They looked at each other in consternation. They saw, too, the deep imprint of a head in the dented pillow. Surely, this meant tragedy of some sort, for if the child had sobbed so hard, she must have been in deep trouble.

"We must find her!" said Cousin Jack, starting for the stairs.

CHAPTER IX
THE SEARCH

It was fortunate that the Bryants were there to take the initiative, for Mr. and Mrs. Maynard seemed incapable of action. Usually alert and energetic, they were so stunned at the thought of real disaster to Marjorie that they sat around helplessly inactive.

"Come with me, King," said Cousin Jack, going to the telephone in the library.

Then he called up every house in Seacote where Marjorie could possibly have gone, and King helped by suggesting the names of acquaintances.

But no one could give any news of the little girl; no one whom they asked had seen or heard of her that afternoon.

Cousin Jack's face grew very white, and his features were drawn, as he said: "You stay here, Ed, with Helen and Ethel; King and I will go out for a bit. Come, King."

Kingdon said nothing; he snatched up his cap and went along silently by Mr. Bryant's side, trying to keep up with his companion's long, swift strides.

To the beach they went; it was not yet quite dark, but of course they saw no sign of Marjorie.

"Are you thinking she might have been washed away by the waves?" asked King, in a quivering voice.

"That's all I can think of," replied Mr. Bryant, grimly.

"But it isn't likely, Cousin Jack. Mopsy is really a heavyweight, you know. And there's not a very big surf on now."

"That's so, King. But where can she be?" Then they went and talked with the fishermen, and then on to the Life-saving Station.

The big, good-hearted men all knew Marjorie, and all declared she had not been on the beach that afternoon,—at least, not within their particular locality.

Discouraged, Cousin Jack and King turned down toward the pier. Their inquiries were fruitless; though many people knew Midget, by sight, none had seen her. There was nothing to do but go back home.

"Have you found her?" cried Cousin Ethel, as they entered the house.

"No; but the beach people haven't seen her, so I'm sure there's no accident of that sort." Cousin Jack wouldn't make use of the word drowning, but they all knew what he meant.

Mrs. Maynard sat staring, in a sort of dull apathy. She couldn't realize that Marjorie was lost, she couldn't believe an accident had befallen her, yet, where was she?

"Let's search the house," she said, jumping up suddenly. "I must do something. Couldn't she have gone somewhere to read quietly, and fallen asleep?"

This was a possibility, and the house was searched from top to bottom by eager hunters. But no Marjorie was found.

As it neared midnight, the ladies were persuaded to go to bed.

"You can do nothing, dear, by remaining up," said Mr. Maynard to his wife. "The Bryants will stay with us to-night, so you and Ethel go to your rooms, and King, too. Jack and I will stay here in the library for a while."

King demurred at being sent away, but his father explained that if he wanted to help, all he could do was to obey orders. So King went upstairs, but not to his own room. About an hour later he came down again, to find his father and Mr. Bryant still sitting in the library waiting for morning.

"Father," said King, his eyes shining bright beneath his tousled hair, "I've been rummaging in Midget's room. I thought I might find out something to help us. And she's taken her pocketbook, and the gold piece Uncle Steve gave her last Christmas. I know, because I know where she always kept it,—and it's gone."

"Well, King," said his father, thoughtfully, "what do you make out from that?"

"Only that she has gone somewhere especial. I mean somewhere to spend that money,—not just for a walk on the beach, or down to the pier."

"That's encouraging," said Cousin Jack, "for if she went away on some special errand, she's more likely to be safe and sound, somewhere. Did you notice anything else missing, King?"

"Not a thing. And you know how wet her pillow was. Well, I think she heard about some poor person or poor family, and she cried about them, and then she took her gold piece and went to help them."

"That's ingenious, King," said Mr. Maynard, "and it may be true. I hope so, I'm sure. But why should she stay away so long and not let us know?"

