Kitabı oku: «Marjorie's New Friend», sayfa 9

CHAPTER XVII
A JINKS AUCTION

At last the day came when Marjorie was allowed to go home.

Doctor Mendel had had a most thorough fumigation and disinfection, and all danger was over. The little boy was convalescent, and there was no longer any reason why Midget or Mr. Spencer should be exiled from their homes.

And so, liberated from her prison, Midget flew, across the street, and into the arms of her waiting family.

"Mother first!" she cried, as they all crowded round, but so mixed up did the Maynards become, that it was one grand jumble of welcoming hugs and kisses.

"Oh, I'm so glad to be home again," Marjorie cried, as she looked about the familiar living-room. "It seems as if I'd been away years."

"Seems so to me, too," said Kitty, who had greatly missed her sister.

"Mother, aren't we going to celebrate Mopsy's coming home?"

Now "celebration" in the Maynard household, always meant dress-up frocks, and ice cream for dessert.

"Of course," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling; "fly upstairs, girlies, and get into some pretty dresses, and then fly down again, for father's coming home early."

So Midge and Kitty flew, and King scampered to his room also, and Mrs. Maynard gave the baby over to Nurse Nannie for a clean frock, while she herself telephoned for the ice cream. And to the order she added cakes and candied fruits and other dainties, until it bade fair to be a celebration feast indeed.

Marjorie, delighted to be in her own room once more, chattered rapidly, as she and Kitty dressed, and tied ribbons, and hooked waists for each other.

"Delight is an awfully nice girl, Kitsie," she was saying. "I didn't like her so much at first, but as we were together so much I grew to like her better."

"Is she as nice as Gladys?"

"In some ways she is. She's more fun than Glad about playing games. She loves to play pretend, and Gladys wasn't much good at that. But, of course, I'm more fond of Glad, she's my old friend. Delight is nice for a neighbor though."

Dressed in a white serge, with pipings and bows of scarlet velvet, her cheeks glowing red with the joyous excitement of getting home, and her eyes dancing with happiness, Marjorie flew downstairs just in time to tumble into the arms of her father, who was entering the hall door.

"Why, bless my stars!" he exclaimed; "who in the world is this?"

"Your long-lost daughter!" said Midge, nestling in his big, comfortable embrace.

"No! Can it be? This great big girl! Why, how you've grown! And yet,—yes, it is! my own Marjorie Mischief Mopsy Midget Maynard! Well, I am glad you're back where you belong!"

"So'm I! I tell you Father Maynard, it was awful hard to stay away so long."

"I know it, girlie, and I hope it won't happen again. But you know, 'into each life some rain must fall.'"

"And I did have a good time, too," went on Midge. "Isn't it funny,

Father, how you can have a good time and a bad time both at once."

"Quite comic, I should say. Now, let me get my coat off, and then we'll talk matters over."

Marjorie skipped into the living-room, and plumped herself down on the sofa. Kitty and King sat close on either side, and Rosy Posy climbed into her lap and lovingly patted her face.

The four made a pretty group, and as Mrs. Maynard came in and saw them, she said:

"Well, I'm glad my quartette is whole again; it's been broken so long."

The dinner was a celebration for fair. Aside from the delicious things to eat, everybody was so gay and glad over Marjorie's return, that all was laughter and jollity.

"How different our two families are," said Midge, thoughtfully; "here we are having such fun and frolic, and the Spencers are just having an every-day, quiet dinner."

"Aren't they glad the sickness is all over?" asked Kitty.

"Yes, of course. But they never 'celebrate.' I guess they don't know how very well. And Mrs. Spencer is very quiet. Much noise makes her head ache."

"Mr. Spencer was awful quiet, too," said King. "He hardly ever laughed all the time he was here. Except the night we wrote the valentines. Then he laughed, cause we made him write poetry and he couldn't."

"Well, they're nice people," said Midge, "but awful different from us.

I'm glad I'm a Maynard!"

"I'm glad you are!" said her father.

The next day Mrs. Maynard announced her intention of going over to see

Mrs. Spencer, and thanking her for her care of Marjorie.

"But it does seem funny," said Midge, "to thank her for keeping me there, when I couldn't possibly get away! But she was good to me, though really she didn't pay very much attention to me. But I s'pose that was 'cause she was so bothered about the little sick boy. But, Mother, do thank Miss Hart, too. She was lovely; and she put herself out lots of times, to make it pleasant for Delight and me. Give her plenty of thanks, will you, Mother?"

"Yes, Midget; and what about Delight?"

