, a soft pink and white complexion, and red lips smiling over little white teeth, made Delight look like the pictures on Marjorie's fairy calendar.
And yet, as Midget stood for a moment, looking at her, the pink faded from her cheeks, and she rose from her chair, and said, stiffly:
"Sit down, won't you? I'm glad you came."
Marjorie sat down, on the edge of a couch, and Delight sank back in her big chair.
She was so evidently overcome with a spasm of shyness that Midget was sorry for her, but somehow it made her feel shy, herself, and the two little girls sat there, looking at each other, without saying a word.
At last, overcoming her embarrassment, Marjorie said, "Was it you who telephoned?" A sudden wave of red flooded Delight's pale cheeks, and she answered:
"Yes, it was. I have a cold, and can't go out of my room,—and mother is out,—and—and I was awfully lonesome, so I played I was Cinderella. And then I just happened to think I'd telephone you—just for fun—"
"Have you a stepmother? Is she cruel to you?"
"Mercy, no! Mother is the dearest thing in the world, and she adores me,—spoils me, in fact. She's gone out now to get me some things to make valentines with. But I wish she was here. I thought it would be fun to see,—to see you alone,—but you're so different from what I thought you were."
"Different, how?" said Midget, forgetting her own shyness in her interest in this strange girl.
"Why, you're so—so big, and rosy,—and your eyes snap so."
"You're afraid of me!" exclaimed Midget, laughing merrily.
"I'm not when you laugh like that!" returned Delight, who was beginning to feel more at ease.
"Well, I was afraid of you, too, at first. You looked so—so, breakable, you know."
"Delicate?"
"Yes, fragile. Like those pretty spun sugar things."
"I am delicate. At least, mother says I am. I hate to romp or run, and
I'm afraid of people who do those things."
"Well, I'm not afraid of anybody who can play she's Cinderella over a telephone! I love to run and play out-of-doors, but I love to play 'pretend games' too."
"So do I. But I have to play them all by myself. Except sometimes mother plays with me."
"You can play with us. We all play pretend games. Kitty's best at it,—she's my sister. And King—Kingdon, my brother, is grand."
"Take off your things, won't you? I ought to have asked you before. I haven't any sense."
Marjorie jumped up and threw off her hat and coat, tossed them on the couch, and then plumped herself into another big chair near Delight's.
The children were indeed a contrast.
Marjorie, large for her age, full of hearty, healthy life, and irrepressible gayety of spirit, bounced around like a big, good-natured rubber ball. Delight, small, slender, and not very strong, moved always gently and timidly.
Marjorie, too, was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and rosy-cheeked; while
Delight was of lovely blonde type, and her pale blue robe suited her, as
Midget's crimson cashmere set off her own vivid coloring.
The ice fairly broken, the little girls forgot their shyness, and acquaintance progressed rapidly.
"Have you always lived in New York?" asked Midget.
"Yes; but I'm so delicate mother thinks this place will be better for me.
Do you like it here?"
"Why, yes. But I've always lived here, you know. Are you going to school?"
"No; I never go to school. It makes me nervous. I always have a governess at home."
"Oh, how lovely! I'd give anything if I could study that way. Isn't it fun?"
"Oh, no; it's so lonely. I'd ever so much rather go to school and be in a class. But I always faint in a schoolroom."
"I don't faint,—I don't know how. I wish I did, I'd try it, and then
Miss Lawrence would have to send me home. Where are you in arithmetic?"
"Partial Payments; but I'm reviewing. Where are you?"
"Cube root, and I hate it."
"So do I. How do you like my room?"
"It's splendid. But I can't take it all in at once."
Marjorie jumped up and walked round the room, stopping to look at the aquarium, the blackboard, the gramophone, and many other modes of entertainment which had been collected to give Delight pleasure.
"Yes, I love my things. I have so many, and father is always bringing me new ones. That's to make up for my being an only child. I often beg mother to adopt a sister for me."
"I'll be your sister," said Midget, in a sudden heartfelt burst of sympathy for the lonely little girl.
"Oh, will you?" she said, wistfully; "and come and live with me?"
"No, not that," laughed Marjorie; "but we'll play we're sisters, and you can call my brother and sisters yours too."
"I'm glad I came to Rockwell," said Delight, with happy eyes; "I think you're splendid."
"And I think you're lovely. I hope we'll get along. Do you squabble?"
"I don't think so," replied Delight, doubtfully; "you see, I never had a chance."
"I don't believe you do. I hate it, myself; but lots of the girls think it's fun to get mad at each other, and stay mad a few weeks and then make up."
"How silly! You're not like that, are you?"
"No, I'm not. I had a friend who used to live in this very house, and we never have been mad at each other in our lives. That's why I didn't say I'd be your friend. It seems sort of—kind of—"
"Yes, I see," said Delight, gently. "You're awfully loyal, aren't you?
Well, I'd rather be your sister, anyway,—your play-sister."
"I'll be your step-sister," said Midget, remembering Cinderella. "Not the cross kind."
"No, the pleasant kind. All right, we'll be step-sisters, and will you come to see me often?"
"Yes, and you must come over to my house."
"I will, when mother'll let me. She hates to have me go anywhere."
"Do you know," said Midget, in a spirit of contrition, "I thought you were 'stuck-up.'"
Delight sighed a little. "Everybody thinks that," she said, "just because I don't go to school, and so I don't get acquainted much. But I'm not stuck-up."
"Indeed you're not, and I shall tell all the girls so. But after your cold gets well, you can go out doors to play, can't you?"