"Well, you see, the poor family may live at some distance, and not have any telephone, and they may be ill, or something, and she may be there yet, helping. You know Mopsy is awful kind-hearted. Remember the Simpsons' fire? She forgot everything else in caring for them."

"That's so, my son; at any rate, it's the most comforting theory we've had yet, and I'll go and tell your mother about it. It will help her, I know."

Mr. Maynard went away, and King remained downstairs.

"I'm not going to bed, Cousin Jack," he said; "I'm old enough now to stay up with you men, in trouble like this."

"All right, King. You're showing manly traits, my boy, and I'm proud of you. Now, old chap, between you and me, I don't subscribe to your poor-family theory. It's possible, of course, but it doesn't seem probable to me."

"Well, then, Cousin Jack, what can we do next?"

"We can't do anything till morning; then I think we must see the police."

"Oh, that seems so awful!"

"I know, but if it's the means of finding Marjorie?"

"Then, of course, we'll do it! How early can we see them?"

"We can telephone as early as we like, I suppose. But I've little confidence in the powers of the police down here. They're all right to patrol the beach, but they're not like city policemen."

At last the night wore away, and daybreak came.

They telephoned the police, and in a few minutes two of them arrived at the Maynard house for consultation.

"I know the child well," said one of them, "I often see her about,—a well-behaved little lady, but full o' fun, too. D'ye think she might have been kidnapped, now?"

"It might be," said Mr. Bryant, "though she's pretty big for that. And, too, she took extra money with her."

"Then she may have been goin' somewhere by rail."

"That's so! I never thought of that!" and Cousin Jack almost smiled.

"But where would she go?" said Mr. Maynard, hopelessly. "She never travelled alone, and though impulsively mischievous, sometimes, she wouldn't deliberately run away."

The policemen went away to begin their quest, and the Maynards and their guests went to breakfast.

No one felt like eating, yet each urged the others to do so.

"Where's Middy?" inquired baby Rosamond, at table. "Middy gone 'way?"

"Yes, dear," said Cousin Jack, for no one else could speak. "Middy's gone away for a little while."

"I know," said the child, contentedly, "Middy gone to Gramma's to see Kitty!"

"Why, perhaps she did!" exclaimed Mr. Maynard.

But Mrs. Maynard had no such hope. It was too unlike Marjorie to do such a thing.

"Well, let's find out," urged King. "Let's get Uncle Steve on the long-distance wire."

"Don't alarm Grandma," said Mrs. Maynard. "There's no use stirring her up, until we know ourselves what has happened."

"Leave it to me," said Cousin Jack. "I'll find out."

After some delay, he succeeded in getting Uncle Steve on the telephone. Then he asked for Kitty.

"Hello, Susannah!" he cried, assuming a merry voice, in his kind desire not to alarm her. "This is your Cousin Jack!"

"Oh, hello, Cousin Jack!" exclaimed Kitty, in delight. "How nice of you to call me up! How is everybody?"

"We're well, thank you! How are you all?"

"Oh, we're all right."

"Are you lonesome, away from your family?"

"No, not lonesome, though I'd like to see them. Tell Midget there are two hundred incubator chicks now."

"Well, that is a lot! Now, good-by, Kitsie; I can't run up too big a telephone bill for your father. We all send love. Be a good girl. Good-by."

Cousin Jack hung up the receiver and buried his face in his hands. It had been a great strain on his nerves to appear gay and carefree to Kitty, and the implied assurance that Marjorie was not there nearly made him give way.

"She isn't there," he said, dully, as he repeated to the family what Kitty had said. And then the telephone rang, and it was the police department.

Mr. Maynard took the receiver.

"We've traced her," came the news, and the father's face grew white with suspense. "She bought a ticket to New York, and went there on the three-o'clock train yesterday afternoon. Nothing further is known, as yet, but as soon as we can get in touch with the conductor of that train, we will."

"New York! Impossible!" cried Cousin Ethel, when she heard the message, and Mrs. Maynard fainted away.