"Oh, yes, thank her too. She was kind and pleasant,—only,—well, it seems mean to say so,—but, Mother, she is a little selfish. I didn't mind, really; only I don't think it's quite nice to be selfish to a guest."

"Perhaps not, Mar; one; but neither is it nice to criticise your little hostess."

Marjorie flushed. "I didn't mean to, Mother," she said; "but I thought it didn't count when I'm just talking to you."

"That's right, dearie; always say anything you choose to Mother, but don't criticise Delight to anybody else."

"No, Mother, I won't," and Midge gave her mother one of her biggest "bear-hugs" and then wandered off in search of Kitty.

"What are you doing, Kit?" she said, as she found her sister sitting on the big hall settle, looking out of the window.

"Waiting for Dorothy. She's coming this afternoon, and we're going to play paper dolls."

Marjorie must have looked a little disappointed, for Kitty said:

"Say, Mops, why don't you take Delight for your friend in Glad's place?

It's so nice to have a friend all your own."

"I know it is, Kit," and Midget sat down beside her sister, "but somehow it seems sort of mean to put anybody in Gladys's place."

"Oh, pshaw! it doesn't either. And when Glad is so far away, too. She doesn't even write to you, does she?"

"She sent me a valentine."

"Well, but when has she written?"

"Not for a long time. But that doesn't matter. She's my friend, and I'm not going to put anybody else in her place."

Kitty grew exasperated at this foolishness, as it seemed to her, and said:

"Well, then don't put her in Glad's place. Keep her old place empty. But take Delight as a sort of, what do you call it? Substitute friend, and let her come over here to play, same as Dorothy comes to play with me."

"I'd like to do that," said Midge. "I'm awfully glad to have Delight with me, and I know she likes me."

"Then go and telephone her now. Ask her to come over, and play."

"No, not now, 'cause mother is over there, and I'd rather wait till she comes home. Let's all play together to-day."

"All right; here comes Dorothy now."

Dorothy Adams came in, very glad to see Midget again, whom she liked almost as much as she did Kitty. She took off her things, and the girls drifted into the living-room, where King sat reading.

He had a band of red ribbon round his head, in which were stuck a dozen large turkey feathers, giving him a startling appearance.

"What's the feathers for?" asked Dorothy, looking at the boy in amazement.

"Why, you see, I'm reading one of Cooper's stories," King explained, "and

I can sort of feel the Indian part of it better if I wear some feathers."

"Come on and play," said Midget; "shall we play Indians?"

"No," said Kitty, promptly, "it's too rough and tumbly when we play it in the house. Let's play a pretend game."

"Aren't we going to have the Jinks Club any more?" asked Dorothy. "We haven't had it since the Fultons went away."

"Too few of us," said King; "we four, that's all."

"We might ask Delight to belong," said Marjorie, "she can cut up jinks when she feels like it."

"All right, do;" said King, "let's have Flossy Flouncy; and I'll ask Flip Henderson, he's heaps of fun. Then we'll have six, just like we had before."

"I don't like to put people in the Fultons' place," said Marjorie, dubiously.

"Now, look here, Midge, that's silly!" said King. "We can't help it that the Fultons moved away, but that's no reason we shouldn't have anybody to play with. Let's telephone for our two new members right now, and begin the club all over again."

After a little more argument Marjorie consented, and she telephoned for Delight to come over, and then King telephoned for Frederick Henderson, better known by the more euphonious name of Flip. Both accepted, and in less than half an hour the Jinks Club was in full session. The new members had been elected by the simple process of telling them that they were members, and they gladly agreed to the rules and regulations of the somewhat informal club.

"We just cut up jinks," exclaimed Marjorie, "but they have to be good jinks, for bad jinks are mischief, and we try to keep out of that."

"It sounds lovely," said Delight; "I always wanted to belong to a club, but I never have before. Can't we cut up a jink, now?"

"You must say 'cut up jinks,' Flossy Flouncy," said King, smiling at the pretty, eager face. "You can't cut 'em by ones."

"Well, cut some, and show me how."

"I believe you think we cut 'em with scissors, like paper dolls," said

Marjorie, laughing.

She was really very glad to have Delight with her again, for she had become more attached than she realised to the little girl during their fortnight together.

"Show me," repeated Delight, with an air of willingness to learn.

"All right; let's have a good one. What shall it be, Mops?"

King looked at his sister with such evident faith in her power of inventiveness, that the others all looked at her too. Marjorie looked round the room.

