* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *

This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please
contact an FP administrator before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under
copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your
country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT
IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.


Title: Brentwood
Date of first publication: 1937
Author: Grace Livingston Hill
Date first posted: July 11, 2013
Date last updated: July 11, 2013
Faded Page eBook #20130715

This eBook was produced by: David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




                               BRENTWOOD

                         GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL


    _PHILADELPHIA_
    J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
    LONDON

    COPYRIGHT, 1937, BY
    GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL

    MADE IN THE
    UNITED STATES OF
    AMERICA




                               BRENTWOOD

     An enchanting new romance by the beloved Mrs. Hill. Marjorie
     Wetherill had always known that she was an adopted child. Her
     foster-parents had made no secret of it, but when they died it was
     natural that Marjorie should seek out her own people. Mrs.
     Wetherill, whom Marjorie had loved deeply, had left the girl
     comfortably provided for, but as the Christmas season drew near,
     Marjorie was consumed with the desire to go to the family she could
     call her own. Evan Brower, a handsome young neighbor whose family
     had been friends of the Wetherills for years, and who was now
     urging his love upon the lonely girl, advised Marjorie against it.
     But there was a need within the girl which drew her on. What
     Marjorie found in the shabby little house on the out-skirts of the
     city wrung her heart with a misery beyond belief. How she was able
     to restore her own people to Brentwood, the home and life to which
     they belonged, and how her own life was adjusted to a divine
     balance by a love more wonderful than anything she had ever known,
     grows into a vivid and memorable story under Mrs. Hill's inspired
     pen.




BRENTWOOD




I


Marjorie Wetherill had always known she was an adopted child. She had
been told when she was so young that it meant nothing at all to her. And
as the years went by and she was surrounded by love and luxury, she
thought little of it. Once when she was in high school she had asked
about her own people casually, more out of curiosity than because of any
felt need for them, and she had been told that they were respectable
people who had been unfortunate and couldn't afford to bring her up as
they would like to have her brought up. It had all been very vague. But
Marjorie was happy, and her foster mother greatly stressed the fact that
while Marjorie had not been born her own, she had been _chosen_ because
they loved her at first sight, and that meant more even than if she had
been born theirs.

As Marjorie grew older however, she wondered now and then how a mother,
if she had a true mother heart, could bear to give up her child. It
seemed an unnatural thing, to surrender her permanently that way, and
promise never to see her again. But there was even uncertainty as to
whether her mother was still living. And so the thought passed by, and
the happy days of her girlhood went on.

Mrs. Wetherill was a devoted parent, and she and Marjorie were dear
companions. It scarcely seemed real to Marjorie that there had ever been
any other mother, and as for another father, he wasn't even sketchily in
the background.

When Mr. Wetherill died Marjorie was still in her school life, and she
and the mother were brought even closer together, so that when Mrs.
Wetherill was suddenly stricken with an illness that they both knew
would be swift and fatal, the girl spent the last months of her foster
mother's life in utmost devotion to her. When it was over and she was
alone, she felt utterly desolate and life seemed barren indeed.

There were many friends of course, for the Wetherills had a large
pleasant social circle, and there were instant invitations for prolonged
visits here and there, but Marjorie had no heart to go. She longed for
someone of her own. The world seemed empty and uninteresting.

People told her that feeling would pass, and she tried to believe them,
but she fell to wondering more and more about her own people and wished
she knew whether any of them were living, and where. She wished she had
asked more about them.

Then one morning about ten days before Christmas, because she could not
settle to anything else, and because she had been almost dreading to go
over her beloved foster mother's intimate papers, she went bravely to
Mrs. Wetherill's desk in the living room, unlocked it, and began to look
over the papers in the pigeon holes.

The old lawyer had gone over all the papers of the estate with her,
those that were kept at the bank, and there was nothing to worry about
as far as money was concerned. The entire Wetherill estate was left to
her without a question, and it was a comfortable fortune. The income was
ample for any possible needs.

But this desk was where Mrs. Wetherill used to write her social and
friendly letters, and seemed a very intimate part of her. Marjorie had
known that sooner or later she must go over everything, and put away or
destroy the things their owner would have wished disposed of. In fact
Mrs. Wetherill had given her careful instructions about it.

But as she went from drawer to drawer, emptying every pigeon-hole, and
burning in the fireplace such things as had to be destroyed, she came
finally to the little secret drawer, and there she found among several
other important papers, a thick letter for herself.

In great surprise, for she had not known of any such letter, she began
to read it, the quick tears springing to her eyes as the precious
handwriting seemed to bring back the dear one who had left her.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "Dearest Marjorie:" it read,

     "There is something that perhaps I should have spoken of long ago,
     but did not, and I feel as if I must leave some word about it
     behind for you when I go. I cannot bring myself to _talk_ about it
     to you and spoil our last brief days together, but I feel that it
     is something you should know.

     I have never told you much about your own people. I did not really
     know much myself to tell, until about two years ago. My husband
     arranged everything about the adoption. He wanted me not to be
     troubled with details. He wanted me to feel that you were my own
     dear child, not adopted. So I never asked much about the facts.

     I saw you first in the hospital. We were going through looking for
     a baby we could adopt, and when I saw you in the ward I fell in
     love with you, only to find you were not for adoption.

     I never told you that you were one of twins. I did not want you to
     be drawn away from me by other ties. Perhaps I was selfish in that.
     I begin to feel now that I was. But anyhow it is past and cannot be
     undone. However, I feel that you should know. If you feel like
     blaming me I beg you to be pitiful, for I loved you.

     You were a very beautiful baby, and so was your twin sister, yet
     she had a frailer look than you, and we found upon questioning that
     she had little chance to live unless she could have an operation
     and special treatment, which your parents were unable to give her.

     But though neither of you were candidates for adoption, yet I had
     set my heart upon you. After seeing you, all the other babies
     looked common to me. So, my husband set about it to see what he
     could do. He discovered that your father was not strong and needed
     to get away to the country where he could have light work and be
     out of doors. My husband finally put it up to your mother while she
     was still in the hospital, that she should give her consent to our
     adopting you, Mr. Wetherill agreeing to finance the treatment of
     both your father and little sister, and to make it possible for
     your family to live on a nice little farm where they could be able
     to support themselves until better days came.

     These details I did not know at the time. I only knew that to my
     great joy you were mine at last, adopted according to law, your
     parents signing over all rights and promising not to try to see you
     without our consent.

     Once, when you were about three months old, your mother wrote me,
     begging that she might come and see you, but I persuaded her that
     it would be better for us all if she did not, that it would be
     easier for her not to have seen you. Your father--Mr.
     Wetherill--went to see your own father and had some sort of an
     understanding with him, so that they did not come near us nor write
     any more. So the years went by and I was very happy with you. My
     dear, you know that you have always been to me all that a real
     child of my own could have been, and perhaps a little more, because
     I had picked you out from all the babies in the world to be mine.

     It was not until after my husband died that I heard again of your
     people. It seems they had saved and saved, and gathered together
     enough to pay back all the money that Mr. Wetherill had given them
     when he adopted you, and they wrote begging Mr. Wetherill to accept
     it, and to allow them to come and see you at least occasionally.

     I sent the money back of course, and wrote very firmly refusing
     their request, feeling that it would be most disastrous. I had no
     idea just what kind of people they were, and I felt it might hurt
     your life.

     But then, about a year ago, just as you were graduating from Miss
     Evans' School, your mother came to see me.

     I was surprised at what a lovely frail little woman she was. She
     was very plainly dressed, but she looked neat and pretty, and she
     had eyes like yours. It went to my heart. She said sometimes she
     could not sleep at night, thinking that she had given you up. She
     said it seemed at times as if she would go crazy thinking of things
     she might have done instead, to raise the money to save the lives
     of her husband and other child, and yet keep you.

     I really felt very sorry for her. She looked so much like you that
     I began to feel like a criminal. She wanted to see you. But I would
     not let her. I felt it would be a catastrophe for you at your time
     of life. Your big photograph taken in your graduating dress was on
     the desk and I showed it to her, and finally gave it to her. You
     wondered what had become of it and I had to make up a story about
     something being the matter with the frame, till I could get
     another.

     She went away sobbing and I have never forgotten it. When I have
     looked at you, and thought of her, I have felt like a criminal. I
     ought to have let her see you. I had no right to come between a
     mother and her child, no matter what she may have been, although
     she seemed quite lovely and respectable.

     And now that I am about to die I feel that I should leave behind me
     this information so that you may do what you wish in the matter.
     Perhaps you will want to do something for your own mother. You will
     have quite a fortune, my dear, and you are free to do what you wish
     with it, of course.

     After your mother had gone away I sent her quite a generous check,
     but she returned it by the next mail, and sent with it also the
     amount of money which your father--which my husband--had given
     your own father. I felt quite badly about that. It seemed to put me
     very much in the debt of your parents.

     But now I am leaving the matter in your hands, my dear, and if you
     feel there is anything you would like to do, or if you want to
     grant your mother's wish to see you, I want you to know that I am
     willing. I think perhaps I have sinned in this matter, and I want
     to make it right if I can. So I am giving you your mother's name
     and address. Do whatever your heart dictates.

     You already know how much I have loved you, how I love you as my
     own, and so I need not say it again. If you feel, dear child, that
     I have done wrong, I beg you to forgive me, for I have loved you
     greatly, and I have tried to do my best for you in every other way,

     Your loving Mother,

     May D. Wetherill."

Below was an address in an eastern city:

     Mrs. John Gay, 1465 Aster Street.

And below that, in pencil, had been written uncertainly as if with an
idea of erasing it:

     "The name by which they called you was Dorothy."

So then she was no longer Marjorie Wetherill but Dorothy Gay. How
strange and fantastic life was turning out to be!

She bowed her head on the letter and wept. First for the only mother she
had known, and then for the mother she had not known. How pitiful it
all seemed! So many little babies in the world without homes, and yet
she should have been loved so intensely by two mothers!

Her heart burned for the mother she had always known, whose conscience
had troubled her, and then ached for the other mother who wanted her and
might not have her! What a strange world, and a strange happening, that
this should come to her! That suddenly her safe secure world should
crumble all about her, death and change and perplexity staring her in
the face.

And yet, she didn't have to pay any attention to this letter. Nobody but
herself knew of it. She could go right on living her life apart from
them, living in this lovely home that the Wetherills had left her,
forgetting her own people, as she had always done. They had practically
sold her out of their lives, hadn't they? They had no real claim upon
her. And of course, they might be embarrassing! There was no telling
what they were. She had nothing to give her a clue to what they were,
except that her mother's eyes were like hers.

Then suddenly a thrill came to her heart. But they were her very own,
whatever they were! How wonderful that would be! And her mother had
_wanted_ her, enough to come a long distance to see her!

All the rest of the day the thought of her real mother hovered in her
mind, and grew into a great longing to go to her; yet somehow it seemed
disloyalty to the mother and father who had brought her up and had
chosen to keep her in ignorance of her own people.

It was not until she had read Mrs. Wetherill's letter over carefully
several times that she began to see that the letter really was a
permission, if not even a plea, for her to do something about her own
people. As she began to read more and more between the lines of the
letter, she felt that there was something demanded of her as a daughter
that she should have done long ago.

That night she could not sleep and lay staring about in the darkness of
her room--the room that Mrs. Wetherill had made so beautiful for
her--realizing how safe and sweet and quiet it all was here, and how
many complications there might be if she broke the long silence between
herself and her own family. Yet the longing in her heart increased, to
see them, even to find out the worst possible about them, just to have
them for her own. Not to be alone in the great world.

There was a sister, too, and how wonderful it would be to have a sister!
She had always wished for a sister. Or--perhaps the sister had not lived
after all! The letter said she was delicate. Perhaps she had died.
Perhaps that was the reason why her mother wanted her. Perhaps she had
no others to love her and comfort her. Perhaps the father might be dead
too!

Suddenly Marjorie buried her face in her pillow and wept.

The morning mail brought two invitations to spend Christmas week with
friends.

Christmas was only ten days off and it loomed large and gloomy. The
thought of Christmas without the only mother she had ever known seemed
intolerable.

One of the invitations was from a distant cousin of Mrs. Wetherill's, a
kindly person with a large house, given to entertaining. The other was
from an old schoolmate living in Boston. Both invitations spelled gaiety
and good cheer, but they somehow did not appeal to her now. Her grief
was too recent, and her feeling of loneliness too poignant to be allayed
by mingling with a giddy throng of pleasure-seekers. In fact that kind
of Christmas never did appeal to her at any time. She liked simpler
pleasures. Besides, her heart was too restless just now to plunge into
worldliness and try to forget her loss.

All day she went about trying to make a decision, now almost decided to
accept one of the invitations and end her uncertainty, now playing with
the idea of going to search out her people and learn once for all what
they were like.

But when she reasoned that perhaps forgetting was best for the present,
and tried to decide which invitation she should accept, she realized
that she didn't feel like going to either place.

Oh, of course they would all be very kind, and put themselves out to
make her have a good time, but Christmas couldn't be Christmas this
year, no matter how it was planned.

She was still in her unsettled state of mind when evening came, and Evan
Brower arrived to call upon her.

The Browers were one of the best old families, and among the closest
friends of the Wetherills. Evan Brower was three or four years older
than Marjorie, and though she had known him practically all her life, it
had not been until the last year that he had paid her much attention.
Mrs. Wetherill had been very fond of him, and of late he had been often
at the house, one of the closest friends Marjorie had. Yet the two were
still on the basis of friendship, nothing closer.

Marjorie was glad of his coming as a relief from the perplexities that
had been with her all day, and smiled a real welcome as he took her hand
in greeting.

"You are looking tired and white!" he said scrutinizing her face
sharply. "You need a change, and I've come to offer one. Mother wants
you to come over and stay a couple of weeks with her. She thought you
might like to help her get ready for the family gathering at Christmas
time. It will take your mind off your loneliness. You know your mother
would never want you to mope. Mother thought maybe you would come over
tomorrow and just consider you are on a visit."

Marjorie's heart sank. Here was the question again! And a family
gathering! The hardest kind of a thing to go through, with this thought
of her own unknown family in the back of her mind. Suddenly she knew she
could not go anywhere till that matter was settled! She had got to know
just where she stood before ever she went among people again. She lifted
her eyes to Evan's kindly pleasant face and tried to decline his offer
in a gracious way.