Marjorie! on a train, going to New York alone!

"Come on, King," said Cousin Jack, abruptly, and leaving the others to care for Mrs. Maynard, these two strode off again. Straight to the railroad station they went to interview the agent themselves.

He corroborated the story. He did not know Marjorie's name, but he described the child so exactly that there was no room for doubt of her identity.

But he could tell them no more. She had bought her ticket and taken the train in a quiet, matter-of-fact way, as any passenger would do.

"Did she look as if she had been crying?" asked King, almost crying himself.

"Why, yes, now you speak of it, her face did look so. Her eyes was red, and she looked sorter sad. But she didn't say nothin', 'cept to ask for a ticket to New York."

"Return ticket?" put in Mr. Bryant.

"No, sir; a single ticket. Just one way."

The conductor couldn't be seen until afternoon, as his run was a long one, and his home far away.

"I can't understand it," said King, as they walked homeward; "and I can't believe it. If Midget went to New York alone, she had lost her mind,—that's all."

But when they reached home, they found the Maynards quite hopeful. It had occurred to them that, by some strange freak, Marjorie had decided to visit Grandma Maynard, and had started off there alone.

"I'm trying to get them on the long-distance," Mr. Maynard announced, quite cheerily, as they entered.

"Let me take it," said Cousin Jack. "If she isn't there, we don't want to alarm them, either."

"That's so!" said Mr. Maynard. "All right, Jack, take it. Bless you, old fellow, for your help."

But when connection had been made, and Cousin Jack found himself in communication with Grandma Maynard, he didn't know what to say. He caught at the first pretext he could think of, and said:

"How do you do, Mrs. Maynard? You don't know me, but I'm Jack Bryant, a guest at Ed Maynard's house in Seacote. Now, won't you tell me when Marjorie's birthday comes?"

"Ah, I've heard of you, Mr. Bryant," said Grandma Maynard, pleasantly. "I suppose you want to surprise the child with a present or a party. Well, her birthday is next week,—the fifteenth of July."

"Oh, thank you. She is getting a big girl, isn't she? When,—when did you see her last?"

Cousin Jack's voice faltered, but the unsuspecting lady, listening, didn't notice it.

"About two months ago. They were here in May. I love Marjorie, and I wish I could see her again, but there's little hope of it. She wrote to me last week that they would be in Seacote all summer."

"Yes, that is their plan," said Cousin Jack.

He could say no more, and dropped the receiver without even a good-by.

But though Grandma Maynard might think him rude or uncourteous, she could not feel frightened or alarmed for Marjorie's safety, because of anything he had said.

"She isn't there," he said, quietly; "but I still think she started for there, and now we have a direction in which to look."

But what a direction! Marjorie, alone, going to New York, endeavoring to find Grandma Maynard's house, and not getting there! Where had she been all night? Where was she now?

There were no answers to these questions. And now Mr. Maynard took the helm. He cast off the apathy that had seemed to paralyze him, and, rising, he began to talk quickly.

"Helen," he said, "try to rouse yourself, darling. Keep up a good hope, and be brave, as you have always been. King, I am going out to find Marjorie. You cannot go with me, for I want to leave your mother in your care. You have proved yourself manly in your search for your sister, continue to do so in caring for your mother. Ethel, I'd be glad if you would stay here with Helen, and, Jack,—will you come with me?"

"Of course," replied Mr. Bryant.

"And, King," his father went on, "keep within sound of the telephone. I may call you at any moment. Get your sleep, my boy,—if I should be gone over night,—but sleep here on the library couch, and then the bell will waken you."

"Yes, Father, I'll look after Mother, and I'll be right here if you call me. Where are you going?"

"I don't know, my son. I only know I must hunt for Marjorie with such help and such advice as I can procure. Come on, Jack."

After affectionate farewells, the two men went away.