"I'll tell you!" she cried, as a brilliant idea came to her, "we'll play auction."

"Hooray!" cried King, grasping the plan at once. "Sell everything we can move."

"Yes," cried Mops. "Where is the auction room?"

"This end of the room is the auction room," King, indicating nearly half of the long living-room. "Now, Flip and I are auctioneers and you ladies are in reduced poverty, and have to bring your household goods to be sold."

Delight and Kitty at once saw dramatic possibilities, and flew to dress for their parts. An afghan for a shawl, and a tidy for a bonnet, contented Kitty, but on Delight's head went a fluffy lamp mat, stuck through with four or five of the turkey quills discarded from King's head-dress.

Mops and Dorothy followed this lead, and soon four poverty-stricken ladies, carrying household treasures, timidly entered the auction-room.

"What can I do for you, madam?" said King, as Delight showed him a bronze statuette.

"I have lost all my fortune, sir," responded Delight, sobbing in a way that greatly pleased her hearers; "and I fear I must sacrifice my few remaining relics of my better days."

"Ah, yes, madam. Sorry to hear of your ill luck. Just leave the statuette, ma'am, we have an auction to-morrow or next week, and we'll get what we can for it."

"It's a priceless work of art," said Delight, still loudly weeping, "and

I don't want less than five thousand dollars for it."

"Five thousand dollars, madam! A mere trifle for that gem! I'll get ten thousand for you, at least!"

"Ten thousand will do nicely," said Delight, giggling at last at King's pompous air.

Then Marjorie came bringing a large frilly sofa pillow.

"This is my last pillow," she said, in quavering tones. "I shall have to sleep on a brickbat tonight; but I must have bread for my children to eat. There are seven of them, and they haven't had a mouthful for two weeks."

"Oh, that's nothing!" responded Flip, airily. "Children ought not to be fed oftener than every three weeks anyway. I hate over-fed children. It makes them so cross."

"So it does," agreed Kitty. "But my children are never cross, 'cause I feed them on honey. I've brought a bust of Dante to have sold by auction. It's a big one, you see, and ought to bring a good price."

"Yes, it will, madame, I'm sure. Haven't you anything more to leave?"

"Yes, here's an umbrella, and a waste basket, and some books. They're all valuable but I have so much treasures in my house, I don't need these."

"Hurry up," put in Dorothy, "and give me a chance. I've brought these pictures," showing some small ones she had lifted from their nails in the wall, "and also this fine inkstand. Look out and don't spill the ink Also here's a vase of flowers, flowers and all. Look out and don't spill the water."

"You seem to bring spilly things, ma'am," said King, taking the goods carefully. "But we'll sell them."

Each girl trudged back and forth a few times until most of the portable things in the room were piled up on the table and sofa at the end where the boys were, and then the auction was prepared.

The boys themselves had taken down many of the larger pictures from their hooks, and the room looked, on the whole, as if a cyclone had struck it.

"They ought to be numbered," said Flip, stepping gingerly about among the things.

"Hold on a minute! I've got it!" shouted King, and rushed upstairs at top speed.

He returned with a large calendar, two or three pairs of scissors and a paste-pot.

"Cut 'em out," he directed, giving each girl a page of the calendar.

The numbers were large, more than an inch square, and soon lots of them were cut out. These, the boys pasted on all the goods for sale, making them look like real auction goods.

"Won't it hurt the things?" asked Delight, who was not used to such high-handed performances.

"'Course not! They'll wash right off. Now the auction will begin. Now, you must be rich ladies, different ones, you know."

"Here you are!" cried King, who was auctioneer by common consent; "here you are! number 24! a fine large statuette by one of the old masters. What am I bid for this?"

"Fifty cents," said Dorothy.

"Fifty cents! Do you mean to insult me, madame! Why, some old masters sell as high as fifty dollars, I can tell you! Who will bid higher?"

"One hundred dollars!" called out Delight, and the bronze statuette was declared her property.

Then other goods were put up, and, in order to make the play progress more quickly, two auctioneers were set to work, and King and Flip were both calling their wares and the bids at once.

Naturally, the bidders grew very excited. A large picture was hotly contested, Kitty bidding against Delight, while on the other block, the big inkstand was being sold. Somehow the wire of the picture became tangled round the auctioneer's foot, he stepped back and bumped into the other auctioneer who lost his balance, and fell over, inkstand and all. The heavy inkstand fell on the picture, breaking the glass, and soaking the paper engraving with ink. Much of the ink, too, went on Flip, who grabbed for it in a vain endeavor to save the situation.