"Oh, that is dear of your mother, Evan!" she said. "I do appreciate it a
lot, and some other time I'd love to come, but just now I don't feel I
could."

He settled down comfortably to combat her, just as if he had expected to
have to do so.

"Now, you know that isn't a bit sensible, Marjorie. There's no point in
stretching out your grief. You've got to go on living, and you know
perfectly well your mother would want you to be happy."

"Yes," said Marjorie sweetly. "I know, and I'm not stretching out my
grief. Mother and I talked it over together, and she told me all that. I
understand, and I don't intend to mope. But somehow I don't feel I can
stand gaiety just yet. I've had two other invitations but I'm declining
them both--"

Marjorie hadn't been quite sure till this minute what she was going to
do, but now it was all very clear in her mind.

"But, Marge, it's only our house. It's almost like home, you know. It
isn't as if we were going to have a lot of strangers either. There will
be just the cousins and aunts and uncles. You've always known them, and
Mother intends to plan it all very quietly. I'm sure there won't be
anything to upset you. If you find it's too much I'll take you off in
the car to some quiet place for a few hours and rest you up, and you
really must see it will be better for you than moping here in this
lonely house."

"You're very kind!" said Marjorie with troubled gaze, but more and more
certain that she wasn't going to accept. Then suddenly she lifted frank
eyes to his:

"You see, Evan, there's something I have to do first before I can go
anywhere and begin life again."

"Something you have to do? What do you mean?" He turned puzzled,
dominating eyes upon her.

Marjorie hesitated, then spoke decisively. After all, he was her good
friend, why not confide in him? Perhaps he could advise her.

"You know I'm an adopted child, don't you? You've always known that,
haven't you, Evan?"

A startled, almost cautious look came into his eyes.

"Why--yes, of course, but what has that got to do with it? You don't
mean, Marjorie, that after all these years your mother has cut you out
of the property she promised you? I heard her say myself that she was
leaving you everything. You don't mean that she tied it up or anything?"

Marjorie laughed, and drew a deep breath.

"Oh, no, nothing like that, Evan. I'm very comfortably fixed, of
course."

A relieved look came into the young man's handsome eyes.

"Well, then, why worry?" he said playfully, and his hand stole across
and dropped familiarly, warmly, down upon hers.

They were sitting on the deep couch, Marjorie at one end, Evan near the
other, but now he leaned across with a comforting manner and looked into
her eyes.

She was quite serious as she answered:

"It's not money worries," she said. "It's something entirely different.
It's my family. My _own_ family, I mean."

"Your own family?" he looked at her startled. "Have they dared turn up
and annoy you?"

"Oh, no!" she said quickly. "Of course not!"

"Why 'of course not'? They likely would if they knew you were alone and
unprotected. A girl with a fortune is never quite safe alone. You ought
not to stay a night alone here!"

"Why, I'm not alone!" smiled Marjorie. "The servants would protect me
with their lives if there were need. I'm quite safe. But it's absurd,
Evan, for you to talk that way about my own people! Don't, please! It
hurts me!"

"_Hurts_ you?" he said, looking at her incredulously. "Hurts you to hear
that people you never saw in your life, and about whom you know nothing,
might possibly have some motives that were not of the best?"

"They are my own people, Evan!"

"Nonsense! Nothing of the kind!" said Evan lifting his well-modeled chin
haughtily. "You are no more connected with them than I am. They gave you
up! I should think you would never want to see or hear of them! I should
say you are fortunate that they are not troubling you. Let sleeping dogs
lie! You have no obligation whatever toward them!"

Something in the harshness of his tone made Marjorie give a little
shiver and draw her hand quietly away from under his.

"I don't feel that way, Evan!" she said gently, marveling that after her
hours of doubt she suddenly felt clear in her mind about the matter.
"You don't know all about it, or you wouldn't say that either, I'm quite
sure. Mother left a letter telling me about my people and suggesting
that I might want to hunt them up and see if there was anything I could
do for them."

"And I still say, 'Let sleeping dogs lie,'" said Evan coldly. And then
he laid his hand once more on hers in a possessive way as if he owned
her.

"Of course, if you were very anxious to do a little something in a quiet
way for them, it could be arranged anonymously," he added. "I would be
glad to see to that for you, and it might ease your conscience, since
you seem to be exercised in the matter. But on no account let them know
that you have done anything for them. They will just be after you all
the time, begging and whining, and making your life a misery. They are
all suckers, those people! They never cared anything for you or they
wouldn't have sold you in the first place. And now you are a being of
another world than theirs and they have no right to intrude into your
life and try to get your property away from you! I insist--!"

Marjorie drew her hand decidedly away from under his again and stood up,
her own chin lifted defiantly, her eyes bright and indignant.

"Evan! You must not talk that way! You simply don't understand at all. I
thought you were my friend and I could talk it over with you, but you
don't seem willing to listen. I'm sorry I mentioned it, but since I have
started I must finish. I tell you Mother left me a letter in which she
tells me more about my people than I ever knew, and than she ever knew
until a few months before Father died. I think she meant to _tell_ me,
but found it hard to talk about, and so left this letter. She gives me
all the circumstances of my adoption, and how my own mother afterwards
was grieved that she had given me up and begged to see me, and--"

"Yes! _Exactly!_ Didn't I tell you? People like that can never
honorably abide by a bargain--"

"Please don't interrupt me, Evan. You must hear me to the end. Mother
felt I ought to know about everything, and that I was free to do what I
liked about hunting up my people and doing everything I liked for them.
She says in the letter that they positively refused money. Sent back a
check that she sent them!"

"Oh, probably only a fine gesture!" sneered Evan. "My dear, trust me! I
know that class of people--"

"Be careful, Evan," said Marjorie drawing herself up. "Please don't say
any more! It is my own mother and father you are talking about! This is
something I have to work out myself. I'm sorry I said anything about it
until I had made my decision."

"But, darling, be reasonable!" said Evan softening his voice. Marjorie
didn't even notice he had called her darling. It was such a common
phrase of the day, and Evan was a very close friend. But his voice was
less aggressive now, more gentle. He got up and stood beside her, taking
her hands in his and drawing her nearer to him. "Listen, little girl! If
you are really serious about this thing, of course it will have to be
investigated. I still think it would be better not, but if you have set
your conscience to it, I beg you will let _me_ do the investigating for
you. I am a lawyer. I know how to protect your interests, and I will do
whatever you want done conscientiously. I am sure you can trust me,
Marjorie. I love you, don't you know it, little girl?"

She looked up at him startled. It was the first time he had ever spoken
of love. He had just been a good friend, somewhat as she supposed a
brother might be, only more polite than some brothers. One who would
protect and advise and care for her when she needed it. And even now she
was not sure but it was just in this way he meant that he loved her, as
a man might love a dear sister whom he wanted to guide and protect. But
somehow he had created a doubt in her mind as to his full willingness to
understand and do all that she needed now. She could not get away from
the harshness in his voice when he had said "Let sleeping dogs lie!"
The, very words by which he had hoped to turn her away from her purpose
had served to clarify her decision, and give her a certain loyalty to
these unknown ones of her family.

Her eyes searched his for an instant, keenly, doubtfully. There was a
light in his own as he looked possessively down at her now, that seemed
to be different from any look she had ever noticed there before, but it
did not stir her deeply. She tried to think that perhaps this was the
rest she sought, Evan's love and care, but the thought failed to bring
any joy or rest. If this was love she wasn't ready for it yet, not until
she had found out the whole truth about her people.

She drew back and tried gently to take her hands away from his clasp,
but he held them firmly and drew her closer.

"Dear little girl!" he said suddenly, putting his face down and laying
his cheek against hers, seeking her lips with his own and pressing a
kiss upon them.

For an instant she yielded herself to that embrace, her lips to that
kiss; but only an instant so brief it might scarcely have been
recognized by the man as yielding. For suddenly she sprang away, and put
out her hands in protest.

"No, please, not now! I can't think of such things now!"

He snatched at her hands again, trying to draw her back quietly to his
embrace.

"Poor child!" he said stooping and kissing her fingers gently. "Don't
you realize that this is where you belong, in my arms? Don't you love
me?"

"I don't know!" said Marjorie turning unhappy eyes away from him. "I
haven't ever thought of you in this way. And my heart is full of so many
other things now."

"I know, poor child!" he continued. "But you do love me. I'm sure you
do. I've seen it in your eyes a thousand times when you have looked at
me. You love me only you haven't recognized it as love yet! But I will
teach you what love means!"

And he suddenly drew her close again and pressed hot kisses on her lips.

But now she sprang away again, covering her face with her hands.

"No! No!" she cried out. "I will not let you kiss me until I am sure,
and I am not now! Please, won't you go away and let me think? My mind is
so tired and all mixed up!"

"Poor child!" he said gently. "I am sorry if I have seemed to hurry you.
I only wanted to show you that I am your natural protector. But I am
willing to wait, to go slow, till your sorrow is not so sharp. I only
ask one thing of you and that is that you will not make any move in this
matter of your family till you have talked with me again. That you will
think it over, and if anything has to be done you will let me handle it
for you. Will you promise?"

Marjorie was still for several seconds, looking down at her hands
clasped tightly before her, then she said slowly, seriously:

"I will promise to think over what you said. _Every_thing that you have
said."

She looked up at him quietly, and smiled a cold little wistful smile.
Then she added:

"I'm sorry to seem so--uncertain--and so--unappreciative--of your--love.
But I just can't seem to think tonight!"

"Well, that's all right, little girl!" he said and his voice was very
gentle again, as if he were talking to a child who didn't quite
understand. "I know you've been terribly upset, and I don't want to rush
you. But I do want you to understand that you can come to me for
everything!"

"Thank you!" she said simply, but her face looked white and tired.

He was a wise young man and he saw that he couldn't get any further
tonight.

"Well, then, we'll say good night. Are you going to let me kiss you
again?"

"Please, no," she said with a troubled protest in her eyes.

"All right," said the young man gravely. "It shall be as you wish, but I
wish you would consider that we are engaged. I'd like to put a ring on
your finger tomorrow and feel that you are my promised wife."

Marjorie turned her head away and looked troubled again.

"I can't think of these things now!" she said. "Please let us be just
friends, as we have always been!"

He studied her for a moment and then his lips set in a firm line of
determination.

"Very well," he said quite cheerfully. "I am just your friend for now,
but a very special friend, you know. One whom you can call upon for
anything. Will you feel that?"

She smiled with relief.

"Yes," she said. "Thank you! Good night!" and she put out her hand and
gave his a brief impersonal clasp.

Then he was gone, and she stood alone, looking down at the gardenias he
had brought, and wondering why she had not thrilled to his touch. Why,
somehow, her feeling of his friendliness had been lost in a new
something that she did not understand nor want. Not now, anyway.




II


Marjorie found she was too excited to sleep when she laid her head on
her pillow. But strangely enough it was not on the eager protests of
love that her mind dwelt most during that night's vigil, but more on his
insistence that she should not search out her people. And the more she
thought of it, the less she thought of Evan.

Still, she knew that was not fair either. If Evan really loved her as he
said he did, it might be natural, if not noble, at least for her sake,
to wish to protect her against anything that might annoy or embarrass
her. And yet the more she faced the possibility that her family might be
embarrassing, the more she felt it her duty to search them out and know
the truth.

After all, even if she wanted to accept the love that had been offered
her--and she wasn't at all sure that she did--it was all so new and
unexpected, and her reaction to it was tempered by his utter distaste
for having her people in her background. Could she honestly marry any
man without knowing the truth about her family?

And of course she could not get away from the fact that they _were_ her
parents, and had a right to a place in her life, whether she or her
friends or anybody else wanted them there or not. What that place was to
be must be decided before she went on another step in life. No other
questions of life or love or future happiness could be settled until she
dealt with that. And she would have to deal with it alone. No one else
could settle it for her.

She awoke in the morning with the definite purpose in her heart to get
the matter over with at once. She would start right away before anything
else could possibly delay her. If any more people came in and tried to
turn her from her purpose she would become bewildered again.

She dressed hastily and sat down at her desk at once, determined to burn
all bridges behind her. She wrote charming little notes declining all
her invitations, and then wrote to Evan Brower:

     "Dear Evan:

     I have kept my promise and thought over carefully the matter of
     which we were speaking last evening, and have decided that I must
     visit my family at once. When I come back I hope to be able to talk
     about the question more intelligently.

     Please don't think I do not appreciate your kind thought for me,
     but I feel that this is a question I must investigate and decide
     for myself, and I must settle it before I do anything else.

     I have written your mother, thanking her for her kind invitation,
     and telling her how sorry I am that it doesn't seem possible for me
     to visit her just now.

     I shall probably return sometime after New Year's Day, or perhaps
     sooner if I get homesick. But I will let you know when I get back.

     Thanking you for all your kindness, and trusting that you will try
     to understand,

     Most gratefully,

     Marjorie."

She felt better when the notes were written. It seemed as if she were
already started on her journey. But she decided not to mail them until
just as she was leaving. She did not want anybody coming in to try and
hinder her. Evan would not be able to get away from his office before
evening, and if anyone else came she would merely say she was about to
visit relatives for the holidays.

She called up the station and made her reservations on a train that left
the city a little after six that night. Then she went down to the
kitchen and gave the house servants a vacation for the holidays, all
except the chauffeur and his wife who lived over the garage and would
care for the house.

After all it was very simple. The servants were delighted, and did not
ask her plans. She told them she would be visiting relatives. The house
became a hive of industry for the next few hours. Though there wasn't
much to be done toward closing up as the chauffeur's wife would look
after all that. Marjorie went at her packing. It didn't take long. She
took some of her prettiest sport dresses--the Wetherills had never
approved of wearing mourning--and two of three plain little house
dresses in case she found her relatives in poor circumstances. She must
remember not to remind them that she had been brought up to plenty.

She took her check book and plenty of money, carefully stowed as she had
been taught to do when traveling. She left no address with anybody. She
did not want anyone coming after her to try and hinder her in whatever
she should decide to do.