"First for that conductor," said Mr. Maynard. "I cannot wait till afternoon; I shall try to reach him by telephone or go to his home."

At length he learned that the conductor lived in Asbury Park. He was off duty at that hour, and Mr. Maynard tried to get him by telephone, but the line was out of order.

"To his house we go, then," and the two men boarded the first possible train.

At Asbury Park they found his house, but the conductor's wife, Mrs. Fischer, said her husband was asleep and she never disturbed him at that hour of the day, as he had a long run before him, and needed his rest.

But after a few words of explanation of their quest, the good lady became sympathetic and helpful.

"Of course I'll call him," she cried; "oh, the poor mother! my heart aches for her!"

Mr. Fischer came downstairs, rubbing his eyes. It was about noon, and he was accustomed to sleep soundly until two o'clock.

"Why, yes," he said, in answer to their queries. "I remember that girl. I didn't think much about her,—for a good many children travel alone between stations on the shore road. But, somehow, I don't think that child went to New York,—no, I don't think she did."

"Where did she get off?" asked Mr. Maynard, eagerly.

"Ah, that I don't know. You see, the summer crowds are travelling now and I don't notice individuals much."

"Can't you tell by your tickets?" asked Mr. Bryant.

"No, sir; I don't see's I can. You know, lots of people did go to New York on my train, and so, I've lots of New York tickets, but of course I couldn't tell if I had hers. And yet,—seems to me,—just seems to me,—that child got off at a way station."

"Then," said Mr. Maynard, with a businesslike air, "I must telephone or telegraph or go personally to every way station between Seacote and New York. It's a strange case. I can only think my daughter became suddenly demented; I can think of no other reason for her conduct. Can you, Jack?"

"No, Ed, I can't. And yet, Marjorie is a child who always does unexpected things. Some crotchet or whimsey of her childish mind might account for this strange freak, quite naturally."

"I can't see how. But we will do what we can. Good-day, Mr. Fischer, and thank you for your help and interest."

CHAPTER X
JESSICA BROWN

Meantime, where was Marjorie?

To go back to where we left her, in the railroad train, she had fallen asleep from utter exhaustion of nerve and body.

But her nap was of short duration. She woke with a start, and found, to her surprise, that she was leaning her head against somebody's shoulder.

She looked up, to see the red-faced man gravely regarding her, though he smiled as their eyes met.

"Feel better, little miss?" he said, and again Marjorie felt a strange repulsion, though he spoke kindly enough.

Her mind was bewildered, she was nervous and frightened, yet she had a positive conviction that she ought not to talk to this strange man. She did not like his face, even if his voice was kind.

"Yes, thank you," she said, in distantly polite tones, and again she squeezed herself over toward the window, and away from her seatmate. She sat up very straight, trying to act as grown-up as possible, and then the train stopped at a large station. There were crowds of people hurrying and scurrying about on the platform, and Marjorie was almost sure she had reached Jersey City, where she knew she must change for New York.

She wanted to inquire, but the conductor was not in sight, and she didn't like to ask the man beside her.

So she rose, as if to leave the car.

The red-faced man rose also, and stepped back as she passed him. In a moment she found herself on the platform, and the train soon went on. Everything about the station looked unfamiliar, and glancing up, she saw by a large sign that she was at Newark! She had never before been in Newark, though she knew in a general way where it was. She went uncertainly into the station, and looked at the clock. It was after five. Marjorie knew she could take another train, and proceed to Jersey City, and so to New York, but her courage had failed her, and she couldn't bear the thought of travelling any further.

And yet, how could she stay where she was? Also, she began to feel very hungry. The exhaustion caused by her emotional grief, and her wearisome journey, made her feel hollow and faint.

She sank down on a seat in the waiting-room, sadly conscious of her lonely and desolate situation.

She tried to summon anew her natural pluck and independence.

"Marjorie Maynard!" she said, to herself, and then stopped,—overwhelmed by the thought that she had no right even to that name!