The two boys laughingly straightened themselves out of their own mix up, but their laughter ceased when they saw that real damage had been done.

"Oh, dear!" said Marjorie, "this is a bad jinks after all!"

"Never mind, Mopsy," said King, magnanimously, "it wasn't your fault. It was mine."

"No, it was mine," said Midge, "for I proposed playing auction. I might have known we'd play it too hard."

"Never mind," said Kitty, "the company didn't have anything to do with the trouble, and we mustn't make them feel bad."

"I did," said Dorothy, "I brought the inkstand to the auction. I ought to have known better."

"Never mind who's to blame," said King, "let's straighten things out. The game is over."

Good-naturedly, they all went to work, and soon had everything back in its place. The broken and spoiled picture was stood behind the sofa, face to the wall, to be confessed to mother later.

"Now we're all in shape again," said King, looking proudly about the cleared up room. "Any nice little jinks to eat, Midgie?"

"I'll ask Sarah. She'll find something."

She did, and soon a large tray of cookies and lemonade refreshed the members of the Jinks Club, after which the visiting members went home.

CHAPTER XVIII
HONEST CONFESSION

"I want to own up, Mother," said King, as Mrs. Maynard came into the room, just before dinner time.

"Well, King, what have you been doing now?"

Mrs. Maynard's face expressed a humorous sort of resignation, for she was accustomed to these confessions.

"Well, you see, Mothery, we had the Jinks Club here to-day."

King's voice was very wheedlesome, and he had his arm round his mother's neck, for he well knew her affection for her only son often overcame her duty of discipline.

"And the Jinksies cut up some awful piece of mischief,—is that it?"

"Yes, Mother; but it's a truly awful one this time, and I'm the one to blame."

"No, you're not!" broke in Marjorie; "at least, not entirely. I proposed the game."

"Well," said Mrs. Maynard, "before you quarrel for the honor of this dreadful deed, suppose you tell me what it is."

For answer, King dragged the big picture out from behind the sofa, and

Mrs. Maynard's smile changed to a look of real dismay.

"Oh, King!" she said; "that's your father's favorite engraving!"

"Yes'm, I know it. That's the awfullest part of it. But, Mother, it was an accident."

"Ah, yes, but an accident that ought not to have happened. It was an accident brought about by your own wrong-doing. What possessed you to take that great picture down from the wall, and why did you splash ink on it?"

So then all the children together told the whole story of the auction game.

"But it was lots of fun!" Marjorie wound up, with great enthusiasm.

"Delight is grand to play games with. She acts just like a grown-up lady.

And Flip Henderson is funny too."

"But Midget," said her mother, "I can't let you go on with this Jinks

Club of yours, if you're always going to spoil things."

"No, of course not. But, Mother, I don't think it will happen again. And anyway, next time we're going to meet at Delight's."

"That doesn't help matters any, my child. I'd rather you'd spoil my things than Mrs. Spencer's,—if spoiling must be done. Well, the case is too serious for me. I'll leave the whole matter to your father,—I hear him coming up the steps now."

Soon Mr. Maynard entered the room, and found his whole family grouped round the ruined picture.

"Wowly—wow-wow!" he exclaimed. "Has there been an earthquake? For nothing else could wreck my pet picture like that!"

"No, Father," said King; "it wasn't an earthquake. I did it,—mostly. We were playing auction, and my foot got tangled up in the picture wire, and the inkstand upset, and smashed the glass, and—and I'm awful sorry."

King was too big a boy to cry, but there was a lump in his throat, as he saw his father's look of real regret at the loss of his valued picture.

"Tell me all about it, son. Was it mischief?"

"I'm afraid it was. But we took all the things in the room to play auction with, and somehow I took that down from the wall without thinking. And, of course, I didn't know it was going to get broken."

"No, King; but if you had stopped to think, you would have known that it might get broken?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it would have been wiser and kinder to leave it upon the wall, out of harm's way?"

"Yes, Father; much better. I didn't think. Oh,—I know that's no excuse, but that's,—well, it's the reason."

"And a very poor reason, my boy. The worthwhile man is the man who thinks in time. Thinking afterward doesn't mend broken things,—or take out inkstains. Of course, the broken glass is a mere trifle, that could have been easily replaced. But the engraving itself is ruined by the ink."

"Couldn't it be restored?" asked King, hopefully. He was not quite certain what "restored" meant, but he knew his father had had it done to some pictures.

Mr. Maynard smiled. "No, King, a paper engraving cannot be restored. What is that number pasted on it for?"