At the last she almost turned back, her heart failing her at what might
be before her, for she was gifted with a strong imagination, and had in
the night visioned a number of situations that might arise which would
make her greatly regret this step she was taking. But the servants were
gone now, and it was too late to turn back. The taxi was at the door to
take her to the station.

She waited long enough to telephone her lawyer that she would be out of
the city for a few days, perhaps till after Christmas, and would let him
know her address later. Then she locked the door and went down the walk
to the taxi, winking back the tears, feeling as if she were bidding
good-bye to her former lovely life and stepping off into the great
unknown. What a fool she was, she told herself, she didn't have to stay
if she didn't want to. She could come right back the day she got there
if she chose.

And so at last she was on her way, quite worn out with the tumult of her
decision and her preparations.

The next morning she arrived in the strange city and went to a hotel.
After attempting a sketchy breakfast she took a taxi and drove to the
address that had been given in the letter.

She had meant to do a great deal of thinking before she went to sleep in
her berth, but the day of excitement had wearied her more than she knew
and she had dropped to sleep at once and had not wakened until the
porter called her in the morning. So now, as she rode along in her taxi
she suddenly felt unprepared for the ordeal that was before her. She had
intended to plan just how she would open the interview, always supposing
she found anybody to have an interview with, but now it seemed too
absurd to plan anything for so vague a scene as she was about to stage.
She found herself shrinking inexpressibly from the whole thing. If she
had it to decide all over again this morning she would certainly have
turned it down as an utterly preposterous proposition. Certain words and
phrases of Evan Brower's came to her mind, a tiny reflection of his
sneer when he had told her it might be embarrassing for her to hunt up
her relatives.

Then her own honest loyal nature came to the front and declared to her
that whoever or whatever they were they were hers, something God had put
her into the world with as her own, and nobody, not even themselves had
a right to put them asunder. They were her birthright, and something she
must not disown.

Now and then it came to her that her foster mother should have faced
this problem with her long ago, when it wouldn't have hurt her so much,
but instantly her love defended the only mother she had ever known, and
her heart owned that it would have been very hard for Mrs. Wetherill. On
the whole it was just as well that she should decide this thing for
herself and act as she chose. And it was generous of course of Mrs.
Wetherill to give her a free hand to do what she chose for her people.

So her thoughts battled back and forth as she rode along through the
strange city, looking out but not seeing the new sights, not taking in a
thing but the breathless fact that she was on her way unannounced, to
meet the people to whom she had been born, and she was frightened.

It seemed a very long drive, out through a scrubby part of the city, and
then into a sordid street of little cheap houses all alike, brick houses
with wooden porches in an endless row, block after block, with untidy
vacant lots across the street, ending in unpleasant ash heaps. It was
before the last house in the row that the taxi stopped, on the far
out-skirts of the city, with a desolate stretch of city dump beyond.
Marjorie's heart almost stopped beating, and she nearly told the driver
to turn about and take her back to the hotel. Could it be that her
people lived in a house like this? A little two-story, seven-by-nine
affair, with not even a pavement in front, just a hard clay path worn by
the feet of many children playing?

The driver handed her her check, opened the door, and she got out her
purse.

"I think perhaps you had better wait for me a minute or two until I make
sure this is the right place," she said hesitantly, as she eyed the
house with displeasure.

"Yes ma'am, this is the number you give me," said the man, "1465 Aster
Street."

"Yes, but they might have moved, you know," said Marjorie hopefully.

So, on feet that were strangely unsteady, she got out and went slowly up
the two wooden steps to the door that sadly needed paint. There was no
bell so she knocked timidly, and then again louder as she heard no sound
of life within. She was just about to turn away, almost hoping they were
gone, and she would have no clue to search further, when she heard
hurried steps on a bare floor, and the door was opened sharply, almost
impatiently. Then she found herself face to face with a replica of
herself!

"Does Mrs. George Gay live here?"

She said the words because she had prepared them on her lips to say, but
she was so startled at the apparition of herself in the flesh standing
before her that she did not realize she had asked the question. She just
stood there and stared and stared at this other girl who was so like and
yet so unlike herself.

The other girl had the same cloud of golden hair, only it was flying in
every direction, not smoothly waved in the way it ought to lie; the same
brown eyes, only they were full of bitterness, and trouble, and a kind
of fright in the depths of them; the same delicate lips, only they were
set in hard lines as if the grim realities of life had been too close to
her. She was wearing a soiled and torn flimsy dress of flowered material
that was most unbecoming, and a cheap old coat with all the buttons off
or hanging by threads. Her hands were small but they were swollen and
red with the cold and she shivered as she stood grimly there staring at
her most unwelcome guest.

"Well," she said with a final little shiver, opening the door a trifle
wider, "I suppose you must be my twin sister! Will you come in?" Her
voice was most ungracious, but she stood aside in the tiny hall to let
the other girl pass in.

"Oh! Are you--? That is--I didn't know--!" said Marjorie in confusion.
Then she turned suddenly to the taxi and nodded brightly.

"It's all right," she said. "They still live here!"

"But they probably won't for long," added the other girl grimly.

"Oh, are you going to move? Then I'm glad I came before you did, for I
might have had trouble finding you."

"Yes," said the other girl unsmiling, "you probably would." Then she
motioned toward a single wooden chair in the middle of the room. "Won't
you sit down? We still have one chair left, though I believe Ted is
going to take it to the pawnshop this afternoon. There isn't any heat
here. Will you take cold?" There was something contemptuous in the tone
of this hostile sister. Marjorie gave her a quick troubled glance.

"Are you really my sister?"

"I suppose I must be," said the other girl listlessly as if it didn't in
the least matter, "there's your picture up there on the mantel. Maybe
you'll recognize that. If you had waited till afternoon that would
probably have been gone too."

Marjorie turned startled eyes toward the stark little high wooden shelf
that ran across the narrow chimney over a wall-register, and saw her own
photographed face in its silver frame smiling at her and looking
utterly out of place in that bleak little room. She turned back to look
at the other girl wistfully.

"You know, I didn't even know I had a sister until day before
yesterday!"

The other looked at her with hard unbelieving eyes.

"That's odd, isn't it? How did that come about?"

"No one told me," she answered sadly.

"Oh, yes? Then how did you find out?"

"I found a letter--from Moth--that is from my adopted mother after she
died. She left a letter to tell me about my people."

"You mean Mr. and Mrs. Wetherill are both dead?" The tone was
incredulous.

"Yes. I am alone in the world now, except for you--my own family."

The other girl's face grew very hard and bitter now.

"Oh!" she said shortly. "I wondered why you came after all these years
when you haven't paid the slightest attention to us. Not even a
Christmas card now and then! You with your grand home and your
aristocratic parents, and your fine education! What could you possibly
want with us? But I see it now. They have died and left you penniless, I
suppose, after all their grand pretensions, and you have come back on us
to live. Well, we'll take you in of course. Mother wouldn't have it
otherwise, but I'll say it's something like the end of a perfect day to
have you turn up just now."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Marjorie distressed at once. "I ought to have
telephoned to see if it was convenient, but I was so eager to find you.
And you don't at all realize anything about it. I've not come home to be
a burden on you. I thought maybe I could spend Christmas with you. I
know how you must feel. You are moving, and frightfully busy, but you'll
let me help, won't you?"

"_Moving!_" sneered her sister. "Yes, we'd be moving right away today if
we had any place to move to! And any money to move with! And anything to
move! _Christmas!_ I didn't know there was such a thing any more!" And
suddenly she dropped down in the vacant chair, jerking her hands out
from the ragged pockets of her old coat, put them up to her face and
burst into tears, sobbing until her slender body shook with the force of
the sobs. Yet it was all done very quietly as if there was some reason
why she must not make a noise.

Marjorie went close and put her arms about her, her face down against
the other's wet cheek.

"Oh, my dear!" she said brokenly. "_My dear!_" And then her own tears
were falling, and she held the weeping girl close. "But you are _cold_!
So cold you are trembling! Can't we go into another room where it is
warm and let me tell you how you have misunderstood me? I won't stay if
you don't want me, but I can't bear to have you misunderstand me. Come!"

Then the girl lifted her face and spoke fiercely again.

"Come?" she said. "Where shall we come? Don't you know there hasn't been
a teaspoonful of coal in this house for two days, and that we've burned
up all the chairs that aren't sold to try and keep from freezing--except
this one that has to be sold to get some medicine for Mother? Don't you
know Father hasn't had any work for nine months, and Mother is sick
upstairs in bed with all the blankets we own piled around her and a
hot-water bag at her feet? I borrowed the hot water from a house in the
next block, and it won't stay hot long, I had to bring it so far. She's
getting pneumonia, I'm afraid, and I had to lose my job to stay home and
take care of her. Don't you know that Dad is sick himself, but he had to
go out and beg the landlord to let us stay a few days more till Mother
is better--? And I guess Ted has lost his newspaper route, and I've had
to take the children to the neighborhood nursery, to keep them warm and
fed? If you stay here with us you'll have to pawn that fur coat to get
enough to eat! You'd better go back to your fine friends and get a job
or something. We haven't anything in the house to eat but two slices of
stale bread I saved to make toast for Mother. She'd likely give them to
you if she knew, for she's cried over you night after night lately. Dad
has been eating at the mission for two weeks to save what we had for the
rest of us. We pawned everything we had for a pittance to live on. We
just finished Mother's silver wedding spoons, and there isn't anything
left but your picture frame and Mother's wedding ring, and I can't bear
to go and take that off of her. It would break her heart!"

Suddenly the sister's head went down again and more silent sobs shook
her. It was terrible to look upon. Marjorie felt it was the most awful
sight she had ever seen. She stood there appalled as the bald truths
were thrown at her like missiles. And that was _her sister_ sitting
there shaking with cold and misery! And she was standing here done up in
costly furs, never having known what it was to be cold or hungry or
frightened like that! How she despised herself!

Suddenly she stood back and unbuttoned her coat, slid out of it and
wrapped it warmly around her sister.

"There! There! You precious sister!" she said softly, laying her lips on
the other girl's.

But her sister struggled up fiercely, her pride blazing in her eyes, her
arms flinging off the coat. "No!" she said, "no, I won't wear your coat
even for a minute."

But Marjorie caught it together about her again and held it there.

"Look here!" she said with authority. "Stop acting this way! I'm your
sister and I've come to help you! You can't fling me off this way! And
we haven't time to fight! We've got to get busy. What's the first thing
to do? Make a fire? Where can I find a man to send for coal. Where is
your telephone?"

"Telephone!" laughed the sister hysterically. "We haven't had a
telephone in years!"

Marjorie gave her a startled look. "Well," she said suddenly, "we must
get a fire going before that hot-water bag gets cold. Mother has got to
be thought of first. Where can I find a man to make a fire?"

"A _man_!" said the other girl. "A _man_ to make a fire!" and she
suddenly gave that wild hysterical laugh again. "_I_ could make a fire
if I had anything to make it with. I tell you there isn't even a
newspaper left."

"Well, where do we get coal? I'll go out and get some," said Marjorie
meekly.

"You can't," said her sister sullenly, "they won't trust us till the
bill is paid, and we've nothing to pay it with." Her eyes were
smoldering like slow fires, and her face was filled with shame as she
confessed this, but Marjorie's eyes lit with joy.

"Oh, but _I_ have!" she cried eagerly, and put her hand into her purse
pulling out a nice fat roll of bills and slipping them into her sister's
hand.

"There," she said, "go quick and pay the bill and get the coal!"

The other girl looked down at her hand, saw the large denomination of
the bills she was holding, and looked up in wonder. Then her face
changed and an alert look came, pride stole slowly up, and the faint
color that had come into her cheeks faded, leaving her ghastly white
again.

"We couldn't take it!" she said fiercely. "We couldn't ever pay it back.
There is no use!" and she held it out to Marjorie.

"Nonsense!" said Marjorie. "You are _my family_, aren't you? It's _my
mother_ who is cold, isn't it?"

"After all these years? You staying away and never sending us any word?
No! You're adopted and belong to that other woman, and it's her money,
not ours. We can't take it!"

"Look here!" said Marjorie her own eyes flashing now till they resembled
her sister's even more strongly than at first, "I didn't _ask_ to be
adopted, did I? I didn't have any choice in the matter, did I? I was
adopted before I knew what was going on, and I didn't know anything
about you. You have no right to blame me that way! I couldn't _help_
what was done to me when I was a baby! If she had happened to adopt you,
you probably would have been just what I've been. But I came to you just
as soon as I found out, didn't I? And I want you to know that I'm
_here_, and I'm going to _stay_, and I'm going to help just as much as
if I'd been here all the time. And as for the money, it's mine, not
hers. She left it to me, and she said in the letter I was to use it in
any way I pleased. She even seemed to feel that she would like me to
come and find you. But anyway I'm here, and I'm going to stay, and
please don't let's waste any more time. It _is awfully_ cold here!"

Then suddenly the other girl jumped up and flung Marjorie's coat back to
her.

"All right!" she said. "Put on your own coat. Maybe it's all true. I
don't know. I've hated you and the Wetherills so long that I don't know
whether I can ever get over it or not, but I've got to try and save my
mother's life, even if it is with that other woman's money!"

"But it isn't her money now! It is mine! And I am going to look after my
family. We are going to do it together! Quick! Tell me where to begin.
Do I get to see my mother first or had we better have a fire? I guess
the fire comes first, doesn't it? Or you will be sick too. Tell me where
to go, and I'll have the fixings here in short order."

"It's two blocks down, and a block to the right. Brown's Coal Yard. But
there's a bill for twenty-three dollars. They won't send any coal till
it's paid. Here! Take back the money!"

She held out the roll of bills half reluctantly, looking at it with a
sort of fierce wistfulness.

"No," said Marjorie. "You keep that. I've more in my purse. You might
have some need for it while I'm gone. But can't you put something more
around you? Your lips are blue with cold!"

"I'll be all right! I'm used to it. I really ought to go myself, I
suppose. Maybe you won't be able to find your way. But I hate to leave
Mother, if anything should happen."

"Of course!" said Marjorie. "And it might startle her too much if I went
to her before she knew I had come. Don't you worry, I'll find my way.
But say, what shall I call you? I can't exactly go around calling my own
sister 'Miss Gay,' can I? And you know I never knew your name."