Presently a voice beside her said: "Now, little miss, won't you let me help you?"

She turned sharply, and looked the red-faced man in the eyes.

He didn't look very refined, he didn't even look good, but the sound of a friendly voice was like a straw held out to a drowning man.

"How can you help me?" she said, miserably.

"Well, fust off, where've ye set out fur?"

The man was uncultured, but there was a note of sincerity in his speech that impressed Marjorie, now that she was so friendless and alone.

"New York," she replied.

"Why'd ye get out at Newark?"

"I made a mistake," she confessed.

"An' what be ye goin' to do now?"

"I don't know."

"Ah, jest what I thought! An' then ye ask, how kin I help ye?"

"Well, how can you?"

Under the spur of his strong voice, Marjorie's spirits had revived the least bit, and she spoke bravely to him.

"Now, that's more peart-like. Wal, in the fust place I kin take ye home with me, an' my old woman'll keep ye fer the night, an' I guess that's what ye need most."

"Where do you live?"

"'Bout five miles out in the country."

"How do you get there?"

"Wal, I ain't got none o' them autymobiles, nor yet no airship; but I've got a old nag that can do the piece in an hour or so."

"Why do you want to take me home with you?" asked Marjorie, for she couldn't help a feeling that there was something wrong.

"Why, bless your heart, child, bekase you're alone and forlorn and hungry and all done out. An' it's my privit opinion as how ye've run away from home."

"No, not that," said Midget, sadly; "I haven't any home."

"Ye don't say so! Wal, wal, never mind fer to-night. You go 'long with me, an' Zeb Geary, he'll look after ye fer a spell, anyhow."

There was no mistaking the kindness now, and Marjorie looked up into the man's red face with trust and gratitude.

"I'd be glad to go with you and stay till to-morrow," she said; "but first I want to own up that I didn't 'zactly trust you,—but now I do."

"Wal, wal, thet shows a nice sperrit! Now, you come along o' me, an' don't try to talk nor nothin'. Jest come along."

He took Midget's hand, and they went down the steps, and along the street for a block or two, to a sort of livery stable.

"Set here a minute," said Mr. Geary, and he left Marjorie on a bench, which stood outside, against the building.

After a time he returned, with an ancient-looking vehicle, known as a Rockaway, and a patient, long-suffering horse.

"Git in back," he said, and Marjorie climbed in, too tired and sad to care much whither she might be taken.

They jogged along at a fair pace, but Mr. Geary, on the front seat, offered no conversation, merely looking back occasionally, as if to assure himself that his guest was still with him.

After a mile or two, Marjorie began to think more coherently.

She wondered what she would have done if she hadn't chanced to fall in with this kind, if rough, friend.

She wondered whether she could ever have reached Grandma Maynard's house in safety, for the crowds and confusion were much worse than she had anticipated, and in New York they would be worse still.

At any rate, she would gladly accept shelter and hospitality for the night, and continue her journey next day, during the earlier hours.

It was well after six o'clock when the jogging old horse turned into a lane, and finally stopped at a somewhat tumble-down porch. An old woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Wal, Zeb," she called out, "did ye get back?"

"Yes, Sary, an' I brought ye a visitor for the night."

"A what! Wal, I do declar'!" and Mrs. Geary stepped down and peered into the back seat of the Rockaway. "Who in creation is that?"

"I don't know," returned her husband.

"Ye don't know! I swan, Zeb Geary, you must be plumb crazy! Whar'd ye get her?"

"Thar, thar, now, Sary, don't be askin' questions, but take the pore lamb in, an' cuddle her up some. She's plumb beat out!"

"Come on, dearie," said the old wife, who had caught sight of Marjorie's winsome face and sad eyes. "Come along o' me,—I'll take keer o' ye."

Marjorie let herself be helped from the rickety old vehicle, and went with her hostess, in at the kitchen door.