"We numbered all the things, so as to make it like a real auction," said

Marjorie.

Mr. Maynard glanced round the room.

"You rascally children!" he cried; "if you haven't stuck papers on all the vases and bric-a-brac in the room! And on this tree-calf Tennyson, as I live! Oh, my little Maynards! Did anybody ever have such a brood as you?"

Mr. Maynard dropped his head in his hands in apparent despair, but the children caught the amused note in his voice, and the twinkle in his eye, as he glanced at his wife.

"Well, here you are!" he said, as he raised his head again, "for a punishment you must get all those numbers off without injury to the things they're pasted on. This will mean much care and patience, for you must not use water on books or anything that dampness will harm. Those must be picked off in tiny bits with a sharp penknife."

"Oh, we'll do it, Father!" cried Marjorie, "and we'll be just as careful!"

"Indeed you must. You've done enough havoc already. As to the picture, King, we'll say no more about it. You're too big a boy now to be punished; so we'll look upon it as a matter between man and man. I know you appreciate how deeply I regret the loss of that picture, and I well know how sorry you feel about it yourself. The incident is closed."

Mr. Maynard held out his hand to his son, and as King grasped it he felt that his father's manly attitude in the matter was a stronger reproof and a more efficacious lesson to him than any definite punishment could be.

After dinner the three children went to work to remove the pasted numbers.

A few, which were on glass vases, or porcelain, or metal ornaments, could be removed easily by soaking with a damp cloth; but most of them were on plaster casts, or polished wood, or fine book bindings and required the greatest care in handling.

When bed-time came the task was not half finished, and Marjorie's shoulders were aching from close application to the work.

"Sorry for you, kiddies," said Mr. Maynard, as they started for bed, "but if you dance, you must pay the piper. Perhaps a few more evenings will finish the job, and then we'll forget all about it."

Mr. Maynard, though not harsh, was always firm, and the children well knew they had the work to do, and must stick patiently at it till it was finished.

"Good-night, Father," said King, "and thank you for your confidence in me. I'll try to deserve it hereafter."

"Good-night, my boy. We all have to learn by experience, and when you want my help, it's yours."

The straightforward glance that passed between father and son meant much to both, and King went off to bed, feeling that, if not quite a grown man, he was at least a child no longer in his father's estimation.

After the children had gone, Mr. Maynard picked out the most delicate or valuable of the "auction" goods, and began himself to remove the pasted numbers.

"Partly to help the kiddies," he said to his wife, "and partly because I know they'd spoil these things. It's all I can do to manage them successfully myself."

Next morning at breakfast Mrs. Maynard said; "Well, Midget, now you're at home again, what about starting back to school?"

"Oh, Mother!" said Marjorie, looking disconsolate. And then, for she did not want to be naughty about it, she added: "All right; I s'pose I must go, so I will. But as to-day's Friday I can wait till Monday, can't I?"

Mrs. Maynard smiled. "Yes, I think you may till Monday, if you want to.

But are you sure you want to?"

"'Deed I am sure!"

"And nothing would make you want to go to-day, instead of waiting till

Monday?"

"No, ma'am! no-thing!" and Midget actually pounded the table with her knife-handle, so emphatic was she.

"You tell her, Fred," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling at her husband.

"Well, Madcap Mopsy," said her father, "try to bear up under this new misfortune; your mother and I have planned a plan, and this is it. How would you like it, instead of going to school any more,—I mean to Miss Lawrence,—to go every day to lessons with Delight and Miss Hart?"

Marjorie sat still a minute, trying to take it in. It seemed too good to be true.

Then dropping her knife and fork, she left her chair and flew round to her father's place at table.

Seeing the whirlwind coming, Mr. Maynard pushed back his own chair just in time to receive a good-sized burden of delighted humanity that threw itself round his neck and squeezed him tight.

"Oh, Father, Father, Father! do you really mean it? Not go to school any more at all! And have lessons every day with that lovely Miss Hart, and my dear Delight? Oh, Father, you're such a duck!"

"There, there, my child! Don't strangle me, or I'll take it all back!"

"You can't now! You've said it! Oh, I'm so glad! Can I start to-day?"

"Oho!" said Mrs. Maynard; "who was it that said nothing could make her want to go to-day instead of Monday?"

Marjorie giggled. "But who could have dreamed you meant this?" she cried, leaving her father and flying to caress her mother. "Oh, Mumsie, won't it be lovely! Oh, I am so happy!"