The other girl stared.

"You don't mean they never told you your own sister's name? Well, that
certainly is funny! I'm Elizabeth. They call me Betty."

Her voice was a trifle warmer.

"That's a pretty name. Betty Gay! I like it. And--I'm Dorothy--isn't
that it? The letter told me that."

"Yes, but _they_ called you Marjorie!" Betty's voice was suddenly hard
again.

"Well, I couldn't help that either," grinned Marjorie. "Say, suppose you
stop having grudges awhile and tell me if there is anything else I need
to get before I come back. When we get the house warm and everything
going all right we'll get out the grudges and settle them up, but we
haven't time for them now, have we?"

Betty suddenly softened again and almost smiled, and Marjorie saw that
her eyes were really lovely when she smiled.

"I'm sorry!" said Betty. "I guess I've been pretty poisonous to you. But
maybe if you'd been here and seen your people you loved suffer, you'd be
poisonous too."

"I'm sure I should!" said Marjorie with a sudden quick setting of her
lips. "I'm quite sure I would feel just as you feel. And now let's
forget it till we get this place comfortable for you all. What else
shall I get besides coal? You said there wasn't much in the house to
eat, didn't you? Are there other stores down there by the coal yard?"

"Yes, there's a couple of grocery stores, and a drugstore," said the
girl reluctantly, "but don't you worry. I'll get things. You've given me
all this money."

"You'll have plenty of use for the money, I imagine. I'll just get
whatever I see that I think would be nice and you can get later what
I've forgotten. Now, go up to Mother and see that she's all right, and
I'll get back as soon as possible."

Marjorie turned and put her hand out to open the door, but before she
quite touched it someone fumbled at the knob from the outside, the door
was suddenly flung open with a bang letting in a rush of cold air, and
someone stumbled into the hall bearing a heavy burden.




III


Marjorie stepped back startled, staring at the tall man carrying a heavy
sack of coal upon his back and another of small pieces of wood in his
arms.

But Betty rushed forward and put up her arms to take one bag from him.

"Oh, Father!" she cried, "where have you been? How did you get it?" And
then, giving him a quick searching look, "Where is your overcoat,
Father? Oh, you didn't sell your overcoat, did you? Your nice overcoat?
Oh, Father, and you _are sick_!"

"It couldn't be helped, Betty," said the man in a hoarse voice. "I had
to get this house warm somehow for your mother. I couldn't let her
freeze to death!" There was something warm and tender in his voice that
brought the tears to Marjorie's eyes and a great rush of love for her
unknown father to her heart.

Then the man suddenly dropped the bag from his back to the floor, put
his hands up to his head with a bewildered look, and staggered over to
the stairs, dropping down upon the second step, his face in his hands,
and Marjorie saw that his bare hands were red and rough with cold, and
that he seemed to be shivering.

"Father! Oh, Father! What is it?" cried Betty rushing over to him.

"Oh, it's nothing!" murmured the man with an effort. "Just a little
dizzy, that's all. I'll be all right in a minute!"

"You had no breakfast! That's what makes it!" cried the girl in deep
distress. She did not look toward her new-found sister. She seemed to
have forgotten her presence. And the man on the stairs had not even seen
her. She was getting an inside glimpse of her family off their guard,
and a sharp new thrilling pain went through her heart. This was what
they had been enduring part of the time while she rode on the top wave
of luxury. Hungry! And she had often had to be coaxed to eat!

That picture of her father sitting on the stairs, his head bowed in his
hands, would stay with her always, she knew. Tall and well-built, but
stooped. Shapely hands, thin and blue-veined, the hands of a scholar or
a gentleman. Shabby in his summer-weight business suit, yet with an air
of having known better days. All this she saw in a flash. And Evan
Brower had dared to suggest her family might be an embarrassment! Her
heart suddenly arose in defense.

"I'll get you a drink of water!" Betty was saying. "Thank fortune, they
haven't turned off the water yet!" and she vanished through the door
into the kitchen.

Marjorie saw there was a door from the little parlor where she stood and
opening it she followed and found her sister as she brought back the
water.

"I'll get him something to eat right away," she whispered. "Is there a
restaurant or any place near by where they have food?"

"Only the drugstore. You can get a bottle of milk. Yes, bring it back
quick. He didn't go out to the mission last night, he felt too miserable
to go in the cold. And I suspect he hasn't been going there very often.
It hurts his pride terribly. Yes, bring some milk quick. He's probably
brought enough fuel to start the fire, and I can get it going while
you're gone."

Marjorie ran down the uneven little sidewalk, breathless with the
thought of her father sitting there in the bare ugly house, cold and
hungry, dizzy with faintness, and her mother, no telling how sick
upstairs! It was too dreadful! Why hadn't she come sooner? Why hadn't
she taken the first train after she found the letter? Why had she dared
hesitate? Why didn't her heart tell her how much her own were in need?

Then her quick mind began planning what to do. Her father should have
something hot, like soup or coffee. Probably both. In all probability
her sister hadn't had much to eat either. And likely the mother had had
very little, although they seemed to have saved everything for her. She
must somehow manage to get some strengthening food to them at once. But
how, and what? How far would it be to a good restaurant? Well, the
drugstore would have hot-water bags. She could perhaps get them to fill
one or two. And thermos bottles. Would there be any way to get a can of
soup heated and fill a thermos bottle?

Arrived breathless at the diminutive drugstore she found to her joy that
they had a soda fountain and served soup or coffee with sandwiches. The
service wasn't very efficient and there was very little choice. But
there was hot coffee and there was hot tomato soup, that is, it wasn't
hot yet but the man said he could heat them both in a jiffy. And he had
just two thermos bottles left. He agreed to rinse them out and fill one
with coffee and the other with soup, and also to fill two hot-water bags
with hot water and wrap them in newspapers. He hadn't had such a large
order in weeks.

While he was getting them ready Marjorie hurried across the street to
the grocery and bought two baskets big enough to carry her purchases,
and also a dozen oranges, a loaf of bread, a pound of butter and a pound
of sliced ham.

Back at the drugstore she added a quart bottle of milk to her other
purchases and started back to the house. But she found she could not
make very good time, a great basket in either hand. It was the heaviest
load that she had ever carried in her life. She fairly staggered under
it, but she would not waste time resting.

Arrived at the house she found the front door unlatched, but her father
was no longer sitting on the stairs, and she heard sounds from the
cellar.

Betty came hurrying up the cellar stairs as she came out to the kitchen,
a long streak of soot on one white cheek and her eyes wide and worried.

"He would go down and start the fire," she said in a distressed voice.
"I couldn't do anything with him." Her voice was almost like a sob. "He
always thinks a woman has to be waited on, but he's had another dizzy
spell and he's sitting on the cellar stairs now. Did you get anything?"

"Yes," said Marjorie eagerly, "I brought hot soup and coffee, and here's
some aromatic ammonia. Perhaps that will help too. And here, I have two
hot-water bags nice and hot. Take one down and put it on his lap.
Haven't you got a flannel or bit of old something to wrap it in? He
ought to get warm right away."

"Oh, you're great!" said Betty and the tears were rolling down her
cheeks, tears of relief.

She snatched a nicked cup from the shelf and poured out coffee and with
a hot-water bag under her arm hurried down cellar again.

Marjorie hunted around and found plates and more cups and a knife, and
cut some slices of bread, buttering them and putting ham between them.
When Betty came back upstairs she had a plateful of nice sandwiches
ready for her, and a cup of coffee.

"Take a swallow of this," said Marjorie holding out a cup of coffee,
"and take this sandwich in your hand. You'll be sick next if you don't
look out."

Betty looked hungrily at the food.

"But I must take something up to Mother, first," she said.

"No, drink this first, quick. It won't take you but a minute, and you
can work better with something inside of you. Take this sandwich in your
hand, and carry a cup of something up to Mother. Which should it be?
Coffee first, or soup, or isn't she able for those? I've got oranges
here. I can fix her a glass of orange juice in no time."

"Oh, wonderful!" said Betty gratefully, her eyes filling with relieved
tears again. "I--don't know--what we would--have done if you--hadn't
come!"

"There! Never mind that now. Just drink a little more and then go up to
Mother. As soon as she knows about me I can help you care for her. I
know how to take care of sick people. And now, shall I just slip out and
have that coal sent up? You haven't got enough to last long in those
bags, and the house ought to get thoroughly warm and stay so. And while
I'm out I'm going to order some groceries. Is that store I went to the
best, or is there a better one somewhere else?"

"That's the best near here. They're all right. Ted will be home by and
by perhaps and bring the things up for you."

"Don't worry about that. I'll find a way," said Marjorie brightly. "Did
you tell Father I had come?"

"Not yet. He seemed so sick. And he was so determined to get that fire
started. I'd better run down and see if he is all right now, and while
you are gone I'll tell him."

Betty with her sandwich in her hand went down cellar, and hurried up
again.

"He's eaten all the soup and is eating his sandwich now. I think he
feels better. He said he would stay down for a few minutes to be sure
the fire was started all right. He had one of those patent lighters, you
know, and he wants to be sure the kindling catches. Now, I'm going up to
Mother."

"Well, take this other hot-water bag," said Marjorie, "and I'll wait
here at the foot of the stairs a minute to see if there is anything else
you want me to get."

So Betty flew away up the stairs, and back again in a moment.

"She is still asleep," she whispered. "I laid my hand on her head and
she didn't feel quite so hot as before. I think the hot-water bags
helped. I slipped the other one in beside her back."

"Has she had a doctor?" asked Marjorie.

"No, she wouldn't let us. She said we hadn't the money to pay him. But
Father is almost crazy about it. I think we ought to have him come just
once, anyway, don't you?"

"I certainly do!" said Marjorie. "Where is he? I'll get him before I do
anything else."

Betty gave the name and address.

"He's supposed to be a good doctor. I guess his prices are rather high,"
she said sorrowfully.

"What difference does that make?" said Marjorie. "We want the best there
is. I'll send him as soon as I can, and you'd better make him prescribe
for Father too. I'll tell him about it, and you make him. And, where do
I talk to the gas people to get that gas turned on? We want to be able
to cook some real dinner tonight!"

"Oh!" said Betty quick tears stinging into her eyes. "You are going to
be wonderful, aren't you!"

"No," said Marjorie smiling, "I'm just going to be one of the family,
and try to make up for lost time. Does the water bill need looking
after, too? We can't have that shut off. And what about electric light?"

"Oh!" cried Betty softly, sinking down on the lower step of the stairs,
"you'll use all your money up!"

"Well," said Marjorie happily, "that's what money is for, isn't it? To
be used up?"

"You're really real, aren't you?" said Betty, "I can scarcely believe
it."

"What did you think I was, a spirit? Here, write those addresses quick.
I want to get things started and get back to help."

She handed her sister a little note book and pencil from her handbag.

"We could get along without electric light if you get a couple of
candles," Betty said with a troubled look.

"Why should we?" said Marjorie, and stooping kissed her sister's
forehead lightly.

"You'll be sorry you ever came near us," said Betty sadly, "having to
spend all this money and go all these errands."

"I'm already glad I came," said Marjorie, "and if Mother and Father get
well, and you don't get sick, I'd say I'm having the time of my life. It
makes me greatly happy to be able to help and I only wish I'd known
before that you had all this suffering. _And me with plenty!_"

Then although she was almost choking with tears, she gave a bright smile
and hurried away on her errands.

She betook herself to the drugstore where was a telephone booth and did
the doctor, the coal, the gas, and electric light by telephone, and her
crisp young voice, accustomed as it was to giving orders that were
always promptly obeyed, brought courteous service at once, especially
since full payment of the bill was promised when the agent would call.
Then she went over to the little grocery and astonished the manager by
selecting a large order from the best of his stock. She found also that
there was a certain Joe, with a rusty little flivver, who would for the
consideration of a dime, deliver the order at once. And so, in an
incredibly short space of time considering all she had accomplished, she
arrived back at the house. She was in plenty of time to let in the gas
man who had come post haste because of her urgency, and her statement
that there were two sick people in the house.

Then the groceries arrived and filled the shelves with stores.

In the midst of it Betty came down with round eyes of astonishment at
the magic that had been wrought.

The chill was partly gone from the house by this time, and Marjorie took
off her fur coat and her smart little felt hat, and hung them in the
almost empty hall closet. She was rejoiced to feel a strong puff of hot
air coming up the tiny register in the hall.

"Now!" she said, "I'm ready for work! Where do I put these things? Are
there special places for them, or do I park them wherever I like?"

"Wherever you like!" said Betty throwing open the little pantry door and
displaying a vista of empty shelves.

"And there comes the coal!" said Marjorie. "You'll have to tell him
where to put that!"

Marjorie enjoyed putting away the things. She found the empty sugar jar
and filled it. She put the vegetables and fruit in baskets. She found
the old tin bread box and filled it with loaves. She had bought with a
lavish hand, as far as the selection of the small store had afforded.
Tin boxes of crackers and cookies and sand tarts, cheese and pickles
and olives, coffee and tea and flour and meat. But there was no
refrigerator and she decided it had probably been sold. Well, it was
good it was cold weather. And they could remedy most of the
discrepancies tomorrow.

Betty came up from the cellar and looked at her, watched her as she put
things away.

"Well," she said in her sharp young voice that had a mingling of tears
in its quality, "I suppose you must be pretty wonderful, and I'm crazy!"

"Nothing wonderful about it! I'm just an ordinary sister, Betty, that's
mighty hungry to be taken in and made one of you!"

"Well, I should say you'd taken us in, if you asked me! I thought we'd
reached the limit and tonight would see us all well on our way out of
this life, but you've somehow brought us back again where we have to go
on." Suddenly Betty dropped down on a box by the kitchen door and
putting her head down in her hands burst into tears. Betty was worn out.

Marjorie was at her side at once, her arms about her, soothing her,
putting the hair back from her tired forehead, putting a warm kiss on
the back of her neck.

"Why, you're cold yet, you poor dear!" she said. "Come into the hall and
sit over the register and get your feet warm."

"No! No, I'm all right," insisted Betty, raising her head and brushing
away her tears. "I just can't understand it all, everything getting so
different all of a sudden. Food in the house, and heat, and a chance to
sit down."