It wasn't an attractive kitchen, such as Eliza's, at Grandma Sherwood's; it was bare and comfortless-looking, though clean and in good order.

"Now, now, little miss," said Mrs. Geary, hobbling about, "fust of all, let's get some supper down ye. When did ye eat last?"

"This noon," said Marjorie, and then, at the remembrance of the happy, merry luncheon table at Seacote, she put her head down on her arms, and sobbed as if she had never cried before.

"Bless 'ee, bless 'ee, now, my lamb; don't go fer to take on so. There, there, have a sup o' warm milk! Oh, my! my!"

In deference to Mrs. Geary's solicitude, Marjorie tried hard to conquer her sobs, and had finally succeeded, when Mr. Geary came in.

"Don't bother her any to-night, Mother," he said, after a sharp glance at Marjorie; "she's all on edge. Feed her up good, and tuck her into bed."

"Yes, yes; here, my lamb, here's a nice soft-boiled egg for your tea. You'll like that, now?"

"Thank you," said Marjorie, her great, dark eyes looking weird in the dimly lighted kitchen.

After a satisfying supper, Mrs. Geary took the child up to a low, slant-ceiled room, that was as bare and clean as the kitchen. The old woman bathed Marjorie's face and hands with unexpected gentleness, and then helped her to undress. She brought a coarse, plain nightgown of her own, but it was clean and soft, and felt comfortable to the tired child.

Then she was tucked between coarse sheets, on a hard bed, but so weary was she that it seemed comfortable.

Mrs. Geary patted her arm and hummed softly an old hymn-tune, and poor little Marjorie dropped asleep almost at once.

"What do you make of it, Father?" asked the old woman, returning to the kitchen.

"She run away from her home fer some reason. Said she hadn't got no home. Stepmother, I shouldn't wonder. We'll find out to-morrow, an' I'll tote her back."

"Mebbe there'll be a reward."

"Mebbe so. But we'll do our best by her, reward or no. But if so be they is one, I'll be mighty glad, fer I had pore luck sellin' that hay to-day."

"Wal, chirk up, Father; mebbe things'll grow brighter soon."

"Mebbe they will, Sary,—mebbe they will."

In her unaccustomed surroundings, Marjorie woke early. The sun was just reddening the eastern horizon, and the birds were chirping in the trees.

She had that same sinking of the heart, that same feeling of desolation, but she did not cry, for her nerves were rested, and her brain refreshed, by her night's sleep. She lay in her poor, plain bed and considered the situation.

"It doesn't matter," she said, sternly, to herself, "how bad I feel about it, it's true. I'm not a Maynard, and never was. I don't know who I am, or what my name is. And I don't believe I'd better go to Grandma Maynard's. Perhaps she doesn't know I'm not really her granddaughter, and then she wouldn't want me, after all. For I'd have to tell her. So I just believe I'll earn my own living and be self-supporting."

This plan appealed to Marjorie's imagination. It seemed grand and noble and heroic. Moreover, she was very much in earnest, and in this crisp, early morning she felt braver and stronger than she had felt the night before.

"Yes," she thought on, "I ought to earn my living,—for I've no claim on Fa—on Mr. Maynard. Perhaps these people here can find me some work to do. At any rate, I'll ask them."

She jumped up, and dressed herself, for she heard Mr. and Mrs. Geary already in the kitchen.

"My stars!" said her hostess, as she appeared; "how peart you look! Slept good, didn't ye?"

"Fine!" said Midget; "good-morning, both of you. Can't I help you?"

Mrs. Geary was transferring baked apples from a pan to an old cracked platter. Though unaccustomed to such work, Marjorie was quick and deft at anything, and in a moment she had the apples nicely arranged and placed on the table. She assisted in other ways, and chattered gayly as she worked.

Too gayly, Mrs. Geary thought, and she glanced knowingly at her husband, for they both realized Marjorie's flow of good spirits was forced,—not spontaneous.