"I don't know. Mother never lets me go out much, except with her. Oh, here comes mother now!"
Mrs. Spencer came into the room and smiled pleasantly at Midget.
Delight introduced them, and Marjorie rose and curtseyed, then Mrs.
Spencer said:
"I'm glad you came, my dear child. I meant to ask you soon, as I want you and Delight to be great friends."
Mrs. Spencer was an attractive-looking lady and spoke cordially, but somehow Marjorie didn't fancy her.
There was no tangible reason, for she was charming and gracious, but Midget felt she was a nervous, fussy woman, and not calm and capable like her own dear mother.
"My mother is coming to call on you," said Marjorie to her hostess. "I heard her say so. She doesn't know I'm here, for she wasn't at home when I came, but I know she'll be pleased when I tell her."
"Did you come away without mother's permission? Naughty! Naughty!" said
Mrs. Spencer, playfully shaking her finger at Marjorie.
Midget's eyes opened wide. "Of course, I shouldn't have come," she said, "if I hadn't known she would be willing." She resented Mrs. Spencer's reproof, as that lady knew nothing of the circumstances, and besides, Marjorie was always allowed to do as she chose afternoons, within certain well-understood restrictions.
But Mrs. Spencer had brought several interesting-looking parcels, and all else was forgotten in the examination of their contents.
They proved to contain gold and silver paper, lace paper, small pictures, crêpe paper, cards, ribbons, paste, and lots of other things.
Marjorie's eyes sparkled as she saw the lovely things tumbled out on a low table which Mrs. Spencer drew up in front of the girls. "For valentines?" she exclaimed, as she realized the possibilities.
"Yes; will you help Delight to make them?"
"Indeed, I will, Mrs. Spencer; but not now. It's five o'clock, and I have to go home at five."
"Dear, dear, little girls that run away without mother's permission oughtn't to be so particular about going home on time."
Marjorie was puzzled. Mrs. Spencer didn't see the matter rightly, she was sure, and yet to explain it to her seemed like correcting a grown-up lady, which, of course, was impolite. So she only smiled, and said she must go home, but she would be glad to come again.
To her surprise, Delight began to cry,—not noisily,—but with quiet, steady weeping, that seemed to imply a determination to keep it up.
Marjorie looked her amazement, which was not lessened when Mrs. Spencer said, almost coldly:
"I should think she would cry, poor, dear sick child, when her little friend refuses to stay with her."
"But, Mrs. Spencer," said Midget, really distressed, now, "it is our rule always to go home at five o'clock, unless mother has said we could stay later. So I have to go."
"Very well, then, go on," said Mrs. Spencer, a little pettishly; but she helped Marjorie on with her coat, and patted her on the shoulder.
"You're a good little girl," she said, "and I suppose I'm selfish where
Delight is concerned. Will you come again to-morrow morning?"
"Oh, no, thank you; I have to go to school."
"Yes, I suppose you do. Well, come to-morrow afternoon."
"Yes, do," said Delight, staying her tears, as they seemed to do no good.
"I'll see about it," said Midget, a little bewildered by these emotional people. "I'd like to come."
She said her good-byes, and flew across the street to her own home.
She flung to the front door behind her, with what was almost a bang, and then throwing her coat and hat on the hall rack, she burst into the living-room, where Mrs. Maynard was sitting with Rosy Posy in her lap.
"Marjorie," her mother said, as she observed the impulsive child, "you are just a shade too noisy. Will you kindly go back to the hall, and try to enter this room in a manner more becoming to a lady and a Maynard?"
"I will, indeed, Mother. And you're quite right; I was awful racketty."
Marjorie returned to the hall, and then came in with graceful, mincing steps, purposely overdoing the scene. She paused in front of her mother dropped an elaborate curtsey, and holding out her hand daintily, said:
"Good-evening, Mrs. Maynard; are you at home?"
"I am, you silly child," said her mother, kissing her affectionately, "and overdone manners are much better than no manners at all."
"Yes'm; and what do you think, Mother? I've been over to see Delight Spencer."
"You have? Why, I meant to take you when I go to call. How did you happen to go?"
So Marjorie told the story of the telephoning, adding: "And you know, Mother, you always used to let me go to Gladys's without asking you, so I went. Wasn't it all right?"
Marjorie looked so disturbed that Mrs. Maynard smiled, and said:
"Why, I suppose there's no harm done,—since the little girl asked you to come—"
Marjorie looked greatly relieved. "Well," she said, "Mrs. Spencer thought it was awful for me to go without asking you,—and then,—she wanted me to stay after five o'clock, and was madder 'n hops 'cause I didn't!"
"What a remarkable lady! But I can judge better if you tell me the whole story."
So Marjorie told all about the afternoon, and Mrs. Maynard was greatly interested.
"Not exactly stuck-up, is she, Midget?" said King, who had come in during the recital.
"No," owned up Marjorie. "I was mistaken about that; and I think I'd like her a lot, if she wasn't the crying kind. I do hate cry babies."
"Ho! You wept oceans when Glad went away."
"Yes," retorted Marjorie, unabashed, "but that's very different. I don't burst into weeps just because a next-door neighbor is going home!"
"'Deed you don't, old girl! You're a brick, and I was a meany to say what
I did. But perhaps Delight doesn't cry so much when she's well."
"She's never well. I mean she's delicate and frail and always having colds and things."
"Pooh, a nice sort of girl for you to play with! You're as hardy as an Indian."