"But, my dear, you've scarcely eaten a thing. Come, let me get you a
nice little lunch. Have another sandwich! And here are eggs. I don't
know how good a cook I am, for I haven't had much chance to practice,
but I can scramble eggs beautifully, and the gas is on now."

Marjorie made Betty sit down and eat.

"Mother said the soup was the best thing she had tasted in weeks," she
said as she ate hungrily.

"Have you--told her about me--yet?" asked Marjorie anxiously.

"No," said Betty. "I didn't have a chance yet. I didn't want to excite
her while she was eating. And besides Father had come in and dropped
down on the other edge of the bed. He went right off to sleep. And when
Mother finished her soup she put her head back and said in a whisper,
'That was good! Now I'll go to sleep awhile and then I'll be all right.'
And they never either of them asked where the things came from! Mother
knew Ted had gone out to try and get a few subscriptions for a magazine.
She likely thinks he has picked up a few pennies. But I thought it would
be better for me to wait till they woke up to tell them about you."

"Of course!" said Marjorie. "Now, what should we do next? The doctor
won't be here till two o'clock. He had gone to the hospital, but I got
him on the wire and he promised to come here right from there. He had an
emergency operation this morning. Is there anything to do to get ready
for him?"

"There isn't anything we can do," said Betty. "I used the last clean
sheet when I made up her bed fresh last night, and I haven't had any hot
water to wash them with since."

"Well, if the sheets were clean last night they ought to be all right.
Anyway I guess it's more important that they both should have a good
sleep than that the bed should look stylish and uncrumpled. Let's bend
our energies toward getting everything ready for a comfortable dinner.
But first, tell me about us, just a word or two more. You spoke of Ted.
Is he our brother?"

"Of course. Hadn't you heard of him, either? He's almost seventeen, and
he's a dear. I don't know what we would have done while Father was sick,
if it hadn't been for Ted. He worked early and late, just like a man.
Like two men! He got a job in a grocery, and he got up before daylight
and delivered papers, and then he worked from eight in the morning till
sometimes nine at night. He's out now hunting for some kind of a job.
And he hasn't had much to eat for a day and a half. He wouldn't take it
away from us. He had a real desperate look on his face when he went away
this morning. I wish he would come back and get something to eat. But he
won't come until he finds something."

"Oh," said Marjorie, "couldn't I go out and find him? Or couldn't you,
and let me stay here and look after things? It wouldn't do any good for
me to go, of course, because I wouldn't know him. But I could look after
Father and Mother if worst came to worst. I could perhaps get away with
playing I'm you if I put on one of your dresses. I'm a pretty good
nurse, you know."

Betty's eyes filled with tears, but she smiled through them, and shook
her head.

"I wouldn't know where to find Ted. He goes all over the city when he
gets desperate. He'll come pretty soon perhaps, because he said if he
couldn't find something else this morning he'd come back and get that
chair and take it to the pawnbroker. He felt we ought to have some coal
as soon as possible, but he hated to give up the last chair."

"Oh, my dear!" said Marjorie, her eyes clouded with tears of sympathy.
"Oh, if I had only known sooner!"

"Oh, don't you cry!" said Betty. "You've come, and I can't tell you how
wonderful it is just to have it warm here again and have something to
eat, and not be frightened about Mother and Father. That sounds awfully
sordid, I know. But those things had to come first. And you don't
realize how awful it's been. I'm sure I'll love you afterwards for
yourself, but just now I can't help being thankful for the things you've
done. Maybe I can make you understand sometime, when I'm not so tired.
But you see I've hated you and blamed you for being better than we were
so long! I see now it wasn't fair to you. You couldn't help what they
did to you when you were a baby of course. Only I never dreamed they
wouldn't tell you anything about us. Mother said Mrs. Wetherill had said
they would tell you you were adopted, and I supposed of course you knew,
and didn't care to have anything to do with us."

"I don't think Mrs. Wetherill knew much about you either," said Marjorie
slowly, thoughtfully. "Not till Mother came to see her. And she never
told me about that at all. She just left a letter. I think she couldn't
get courage to talk with me about it when she knew she was going to
leave me so soon. You see, when I was little, they just told me they had
picked me out from all the babies in the world to be theirs, and I was
more to them than if I had even been born to them. That satisfied me
when I was small, but as I got larger and went to school and heard more
about adoption I began to wonder why my parents had been willing to give
me up. It seemed very heartless of them. But when I asked more questions
about them I got very little satisfaction, just that somebody had been
sick and they couldn't afford to keep me. So I confess I grew up feeling
rather hard toward my own parents. Oh, I was having a good time of
course, and not a hardship in the world, everything money could buy
heaped upon me, but sometimes I got a little depressed or sentimental or
something, and felt that I had been cheated by my own folks. You aren't
the only one, Betty, that had hard feelings! I sometimes felt like a
castaway. My own mother being willing to give me up when I was tiny and
helpless. And of course I loved Mrs. Wetherill all the more fiercely in
consequence, because she had come to my rescue. There! That's the way it
looked to me! Now I guess we're somewhat even, and perhaps we can
understand each other better. Anyhow it wasn't any of it our fault."

"I see," said Betty sadly. "I was all wrong of course. But I guess that
was what made Mother suffer so, thinking she had let you go. She has
cried and cried over that. Whenever she wasn't well she would cry all
night. She said Mr. Wetherill came to her when she was weak and sick and
didn't realize fully what she was doing. Father was threatened with
tuberculosis. He had had lung fever and the doctor said he simply must
get away from the office and out into the open for a few years, and Mr.
Wetherill promised to put him on a farm and start him out, with the
privilege of buying the farm if he wanted to. Besides he gave them quite
a sum of money to have me treated. It seems I wasn't very strong and had
to be under a specialist for a long time. They said I wouldn't live if I
didn't have special treatment."

Betty's eyes grew stormy with bitterness.

"I used to wish sometimes they had let me die. I thought Mother didn't
love me at all, she mourned for you so much."

"Oh, _my dear_!" said Marjorie coming close and putting her arms about
her sister. "My dear! I think we are going to love each other a lot!"

It was very still in the little dreary kitchen for a minute while the
two sisters held each other close. Then Betty lifted her head.

"I'm glad you've come, anyway!" she said. "You've been wonderful
already. And I'm glad for Mother that she needn't fret for what she did
any more. As soon as the doctor's been here I want to tell her. It will
cure her just to know you are here, I know it will."

"Well, you'd better ask the doctor if it won't excite her too much.
There! Isn't that the doorbell? Perhaps he's come! But it isn't quite
two o'clock!"

Betty hurried to answer the bell, and Marjorie lingering in the kitchen
saw through the crack of the door that it was the doctor. Betty took him
upstairs at once, and Marjorie stood for a minute by the kitchen window
looking out, staring at the minute frozen back yard and its dreary
surroundings, wondering if her mother were very sick, wondering at
herself that she cared so much already for a mother whom she had not yet
seen. And this dear, fierce sister seemed already another self. And yet
they had lived such different lives! Marjorie felt almost ashamed of her
own sheltered existence. It seemed terrible to think of her leisurely,
butterfly life, when everything Betty had had seemed to have been gotten
by the hardest. Well, perhaps not all the time. She had spoken as if
there were times when they had nice things. But the last few months must
have been simply terrible! If she had only known sooner! If she might
only have saved her mother and father in their distress. Oh, suppose it
should be too late for either of them? She recalled the ghastly look of
her father as he stumbled into the hall a little while ago with that
great burden in his arms. How white and desperate he looked. How his
voice shook as he said he must get it warm for the mother! Her heart
thrilled at the desperate love in his voice. It was so grand to have
them love one another that way! Even through trials and adversity!

Then she remembered the pantry which she had been putting to rights,
setting the supplies up in an orderly manner on the shelves. She might
as well get it done before her sister got back. It was better to be
doing something than just standing there waiting to know what the
doctor said.

She dampened a cloth she found, wiped off the shelves, and set about
putting things away systematically. She stepped on a box to reach the
top shelf, and there she discovered a handleless cracked cup with little
tickets in it. Were they milk tickets or what? She wiped off the shelf,
stepped down with the cup in her hand, and stood there examining the
bits of paper. Each one had something written on it.

"Six plain sterling spoons," one said. "One brussels carpet," said
another. "Three upholstered chairs."

Marjorie stared at them in dismay as she realized what these bits of
paper must be. They were pawn tickets! She had never seen pawn tickets
before. They represented the downfall of a home! A precious home where
these her own flesh and blood had lived!

She went on with the tickets. "One child's crib-bed." "Six dining room
chairs."

And now she noticed there was a date on each one and a price. Was that
all they got for each of those articles? How pitifully little in
exchange for surrendering their household necessities! "Two double
blankets!" And they had been cold! Her mother was threatened with
pneumonia,--perhaps more than threatened! She went on with the tickets.
"One wrist watch. Fifty cents."

She stood studying them, trying to make a rough estimate of the entire
amount loaned for all those articles, when suddenly she heard the
kitchen door open and a boy's voice said:

"What's the idea, Betts, of having the cellar window open? Did you think
it was milder out than in?"

And then as the door shut to behind him:

"Gosh! You've got a fire! What did you do? Burn up our only chair?
That's too bad. I found a place where they would pay sixty cents for it,
since it's almost new!"

Marjorie turned startled, letting the pawn tickets fall back into the
cup, and facing him, not realizing that she still held the cup in her
hands.

"Gee, but it feels good in here, anyway! But how did you manage a fire?
There wasn't even a match! Did Dad--?" And then he turned and looked her
straight in the face!




IV


She saw a tall boy, lean and wiry, with a shock of red hair and big gray
eyes that had green lights in them. Under the mahogany brows and lashes
they looked enormous; and they were weary, haunted eyes that seemed to
have been perpetually puzzling out some anxious problem. There were
shadows under them, too, and he looked too utterly worn for one of his
age.

He stared at her first with a bewildered gaze like one who had come in
out of the sun and could not rightly see in the dimmer light. He put up
his hand and passed it over his eyes, and then his gaze grew puzzled,
and then frightened, almost as if he were afraid his sight had played
him a trick. Marjorie began to sense what he was feeling, and spoke
quickly.

"You are Ted, aren't you?" She did not know how much her voice was like
Betty's, only for that rich silken note that a luxurious surrounding had
given her, and the boy was still more startled. He stiffened visibly,
realizing that he was in the presence of a stranger.

The light of the pantry window was behind Marjorie's head which made the
likeness to Betty still more illusive.

"Yes?" he said coldly, lifting his head a trifle, with a gesture that in
a man would have been called haughty. He was alert, ready to resent the
intrusion of a stranger into their private misery.

Then he saw the cup in her hand, and putting down the bucket of coal he
had picked from the dump he stepped over and took the cup possessively.

"That wouldn't interest you," he said coldly, reprovingly.

"Ted!" said Marjorie impulsively, "I'm your sister! Don't speak to me
that way!"

"My sister!" said Ted scornfully. "Well, I can't help it if you are,
that doesn't give you a right to pry into our private affairs, does it?"

An angry flush had stolen over the boy's lean cheeks and his eyes were
hard as steel.

"Oh, please don't!" said Marjorie covering her face with her hands, "I
wasn't prying. I was trying to help!"

"Well, we don't need your help!" said the boy with young scorn in his
eyes, "and it would be much better if you were to go back wherever you
came from. This wasn't a very good time to select to visit us. We've got
sickness in the house, and we've--been unfortunate--!"

"Oh, I know--!" moaned Marjorie, "but you see I didn't know anything
about you till three or four days ago. I didn't even know I had a
brother! But now I've come and I want to help."

"Well, I don't think there is anything you can do," he said icily.
"We'll manage somehow by ourselves. You might leave your address and we
can let you know when things are more prosperous, and then you could
come and see Mother. Just at present it wouldn't be possible for us to
have visitors."

"But you see, Ted, I'm not a visitor. I'm one of the family, and Betty
and I are working together."

"Betty! Does my sister Betty know you are here? Where is she?"

"She's upstairs now with the doctor."

"The doctor! Is my mother worse?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen her yet, but as soon as I heard she was so
sick I begged Betty to get the doctor. You know pneumonia is a very
treacherous disease."

"Yes, and who did you think would pay the doctor?" asked Ted in that
hard cold young voice so full of anxiety and belligerence.

"Oh, Ted! I'll pay it, of course!"

"Yes, and what do you think Mrs. Wetherill will say to that?"

"She won't say anything, Ted. She's dead!" There was a bit of a sob in
Marjorie's voice in spite of her best efforts. She was tired, and this
strange manly boy's repulsion hurt her terribly.

"Dead?" said Ted. "Well, that's just too bad for you, but I guess
somehow we'll get along here without having outside help!"

"Oh, please, Ted, I'm not outside! I'm family!" she said, and now there
were tears on her cheeks.

The boy looked at her speculatively and frowned.

"If you are family why didn't you ever turn up before when Mother was
fretting for you?"

"Because I didn't know anything about her or any of you except that you
had let me be adopted! I thought my mother didn't want me. I only found
out three days ago who she was. Mrs. Wetherill left a letter for me in
her desk. I found it after she died. It was there I discovered my
mother's address. I didn't even know whether my father was living, and I
didn't know there were the rest of you. But I came as quick as I could,
and now I'm here I'm going to do my best to make you love me a little."

The hardness in the boy's face relaxed.

Then they heard the doctor coming downstairs, with Betty just behind
him, and by common consent they froze into silence, Marjorie with a hand
at her throat to still the wild throbbing of her pulses. Then they heard
the doctor's voice:

"No, I don't expect her fever to go higher tonight. Oh, perhaps a little
more. All she needs is rest and nourishment and good care. Be careful
about the temperature of the room. Of course don't let her get chilled.
That is the greatest danger. No, I don't think her lungs are involved
yet. Good care and rest and the right food will work wonders. But I do
think, as I said, that you should have a trained nurse for a week at
least. If you want me to look one up for you I'll do it."

"Oh!" said Betty in a frightened voice, "I don't believe Mother would
like that. I'm sure I can take care of her. I have before."

"Well, all right if you think so, but you look to me as if you needed a
little nursing yourself."

"Oh, I'm all right!" said Betty summoning a cheerful voice. "I've just
been worried about Mother."