After breakfast was over, Midget said, "Now, I'll wash up the dishes, Mrs. Geary, and you sit down and take a little rest."

"Land sake, child! I ain't tired. An' you ain't used to this work, I see you ain't."

"That doesn't matter. I can do it, and I must do something to pay for my board,—I have very little money."

"Hear the child talk! Wal, you kin help me with the work, a little, an' then we must come to an understandin'."

Marjorie worked with a nervous haste that betrayed her inexperience as well as her willingness, and after a time the plain little house was in order.

Mr. Geary came in from doing his out-of-door "chores," and Marjorie saw the "understandin'" was about to be arrived at. But she was prepared; she had made up her mind as to her course, and was determined to pursue it.

"Now, fust of all," said Mr. Geary, kindly, but with decision, "what is your name?"

"Jessica Brown," said Marjorie, promptly.

She had already assured herself that as she had no real right to the name she had always used, she was privileged to choose herself a new one. Jessica had long been a favorite with her, and Brown seemed non-committal.

Mr. Geary looked at her sharply, but she said the name glibly, and Jessica was what he called "highfalutin" enough to fit her evident station in life, so he made no comment.

"Where do you live?" he went on.

"I have no home," said Marjorie, steadily; "I am a findling."

"A what?"

"A findling,—from the asylum."

The term didn't sound quite right to her,—but she couldn't think of the exact word,—and having used it, concluded to stick to it.

Zeb Geary was not highly educated, but this word, so soberly used, struck his humorous sense, and he put his brawny hand over his mouth to hide his smiles.

"Yep," he said, after a moment, "I understand,—I do. And whar'd ye set out fer?"

"I started for New York, but I've decided not to go there."

"Oh, ye hev, hev ye? An' jes' what do ye calkilate to do?"

"Well, Mr. Geary," Marjorie looked troubled,—"and Mrs. Geary, I'd like to stay here for a while. I'll work for you, and you can pay me by giving me food and lodging. I s'pose I wouldn't be worth very much at first, but I'd learn fast,—you know,—I do everything fast,—Mother always said so,—I,—I mean, the lady I used to live with, said so. And I'd try very hard to please you both. If you'd let me stay a while, perhaps you'd learn to like me. You see, I've got to earn my own living, and I haven't anywhere to go, and not a friend in the world but you two."

These astonishing words, from the pretty, earnest child, in the dainty and fashionable dress of the best people, completely floored the old country couple.

"Well, I swan!" exclaimed Mr. Geary, while Mrs. Geary said, "My stars!" twice, with great emphasis.

"Please," Marjorie went on, "please give me a trial; for I've been thinking it over, and I don't see what I can possibly do but 'work out.' Isn't that what you call it? And if I learn some with you, I might work out in New York, later on."

"Bless your baby heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Geary, wiping her eyes which were moist from conflicting emotions. "Stay here you shall, if you want to,—though land knows we can't well afford the keep of another."

"Oh, are you too poor to keep me?" cried Marjorie, dismayed. "I don't want to be a burden to you. I thought I could help enough to pay for my 'keep.'"

"So ye kin, dearie,—so ye kin," said old Zeb, heartily. "We'll fix it some way, Mother, at least for the present. Now, Jessiky, don't ye worrit a mite more. We'll take keer on ye, and the work ye'll do'll more'n pay fer all ye'll eat."

This was noble-hearted bluff on Zeb's part, for he was hard put to it to get food for himself and his old wife.

He was what is known as "shif'less." He worked spasmodically, and spent hours dawdling about, accomplishing nothing, on his old neglected farm.

But, somehow, a latent ambition and energy seemed to reawaken in his old heart, and he determined to make renewed efforts to "get ahead" for this pretty child's sake. And meantime, if she liked to think she was helping, by such work as those dainty little hands could do, he was willing to humor her.

Beside all this, Zeb didn't believe her story. He still thought she had run away from a well-to-do home; and he believed it was because of an unloving stepmother.