"If not, you're a pretty good imitation of a happy little girl," said her father; "and now if you'll return to your place and finish your breakfast, we'll call it square."

"Square it is, then," said Marjorie, skipping back to her place; "Kit, did you ever hear of anything so lovely!"

"Never," said Kitty, "for you. I'd rather go to school and be with the girls."

"I didn't mind when Gladys was here, but I've hated it ever since I was alone. But to study with Miss Hart,—oh, goody! Is she willing, Mother?"

"Of course, I've discussed it with her and with Mrs. Spencer. Indeed, Mrs. Spencer proposed the plan herself, when I was over there yesterday. She and Miss Hart think it will be good for Delight to have some one with her. So, Midge, you must be a good girl, and not teach Delight all sorts of mischief."

"Oh, yes, Mother, I'll be so good you won't know me. Can I start to-day?"

"Yes, if you're sure you want to."

"Want to? I just guess I do!" and Midget danced upstairs to dress for "school."

The plan worked admirably. Miss Hart was not only a skilled teacher, but a most tactful and clever woman, and as she really loved her two little pupils, she taught them so pleasantly that they learned without drudgery.

As the clock hands neared nine every morning, there were no more long drawn sighs from Marjorie, but smiles and cheery good-byes, as the little girl gaily left the house and skipped across the street.

The daily association, too, brought her into closer friendship with

Delight, and the two girls became real chums. Their natures were so

different, that they reacted favorably on one another, and under Miss

Hart's gentle and wise guidance the two girls improved in every way.

It was one day in the very last part of February that Midge came home to find a letter for her on the hall table.

"From Gladys," she cried and tore it open.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "I didn't think! Miss Hart told me never to open a letter with my finger, but to wait till I could get a letter-opener. Well, it's too late now, I'll remember next time."

She looked ruefully at the untidy edges of the envelope, but pulled the letter out and began to read it.

"DEAR MARJORIE:

"I'm coming to see you, that is, if you want me to. Father has to go East, and he will leave me at your house while he goes to New York. I will get there on Friday and stay four days. I will be glad to see you again.

"Sincerely yours,

"GLADYS FULTON."

Marjorie smiled at the stiff formal letter, which was the sort Gladys always wrote, and then she went in search of her mother.

"Gladys is coming on Friday," she announced.

"That's very nice, my dear," said Mrs. Maynard; "you'll be so glad to see her again, won't you?"

"Yes," said Midget, but she said it slowly, and with a troubled look in her eyes.

"Well, what is it, dear? Tell Mother."

"I don't know exactly,—but somehow I'm not so awfully pleased to have Gladys come. You see, she may not like Delight, and I want them to like each other."

"Why do you want them to?"

"Why do I? Mother, what a funny question! Why, I want them to like each other because I like them both."

"But you don't seem anxious lest Delight won't like Gladys."

"Oh, of course she'll like her! Delight is so sweet and amiable, she'd like anybody that I like. But Gladys is,—well,—touchy."

"Which do you care more for, dearie?"

"Mothery, that's just what bothers me I'm getting to like Delight better and better. And that doesn't seem fair to Gladys, for she's my old friend, and I wouldn't be unloyal to her for anything. So you see, I don't know which I like best."

"Well, Marjorie, I'll tell you. In the first place, you mustn't take it so seriously. Friendships among children are very apt to change when one moves away and another comes. Now both these little girls are your good friends, but it stands to reason that the one you're with every day should be nearer and dearer than one who lives thousands of miles away. So I want you to enjoy Delight's friendship, and consider her your dearest friend, if you choose, without feeling that you are disloyal to Gladys."

"Could I, Mother?"

"Certainly, dear. That is all quite right. Now, when Gladys comes, for a few days, you must devote yourself especially to her, as she will be your house-guest; and if she and Delight aren't entirely congenial, then you must exclude Delight while Gladys is here. You may not like to do this, and it may not be necessary, but if it is, then devote yourself to Gladys' pleasure and preferences, because it is your duty. To be a good hostess is an important lesson for any girl or woman to learn, and you are not too young to begin."

"Shall I tell Delight I'm going to do this?"

"Not before Gladys comes. They may admire each other immensely; then there will be no occasion to mention it. When is Gladys coming?"

"On Friday. That's only three days off."

"Then we must begin to plan a little for her pleasures. As she will only be here four days, we can't do very much. Suppose we have a little party Saturday afternoon, then she can meet all her Rockwell friends."

"Yes, that will be lovely. And I do hope she and Delight will like each other."

"Why of course they will, Midget. There's no reason why they shouldn't."