"Well, don't worry any more. Just be cheerful. That's what your mother
needs above all else, cheerful surroundings and no anxiety. Don't let
her worry about a thing!"

"Doctor, my sister--has been away some time. She has just come back. Do
you think it will hurt Mother to know she has come? She has been
grieving to have her at home."

"What kind is she? Will she worry your mother, or will she be a help?"

"Oh, she'll be a help. She's rather wonderful!"

Ted stole a sudden shamed glance at Marjorie, with the flicker of a
grin of apology in his young face.

"Well, then, tell her about it by all means. Joy never kills. Perhaps
you'd better wait till she wakes up. Give her a sleeping tablet after
her egg and milk and she'll settle down to sleep, I think. And don't you
worry about your father. He's just worn out. Told me he had had reverses
in business. A lot like that today. But he'll be all right after a few
days' rest and feeding up. Give him plenty of fruit and vegetables. I
suggested his getting away but he didn't seem to think it possible.
However, if you just lift the worry from his heart he'll be all right, I
think. No, I don't think there's any organic trouble with the heart, not
yet. But you know hearts can't stand everything, especially when they
are beginning to get older. Well, I'll step in again in the morning just
to see if all is well, and don't hesitate to call me if you need me, or
if there is any change. It's better to come unnecessarily than to wait
too long, you know."

When the door closed behind the doctor Marjorie had a sudden feeling of
let down as if she wanted to sit down and cry with relief.

Betty's face was eager as she came out into the kitchen. She looked
straight at Marjorie. Perhaps she didn't see Ted at first.

"He thinks maybe she won't have pneumonia after all," she said with
relief. "And he says she must be fed every two hours. He wants her to
have an egg and milk right away."

"I'll fix it," said Marjorie. "I know how to make wonderful ones. Have
we got an egg beater? A fork will do if we haven't."

"Sure we've got an egg beater!" volunteered Ted.

Then Betty whirled upon her brother.

"Oh, Ted, you've got back. I've been so worried! You went off without
any breakfast, and you had no dinner last night!"

"Aw, whaddaya think I am? A softie?" said Ted.

"I've been keeping the soup hot for him," said Marjorie. "Here it is,
Ted." She placed a bowl on the box and brought the thermos bottle.
"There's coffee too, and a plate of sandwiches." She set the things
before him.

"Gosh!" said Ted, dumbfounded. "Where did you get all this layout?"

"You don't know what's happened since you left, Theodore Gay! A miracle
has come, that's what!" said Betty. "We've got another sister, and she's
just like Santa Claus. She did it all!"

"Gosh!" said Ted, wrinkling his nice mahogany brows, "but I don't think
we ought to take it."

"Well," said Betty, "I thought so too, but I found out it was a choice
between that, and dying, and she seemed determined to die with us if we
did, so I let her have her way. Sit down and eat that soup while it's
hot. You'll be down sick next if you don't, and we can fight it out
later when things get straightened out again. I'm so glad Mother and
Father aren't so sick as I thought that I'm willing to take anything
anybody hands me. But, Ted, you're mistaken about that egg beater. It
was in the kitchen table drawer when you took it away to sell it. I
missed it after you were gone."

"Okay! I'll beat yer eggs with a fork!" said Ted, settling down on
another box and diving into the bowl of soup. "Say, is this good! Or
_is_ it good!" he murmured, and then ate away in silence.

"I'm going up to fix Father in the other room so he and Mother won't
disturb each other," said Betty. "I'll be back for the egg and milk."

"No, I'll bring it up when it's ready," said Ted.

Marjorie got out the milk and eggs and fixed a tray. Ted eyed her
silently.

"How did you get a fire?" he growled out suddenly as he took a big bite
from the sandwich.

"Why--Father--" Marjorie brought out the name hesitantly, it was so new
a name for a father she had never known--"Father came just as I was
starting out to try and find the coal yard. He had two big bags in his
arms, and he was dizzy. He had to sit down on the stairs."

Ted suddenly put down the cup of coffee he was drinking and half rose.

"Dad hasn't had a thing to eat!" he said horror stricken. "It was
raining last night and he didn't go out to the mission to get his
dinner! He said he wasn't hungry!"

Ted had forgotten the new sister. He was talking aloud, accusing himself
for having eaten when his father was hungry.

"I'll take this right up to him! I ought to have thought."

"No," said Marjorie putting out a protesting hand, "he has had plenty
now. I went right up to the drugstore and got soup and coffee. But while
I was gone he had insisted on going down cellar and starting the fire.
He had matches and a patent kindler. Betty took some coffee down to him
and then made him go up and lie down afterward."

"That fire won't last long," said Ted wisely, "not on one bag of coal.
I'd better go out and rustle some more. I've got one bucket full here,
but it isn't very good, all partly burned. I mustn't let this house get
cold again."

"Oh, there's plenty of coal in the cellar now," said Marjorie happily.
"The man said the bin would hold two tons so I got that. He's just got
done putting it in. That will last a good while, won't it?"

"Two tons!" the boy stood aghast. "How'll we ever pay for two tons? You
didn't get that from our regular coal man? He said he wouldn't let us
have any more till the bill was paid." He looked at her with accusing
eyes, such young, frightened, stern eyes. She loved him for the way he
was trying to be a man and take responsibility.

"But it's all paid for, brother dear!" said Marjorie with shining eyes.
"Bill and coal and all. I told him I would pay cash if he would send it
at once, and he certainly did!"

The boy looked at her astounded.

"Gosh!" he said, and then he turned and ran down the cellar stairs. She
could hear his footsteps, going over to the coal bin, then back to the
furnace a few paces, opening the furnace door, looking in, closing it
again, and then more slowly coming up the stairs. She glimpsed him
brushing his hand quickly across his eyes as he appeared in the kitchen,
his young face filled with relief.

"Gosh, that's a break!" he said flinging himself down on the box again
and reaching for what was left of his sandwich. "I never expected to see
that much coal again, not in that cellar! I'll say you're some sister!"

Marjorie smiled, her heart warming.

"Will you have another sandwich?"

"No, I mustn't eat things up. I can get along on what I've had. It's
more than I've had at once in six months. Save the rest for Mother and
the others."

"But there is plenty," said Marjorie happily. "I got several loaves. And
how about some scrambled eggs? I can make lovely scrambled eggs!"

"You couldn't, not here!" said Ted with finality. "The gas company
turned off our gas. You can't scramble eggs in the furnace, can you?"

"Oh, but the gas company have been here and turned on the gas. See?" and
she struck a match and lighted a burner. "There's no reason why you
can't have scrambled eggs." Marjorie put on a bent little frying pan
over the flame, flipped a bit of butter into it and broke three smooth
brown eggs into it.

Ted watched her fascinated as she scrambled the eggs, finishing with a
shake of pepper and salt.

"Say, you can cook, can't you? I thought you'd be too high-hat to cook."

"I can cook a little," said Marjorie, "not much. Probably Betty can do
much better than I. I never had a chance to practice much."

"Well, neither had Betts. She's been in an office ever since she got out
of school. Say! These eggs are great! Gosh, I haven't tasted anything so
good in weeks. You're sure I ought to eat all of this? It seems enough
for the whole family. Why, if we'd had this much yesterday we would have
thought we were rich!"

Marjorie felt a sudden lump coming into her throat that betokened tears
near at hand. She felt so glad to have got here in time before her
family starved to death! How awful to think they had been in such
straits while she feasted on the fat of the land!

He studied her for an instant and then he said gravely:

"But we can't live off of you! It's great of you to help us out a little
till we get on our feet, but we can't keep on letting you feed us.
Perhaps I can get a job soon and pay you back."

The brightness went out of Marjorie's face.

"Listen, Ted, if I had lived here, and you had plenty, wouldn't you have
shared it with me?"

"Of course!" said Ted crossly, "but that's different! I'm a fella!"

"Well, that's all right, 'fella' dear, but it isn't different. I'm a
part of this family, unless you throw me out, and what's mine is yours.
And now, come, I'd like to say a word about what you did to me when you
first came in. You took that cup of tickets away and told me they
wouldn't interest me. But they do interest me. They interest me very
much. They're pawn tickets, aren't they? Well, what are we going to do
about them, Ted? Are those Mother's things that she's fond of? Oughtn't
we to go and get them?"

"That would take a lot of money," said Ted hopelessly. "Yes, of course,
they're her things, but we had to pawn them. She had to have food and
heat and medicine."

"Of course," said Marjorie, just as if she was used to going out and
pawning her furniture and clothes whenever she had to have something
else, "but are they things she cares about? Or would she rather have new
things?"

"They're her things. They're all the things she has. And she couldn't
get new things even if she did want them. She can't get these either,"
he added dejectedly. "I tell you it costs a lot of money."

"Yes, but how much, Ted?" persisted Marjorie. "That is what I was trying
to find out when I was looking over those tickets. I wasn't wanting to
pry. I was trying to find out what to do."

"It isn't your responsibility," said Ted doggedly. "It's mine. I pawned
them."

"Now look here, Ted, you just stop pushing me out of the family like
that. I'm trying to make up a little for all the good I might have been
to the family if I had been here. Don't you see I want to be in and be
loved and be a part of things, even of your troubles? That's what it
would have been if I had lived with you while I was growing up instead
of with the Wetherills. And I'm certainly sharing in everything from now
on. Now you reach up to that top shelf and take down that teacup and
we'll add those tickets up and see what it comes to. Please!"

Half shamedly Ted did her bidding.

They got out the tickets and Marjorie added them all up, a pitifully
small sum it seemed to the girl, to represent the household goods of a
home, but to the boy it seemed a breath-taking fortune.

"Is that all!" said Marjorie when he handed her the sum. "Why, I can
give you that right away. I was afraid maybe I'd have to go out and cash
a check. But is this all? Aren't there some things somewhere else?"

"No," said Ted. "The rest we had to burn up to keep warm with, but they
weren't much account. The old rickety kitchen table, and a few shaky
chairs. Oh, yes, and Betty's bedstead and mine, they went first, but
they weren't anything great. We just put the mattresses on the floor."

He grinned, and Marjorie stifled a gasp and grinned back. What a lot of
things she was learning about the make-shifts of poverty.

"All right!" she said briskly, "then let's get those things back and
make the house look natural before Mother gets up to see it. That will
do a good deal toward making her cheerful, and there is no need for her
to know how we did it either. Have these things been out of the house
long?"

"Not so many of them. The spoons went first. Mother felt awfully down
about those, and soon after that she was taken so sick she had to go to
bed. She doesn't know about most of the rest. We kept her room like it
was when she went to bed. I guess she thinks we've been living on the
spoons all this time. She doesn't know how little they gave for them.
She thought an awful lot of those spoons. They were her grandmother's."

"Oh!" said Marjorie pitifully. "Well, now, do you think you could get
those back this afternoon? Or should I go for them?"

Ted flashed a quick negative.

"I'll get them," he said. "It's no work for you. I'll have to bring the
big things one at a time. I'm not sure I can borrow the hand cart I had
when I took them away either. I took them at night, you know, so the
neighbors wouldn't see. Probably I can get the cart after the store
closes tonight, but it will take several nights to get them all."

"Oh, my dear! Don't try to bring them yourself. It won't cost but a few
dollars to hire a truck and have them brought."

"A _few_ dollars!" laughed Ted excitedly. "I can get Sam Sharpe to bring
them all after five this evening for a dollar. He'd be glad to get it.
He takes the truck to his Dad's garage for the night and has the
privilege of using it for any little odd jobs he gets. But a dollar's a
dollar, you know, and I've been too near to the edge of nothing to throw
dollars away when I can do the thing myself."

"Oh, Ted!" said Marjorie pitifully. "But in this case I think a dollar
is cheap, just to get the things here tonight and make things look like
home again."

"Okay with me," said Ted, "but it won't likely look like your home at
that. Mother's told us how it looks where you were brought up."

"Yes, it was a lovely home," said Marjorie with a sudden rush of
feeling, "but we're going to make this as lovely as we can. Now, can you
go right away and see if you can get the truck?"

"Sure thing!" said Ted. "But he can't bring them till after five. I
might as well stick around here and see if there is anything else I can
do till then. That will be after dark, too. The neighbors are so
curious. Mother hates that! Having them all find out just what we've got
and what we haven't. You know we used to have a nice home over in a
suburb on the other side of the city. Nice big house, built of stone.
Plenty of room. We each had a room to ourselves, and there was a garage
and a big garden, and flowers and fruit trees. It was a swell place.
And Dad had a position with a good salary. That was before the
depression, you know. We had a car, too, and Dad used to drive in town
every morning. It was swell living there. Dad had money in the bank.
That was about the time Mother tried to get to see you. She did so want
to have you visit us. She was all in when she came back with that
picture of you and said they wouldn't let her see you. She'd counted on
bringing you home. We'd all counted on it. And then all of a sudden the
man where Dad worked died, and his business went flooey, and Dad
couldn't get anything else right away except a little accountant job
that didn't pay much. He took it and kept on trying for something
better, but things were going bad, and Mother had to have an operation,
and the kids were sick, and Dad had to put a mortgage on the house, and
the next thing that happened the Building Association that had the
mortgage went up, and they demanded the money right away, all of it, and
Dad hadn't been able to pay the interest for a couple of times, so they
took away the house. Oh, it was a mess, and then Dad got sick, and
everything's been going from bad to worse ever since."

"Oh, my dear!" said Marjorie quite honestly crying now. "My dear! I'm so
sorry you've been going through all that!"

"Well, don't bawl!" said Ted crossly, brushing his hand over his own
eyes. "I can't stand bawling! I just told ya because I thought you'd
wantta know. We haven't always been down and out this way. We had a
swell home!"

"Well, now let's make this one as cheerful as we can before evening,"
said Marjorie taking a deep breath. "I'll get the money!"

She went into the parlor to her handbag that she had left on the bare
little high mantel shelf and brought back a roll of bills that made
Ted's eyes open wide.

"I put in a little extra," said his sister smiling. "I thought perhaps
you'd think of something we need that I've forgotten."

"Gosh!" said Ted gazing down at the roll of bills in his hand. "Don't
know's I can trust myself out alone. I might get held up carrying all
this wealth."

She smiled. It seemed a very small amount of money to her.

"Get anything you want, you know. I'm not used to providing for a
family. I got everything I could think of at the little store down here,
but I suppose I've left out a lot of things. Soap is one. Better get
plenty. Betty says there isn't any in the house. And potatoes. We could
have roasted potatoes for dinner tonight. I got a beefsteak!"

The boy grinned.

"I can see where you're going to spoil us for living again when you're
gone."

"Gone!" said Marjorie with dismay in her voice. "Do you want me to go?"

"No, not on yer life! But you're not going to stick around these
diggings. Not with the home you've been used to! You'll be spreading
your wings and flying away!" and he gave her a sudden quick look. "Say!"
he added irrelevantly, "you look a lot like Betts, and yet you don't. I
could tell you apart already! You don't look quite so frowsy as Betty,
and you've got a cute little quirk in the corners of your mouth. Maybe
Betty would look like that too if she hadn't had to work so hard, and
have such a lot of trouble."

"You're sweet!" said Marjorie, and suddenly reached up with a quick
motion and kissed her new brother on his lean hard young cheek.

He blinked and the color went up in a great wave, and receding left it
white, and his eyes shadowed and weary-looking.

"Okay with me!" he grinned. "If that's your line you better give warning
next time. We don't have much time for mush and sob-stuff!"

Then he turned sharply away toward the window and she saw him brush his
hand across his eyes, and swallow hard.

"Okay with me!" said Marjorie, trying to make her voice sound as much
like his a minute before as she could. And suddenly he laughed.

"You're aw'right," he said grudgingly.

"Thanks awfully!" said Marjorie, trying to enter into his spirit. "But
who is that coming in the door?"

"That's Bud," said Ted, peering through the crack into the hall. "Hey,
Kid! Hush up there! Dad and Muth's asleep! They're sick and yer not ta
make a noise! Come on out here an' shut the door carefully."

A boy about ten came panting into the room, so out of breath he could
scarcely articulate.

"They--sent me--ta tell ya--!" he panted. "You gotta come right away an'
get the kids. Bonnie's got a fever--an' she--wouldn't eat her
cereal--an' she is crying for Betty--an' Sunny is yellin' his head off!"

"Good night!" said Ted. "Who told you that?"

"Miss Baker! She said we'd haveta take 'em home. She said they couldn't
do--a thing 'ith Sunny since Bonnie got sick. They said--" he was still
puffing and panting from his run--"they said--they hadta--have the
beds--fer the--little kids. They got too many--an' ours gotta come home
now."

"Okay, you come with me, Kid. We'll get 'em," said Ted, "but I don't
know what we'll do with 'em here. Gosh! Can you beat it?" He cast
an apologetic eye at the new sister.

"What is it?" she asked puzzled. "Who are they?"

"The kids!" answered the brother in astonishment. "Didn't you know about
them?"

"No!" said Marjorie. "Oh, I remember, Betty said something when I first
came about taking the children somewhere, but I had forgotten about it.
I didn't realize there were more of us."

"Two besides Bud!" said Ted lifting his chin maturely and sighing. "I
don't know how we're going to make the grade with any more sick folks."

Marjorie gave a little gasp of amazement and then her soft lips set
firmly.

"We'll manage!" she said. "I'll go with you to get them. I can carry one
of them."

The boy Bud was standing now gazing at her in a kind of distress.

"Who's that?" he ejaculated pointing to Marjorie, his eyes wide with a
kind of fear. "Where's Betty? That's not Betty."

"No," said Ted, "she's the new sister. Did you have any lunch, Bud?"

"Naw. They wouldn't give me any. They said I didn't belong. They said I
was too big to be there and I couldn't come tamorra. And anyhow I hate
'em. They kep' tellin' me I oughtta be in school."

"Well, don't worry. You don't havta go again. We've got a fire now."

"Gee! It feels good!" said the child rubbing his red cold hands
together. "I'm gonta stand over the register. Say, gimme a little piece
of bread, can't ya? I'm holler!"

"You poor child!" exclaimed the new sister in horror. "Wait. I'll make
him a sandwich before I go. It won't take a minute!"

"Who said sandridge?" said Bud. "Not honest? Gee! Where'dya get the ham?
Real ham!"

He watched with shining eyes and grabbed the sandwich eagerly, too
hungry to wait for an answer to his question, accepting the new sister
quite casually, as being not nearly so important as the sandwich to his
poor starving little stomach.

"Do you like ham?" smiled Marjorie as she buttered another generous
slice of bread.

"I'll say!" said the urchin taking enormous bites of his sandwich.

"How about a glass of milk?" she asked.

"Got milk too? Okay with me!"

She laughed and poured out a brimming glass of milk, and then brought
out an orange and some little cookies from a tin.

"Gosh!" he said eyeing the spread with genuine amazement, his jaws
pausing for a second in their vigorous chewing. "All that!"

"Will that keep you busy till we get back?" asked Marjorie with another
smile.

"I'll say!"

"Well, don't make any noise. You just stay here and keep the door and be
ready to open it for us when we get back with the children!"

Then Marjorie flung on her coat, and put on her hat as she went out the
door with Ted.

"Say, you don't needta come," said Ted with belated courtesy. "I can
manage with the two kids. Sunny'll run along beside me, and Bonnie is
nearly seven. She can walk all right."

"But if she has a fever she ought not to walk," said Marjorie. "Is she
too heavy for you to carry? Couldn't we get a taxi?"

Ted grinned.

"Taxis don't grow around here," he said significantly. "Sure, I can
carry her if it's necessary. It's only a little over three blocks."

They walked along almost a block before Marjorie spoke again and a great
shyness was possessing Ted. Out in the sunshine with this strange new
sister, who looked so much like Betty, and yet was different, who
dressed like a "swell" and used scarcely any slang at all, he was deeply
embarrassed. Conscious too of his shabby trousers, and torn old sweater,
awfully conscious of that lovely squirrel coat she was wearing, and the
chic little hat perched on her golden head. She seemed a strange lady
from another world. In the house it had been comparatively easy to
converse with another Betty, who was wearing Betty's apron, cleaning off
pantry shelves and scrambling eggs. But out here it was different. He
felt that everyone they met was staring at him, and comparing his
shabbiness with his new sister's elegance.

Then Marjorie spoke.

"You said something about the beds, but I didn't take it in. Is there a
place for the children? I expect the little girl with a fever ought to
be put to bed at once. Where does she sleep? Will it disturb Father and
Mother to put her to bed? I think it's important that they should not be
disturbed."

"I was just wondering about that myself," said Ted in a troubled voice.
"There's only three rooms upstairs. Bonnie has always had her little bed
in Betty's room and Sunny's crib was in mine. But we had to sell their
beds last week, to buy medicine for Mother. Bonnie's been sleeping on
the mattress with Betty since, and Sunny with me."

He looked up half fearfully, almost defiantly, wondering what she would
think of such poverty.

"I see," said Marjorie thoughtfully. "Well, we've got to do something
else right away, I guess, if she really has a fever. She ought not to be
down so near the floor. There are draughts on the floor."

Ted looked up thoughtfully.

"I could get Bonnie's bed," he said. "It's a light little thing made of
bamboo. It was Betty's when she was a kid. I know where I could borrow a
wheelbarrow. Two or three trips would do it."

"That's fine!" said Marjorie. "Suppose you do that as soon as we get
them home. Has it a mattress?"

"Yes, and a pillow. Poor kid! She cried for her own pillow the first
night it was gone. Funny little things, kids. They don't use their
brains! Haveta have what they want."

Marjorie smiled at him.

"I guess we're a little like them, aren't we? Want what we want very
badly. I know I am. That's why I came away off here hunting you all. I
wanted a family badly!"

He grinned speculatively at that and didn't know what to say, but at
last blurted out:

"I guess it would have made a lot of difference if we'd known you felt
that way."

"Well, I'm sorry we didn't all understand sooner," said Marjorie, "but
perhaps we can make up for lost time now."

Then they arrived at the neighborhood crèche and Ted led the way in.




V


About that time back at Marjorie's home in Chicago Evan Brower was
standing at the front door impatiently ringing the doorbell.

He had been called away from the city on business the morning after his
call upon Marjorie, returning about the middle of the next afternoon,
and finding it a bit late for going to his office had decided to run in
informally and see Marjorie.

Perhaps courtesy really demanded that he wait until she gave him the
promised telephone call, but he had never stood on ceremony with the
Wetherill household, and he had the excuse that he had been away and
therefore did not know but she had called during his absence. So he
drove directly to her home without waiting to inquire if she had called.
It made a very good case for him, and also indirectly showed his
devotion and eagerness to see her. So there he stood, and wondered why
the faithful servants allowed him to wait so long for admittance.

Since he had left her, Evan Brower had been vaguely disturbed by
Marjorie's attitude, and wished he had stayed, in spite of her request
that he go and let her think things over. He should have reasoned with
her right then and there. It was not like what he thought she was that
she should have even considered such a romantic idea as running off
after an unknown family, who would likely take instant advantage of her
and her fortune.

He had never considered Marjorie Wetherill impulsive before, but now he
recalled a certain look in her eyes as she had spoken of her own people,
that smacked of fanaticism. Of course when he had tried to warn her
gently he had used the phrase "over-conscientiousness," but to himself
he called it by what he felt was its true name. He reasoned that
sentimentality often developed into fanaticism, and it had certainly
seemed as if Marjorie was sentimental toward her real parents. Though
she had always seemed sweet and sane in everything, it was quite
possible that in her present lonely state she might go off at a tangent,
aided by an over strong conscience, and commit herself to these
strangers in some way that would hamper her all her life, unless she was
restrained. He blamed himself that he hadn't exerted his utmost to
restrain her before he allowed her to cut short the interview.

Also, she was young and utterly without experience in financial affairs,
and here she was suddenly left with a fairly large fortune, and menaced
by a family of unknown quantity and quality. There was no telling to
what lengths of generosity these people might lead her before her
friends could rescue her. And of course if he was going to marry her, as
he had about come to the conclusion he would, he certainly did not want
a lot of impecunious in-laws hanging around his neck. Neither did he
want his future wife's ample inheritance divided with people who had no
right to a cent of it. They had probably been well paid for giving up
their baby, and they had no right whatever, according to the adoption
contract, to bother her in any way at any time. He felt surprised and
annoyed that Mrs. Wetherill should have been so weak as to leave a hint
of their whereabouts. Probably in her last hours she was suddenly
attacked by a morbid conscience, but it was most ungenerous in her to
have cast the whole matter off onto Marjorie. She must have known of
course that it would trouble her.

These thoughts had been milling about in his brain all day as he drove
from one appointment to the other and then back to his home city, coming
straight out to Wetherill's instead of going to the office first.

But after the third ringing of the bell he grew alarmed. What could have
happened? Surely they would not leave the house with no one to answer
the door!

He walked around the house to the garage where he found the chauffeur
out washing the car.

"What is the reason I cannot get any answer to my ring?" he asked
severely. He was the kind of young man who always required perfect
service, and usually got it.

The chauffeur looked up from his work deferentially, recognizing a
friend of the family.

"Why, sir, they're all away for the holidays. Miss Wetherill went last
night and gave all the servants a holiday while she is gone. Very kind
of her, sir. She's always kind."

"Indeed!" said Evan Brower as if it were somehow the chauffeur's fault.
"It must have been a sudden decision. I'm sure she had no idea of going
away immediately when I was here night before last. Nothing happened,
did it? I mean, like a funeral, sudden death of a friend, or something?
She didn't get a telegram that sent her off so soon?"

"I wouldn't be supposed to know, sir," said the chauffeur. "I'm not a
house servant, you know, and I didn't happen to hear the others say."

"You don't know where she's gone? Haven't you her address?"

"No, sir, I haven't. She said she'd write me a day or so before she
returned so I'd know to start up the heater, and expect the other
servants. She only said she was away for the holidays, and that she
might be visiting relatives. She wasn't sure how long she would stay.
Probably till after the New Year."

Evan Brower frowned. This was really serious. What a fool he had been
not to make Marjorie sit down and listen to him the other night!

"But don't you know where she went? What city? Whether she went east or
west?"

"No, sir, I don't. She sent me to take the servants to their trains. She
said she would take a taxi. When I got back she was gone and the house
locked. She left the key with Martha, my wife."

An interview with Martha brought no further information, except that
Martha was sure she did not take a trunk.

"Only a couple of suitcases, or bags. I couldn't rightly see which from
here," said Martha. "I'm not one to be snooping. I just happened to be
out in the side yard hanging up a couple of pieces I had washed out when
the taxi drove in. I can just see the front door from where the line
hangs. The driver brought out her things and she got in and drove off.
That's all."

Evan Brower got into his car and drove away in much dissatisfaction. It
was good, of course, to know that she had probably not taken a trunk,
and therefore could not have gone for long, but she had gone, and left
no clues behind her, and a great deal of damage can be done to a fortune
in a very few days, or even hours. In much perturbation he went to his
office and then to his home inquiring for telephone calls, but there
had been none from Marjorie. Then he opened his mail and found her brief
note.

So! She had gone. Headstrong little girl! Impetuous! He hadn't thought
she was like that. If he married her, and he had practically committed
himself to that course, he would certainly have to train that out of
her.

After some hard thinking he finally called up the Wetherill lawyer, and
was fortunate enough to find him still in his office.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Melbourne, this is Evan Brower. Sorry to have
interrupted you, but I won't keep you but a minute."

"Oh, that's all right, Brower, I was just leaving for home anyway. Work
all done for the day, I'm happy to say. What can I do for you?"

"Why, I am just wondering whether Marjorie Wetherill happened to leave
her address with you? She spoke of the possibility of her being away for
the holidays, but I don't think she expected to go so soon. I've been
away for a day and I find she's already gone. I wondered if she left her
address with you? I am sending her a remembrance for Christmas and want
to give the address when I order it."

"Well, now that's too bad!" said the kindly old lawyer. "I had a
telephone message from Miss Wetherill saying she was to be away during
the holidays, and would send me an address later. But I fancy if you
just address it to her home here the post office will forward it. She
likely left her address with the carrier. However, I'll be glad to send
it to you as soon as I get it."

Evan Brower thanked the lawyer and hung up, frowning. So that was that,
and he couldn't do a thing about it. Marjorie had slipped neatly through
his fingers and gone her own way in spite of his protests. He would try
the letter carrier and post office of course, though they were not
supposed to give such information. Well, she would have to learn her own
lesson by the hardest. But, would she learn it before it was too late?
There was no reason why she should let her property drift through her
fingers to a lot of unprincipled relatives, just because she was sorry
for them.

But the post office when consulted said they were to hold all mail for
further orders. She had left no address.

Well, somehow he must get in touch with her. Perhaps Melbourne would
hear from her in a few days and then he would make a little trip out to
wherever she was and bring her back. She would likely be good and sick
of her new family by that time and be glad to be rescued. Also it would
give him a good chance to look this family over and see what were the
possibilities before he put his head into the noose of marriage. One had
to be careful, of course, for the future. Though if he really decided to
marry Marjorie he would trust himself to get rid of any objectionable
relatives. Perhaps it would be as well for someone from her home to meet
them and freeze them out right at the start. Marjorie might not like
that, but what she didn't know wouldn't need to trouble her, and if it
were wisely done, and if they had any shame at all a hint or two quietly
given would subdue them. He flattered himself he could deal with them
right at the start. Mrs. Wetherill had been able to hold them off for
years, hadn't she? Well, he could do at least as well as a woman.

So he went his way, and made his plans for going after Marjorie when the
right moment should come, and that would be the first minute he knew
where to find her.

He went out and bought a delightful Christmas gift for her. He even went
so far as to look at engagement rings. And he called up Mr. Melbourne at
frequent intervals to know if he had heard from Marjorie yet.

The more he thought about it the more his thoughts became intrigued with
the girl who was so sweet and unspoiled. How easily she could be molded
to fit the environment in which she would live if she were his wife. He
spent a good deal of his leisure time planning how he would mold her.
The more he planned the more sure he was that he was going to ask her to
marry him. And of course she would accept him. There wasn't any question
about that. Not that Evan Brower was conceited. But he was strong in the
knowledge that his was an old family, that his family and the Wetherills
had been friends for years, that he had been fairly successful even so
early in his business career, and he was popular and good-looking. He
couldn't help knowing the latter, although he hoped he had never let it
make him vain. He despised men who were vain of their looks. One
couldn't help one's looks. They were merely an asset.

Then, he reflected, Marjorie had always been fond of his company, had
been ready to accept his invitations always, although until recently he
had taken her out very little. There was no reason thinkable why she
should not want to marry him. He was sure he had seen genuine admiration
in her eyes. Yes, and her hand surely lingered in his the first time he
came to see her after Mrs. Wetherill's death, as if she naturally turned
to him in her sorrow. Of course, why shouldn't she? He was one of the
closest friends of the family.

And it was quite the appropriate thing for him to marry her. More and
more as he turned it over in his mind his common sense as well as his
inclination approved the plan. And it was comfortable to think of the
girl of his choice as being utterly unspoiled by contact with the world.
She had been guarded so carefully all her life, surrounded with just the
right environment, just the right companions. None of the noisy
ill-bred ways of the social life of the day had touched her. There had
been no other man in her life, he was sure of that. He would not have to
worry about any youthful indiscretions. Innocent and lovely, that was
what she was, and very likely he had been the ideal man in her eyes. It
was most desirable to have a wife who adored one and had never turned
her thoughts toward another. Not that he had always had one ideal of
womanhood, himself; but of course men were different. It was man's part
to choose, and naturally, he had considered other girls, but had never
been quite satisfied.

Of course, there were things about Marjorie that might be changed. But
he could change them, he had no doubt. Take, for instance, her
conscience, which seemed to work a little too easily where others were
concerned. She was almost too self-sacrificing. True, that might be a
good thing in a wife toward her husband, but not toward the world in
general. However, that could be easily remedied. And of course it would
be different when she had a man of her own to think about and consider
first.

He began to think back to his first consciousness of Marjorie, when she
had come home from college after graduation. Of course he had seen and
known her before that, in fact nearly all her life. But he had then
become conscious of her as a woman. He remembered her as she sat in
church, across the aisle, a row in front of where he was sitting with
his mother. He had never noticed her beauty till then. She was wearing a
little spring suit of gray tweed, and a small round hat that showed her
gold hair, and the delicate oval of her rounded cheek. He had been
struck with her beauty then, and wondered that he had never seen it
before, wondered that here was a lovely person right at hand, who seemed
somehow to have been kept from the common trend of modernism. He had
glanced from her to Mrs. Wetherill, patrician in every line of her tall
body and every feature of her handsome face, and wondered that she had
been able to put the imprint of herself so unmistakably upon the girl
whom she had taken in babyhood and brought up as her own. Whatever was
behind the girl's early life that might have been undesirable was surely
obliterated. The girl had conformed utterly to the model of a
well-balanced, sane, conservative life of culture and refinement, and,
to a degree, of religious belief. She would be an ornament anywhere, one
of whom to be proud.

He had watched her during the service, as she gave attention to the
sermon; her sweet seriousness attracted him strongly. From that time he
played more or less with the thought of her as a life companion. He
began to take her out, cautiously, as was his nature, studying her from
every angle, exploring the ways of her keen young mind, probing to the
depths of her nature. He marveled at her quick clear judgment in most
things, her willingness to be taught, her yielding nature, so free from
selfish aims, so utterly free from self-consciousness and self-esteem.

This difference they had had the last time he had talked with her, about
hunting up her own people, had been the first unwise decision he had
ever seen her make. Doubtless harking back to something primitive in her
nature, he told himself. But as such it should be dealt with at once and
summarily, for the sake of her future and his own.

Restlessly he argued these things over and over in his mind as the days
went by and he heard nothing from Marjorie, yet he could think of no way
to get into touch with her that would not cause publicity and comment.

In the meantime his mind was making itself up very definitely that
Marjorie was desirable. The more so as he discovered through an old
friend and confidante of the Wetherill family that an unusually large
number of shares of a very valuable stock were a part of the Wetherill
estate which Marjorie had inherited. Marjorie had a lot of money and
needed the right man to look after it. And he was convinced that he was
the right man.

That was the day he selected the great blue diamond engagement ring.




VI


But Marjorie was walking along a sordid back street holding the thin
cold hand of a little new brother who was crying.

The child looked anything but sunny as he dragged his reluctant young
feet along, trying to pull away from this strange new sister who looked
just enough like the familiar sister Betty to frighten him. There were
tears running down his thin cheeks, tears freezing on his chin and nose.

Some benighted visitor to the Day Nursery had administered a square of
cheap chocolate as an antidote to fright and homesickness and hunger,
and the recipient while devouring it had not ceased to wail, thus
mingling the chocolate with the tears, and applying most of it
externally.

The baby-gold of his curls was matted in a tangle, the curls that had
given him his happy little name of Sunny, and the faded red cap was awry
on them. The small thread-bare coat that had seen several steps of the
Gay family through the baby stage had lost most of its buttons and was
dragging open showing a mended blouse much the worse for chocolate and
the wear and tear of the day. One stocking had come down around Sunny's
ankle showing a bare little knee rough and red with cold.

"I--d-d-don't--vantta--valk--vif--her!" he was wailing in a voice half
way between a howl and hysteria. "I vants--my--B-B-Bet-ty! I vants
my--muvver!"

The passers-by stared after them, the beautiful girl in the expensive
fur coat and the smart hat and gloves, dragging the howling dirty child;
the shabby young fellow carrying a little girl in his arms, a little
girl with scarlet cheeks, who lay back unresisting, one arm hanging down
limply, one little bare hand sticking forth from a too-short sleeve. It
made a queer procession, and people stopped amused.

"Shut up, Sunny!" growled Ted, plodding along behind. His own strength
was none too great in spite of his recent meal, and Bonnie was a dead
weight, even though she looked frail.

Instantly the indignant baby turned back and dragged at his captive
hand.

"I d-d-don't vantta--go vif her! I vants _you_ to tarry me, Teddy!"

"Aw, be a man, Sunny boy!" implored Ted desperately. "Can't you see I've
got to carry Bonnie? Bonnie's sick! Be a good kid and walk along with
your new sister. She's okay, Sunny. We're almost home."

"Naw! I von't valk vif her! I vants _you_ to tarry me!"

Marjorie suddenly stooped down and swept the youngster into her arms.
She had never had much to do with children before, but she was quite
strong and held him firmly.

"_I'll_ carry you," she said brightly, struggling with the frantic
child. "There! There, you're cold. See, I'll tuck you inside this nice
kitty-coat!"

She unbuttoned her coat and put him within its folds.

"There! There! Poor little boy! You are cold and tired, aren't you?
Sister will wipe your face nice and dry!"

She fumbled for her handkerchief with one free hand, and the young man
dealt her a few futile kicks.

It wasn't an easy trip, that, but Marjorie was very determined when she
started a thing, and at last, breathless and aching in every muscle, she
arrived at the house, a little behind Ted and his burden.

Bud opened the door for them, a large piece of bread and butter in one
hand. Betty stood on the stairs, her eyes wide with anxiety at this new
catastrophe as the little procession filed in.

Sunny, standing on his own feet in the hallway, went with a howl to
Betty, and was promptly hushed with a promise of bread and jelly and a
glass of milk. Her glance went anxiously toward the inert Bonnie, who
opened indifferent eyes, took in that she was at home, sighed and lay
back in Ted's arms.

"What am I going to do with her, Betts? Take her upstairs to your bed?"
asked Ted, leaning against the wall for support as he held the child
still in his arms.

"No, you can't do that. Father's asleep there, and we mustn't disturb
either of them," said Betty in distress.

"Let's go into the kitchen where they can't hear us," suggested
Marjorie. "And, Ted, you give her to me and you go for her bed. I'll sit
down and hold her till we get a place to put her."

They adjourned to the kitchen where Betty stopped Sunny's mouth with a
plentiful slice of bread and jelly and seated him on a box to enjoy it.

"I'll get a couple of comforters and make a place for her on the floor,"
said Betty. "You can't sit and hold her. She's heavy."

"She's not heavy," said Marjorie gathering the unresisting Bonnie into
her arms. "Get me her nightie and I'll fix her comfortably. My! She's
hot. I wish I had my thermometer here. Ted, you'd better stop at the
drugstore and get me a clinical thermometer. Get the best one they have.
Then we'll know what we're about. If she has much of a fever we'd better
send for the doctor again. But hurry back with the bed as fast as you
can. What if you took Bud with you and sent him back with the
thermometer?" said Marjorie, all business now, as she held the little
sick girl gently and began to slip off her little coat and unfasten her
shoes. "She's pretty hot," she went on. "Bud could come right back,
couldn't he?"

"Sure!" said Bud importantly, ruffling his sticky fingers through his
red curls.

"And, Ted," said Marjorie as Ted was about to go out the door, "I think
you'd better see about getting that truck right away and get the rest of
the things here as soon as possible. There ought to be some place for
the rest of you to be comfortable. Don't wait till dark. What does it
matter about the neighbors?"

"Okay," said Ted with a glance out the window, "but it won't be long
before it's dark now, anyhow. It's gonta snow, and the sky is heavy.
I'll bring Bonnie's bed in a hand cart and then I'll go right over for
the truck. Come on, Bud. Let's go!"

Betty appeared with her arms full of ragged quilts.

"These are all there are left except the ones over Mother and Father,"
she said anxiously. "Do you think she's very sick? I don't know the
first thing about doctoring. Mother always did that. I've always been in
school or the office since I was old enough."

"I know a lot about sickness," said Marjorie comfortingly. "You know
Moth--that is, Mrs. Wetherill, was sick for several months before she
died, and I helped take care of her, until toward the end when we had to
have two nurses. Besides, I took a short course in the hospital. Mrs.
Wetherill thought it was a good thing for everybody to know at least a
little about nursing. I can't be sure how sick she is till I take her
temperature. But we'd better get her into a comfortable position as
quickly as possible. Has she been sick at all before this? How was she
this morning?"

"Why, I didn't notice much," said the troubled Betty. "She complained of
a stomach ache last night, and I thought it was just emptiness, because
she'd had so little to eat, but she didn't say anything about it this
morning. She didn't even ask for breakfast, and so I let her go without
it because I knew they always gave the children milk at the nursery
about half past ten."

"Her vouldn't dink her mi'k," volunteered Sunny, suddenly emerging from
his bread and jelly.

The sisters exchanged troubled glances.

Then Sunny vouchsafed more information.

"Her eated hot dogs, 'esterday!" he announced.

"Hot dogs?" said Betty sharply. "Where did she get hot dogs?"

"They vas cold," said the newsmonger. "Ole Sam frowed 'em out from
th'back vindow of th'lunch car fer his dog, only Bonnie picked 'em up
'afore the dog could get there! I telled her not!" he added virtuously.
"I didn't eat 'em. _I'm_ a _good_ boy! I only eated one little teeny
bitta bite. But it didn't hurt me! I'm stwong!" He swelled his little
chest out boastfully.

Betty looked at him aghast.

"You mean our Bonnie ate sausages that Old Sam threw away? Oh, Sunny! Do
you know what you are saying?"

"Wes!" said Sunny firmly.

"Oh!" groaned Betty, "that must be it! She's got ptomaine poisoning.
I've heard spoiled sausages are awful! And Sam's place is a terrible
little joint. Oh, I ought not to have trusted them to go alone with
Bud, but Mother was so sick then, and Ted was gone, and Father too, and
the house was so terribly cold I didn't dare let them stay here any
longer, so I let them go with Bud. He promised me he would walk right
straight there and not let them out of his sight!"

"Bud was chasin' a alley cat!" said Sunny with a spice of relish in his
voice.

"Well, if it's just a stomach upset, perhaps it won't amount to much,"
said Marjorie. "She's pretty hot, but if it's stomach I know what to do.
The doctor said he wouldn't be back in his office till half past five,
didn't he? We'll do our best till then, and if she doesn't seem better
we'll have him come right away. Now don't you cry, Betty! It wasn't your
fault. And I don't believe she's going to be very sick. Let's just get
busy planning what to do, and then there won't be time to feel worried.
How about dinner? Do we need anything else? And can you cook steak?"

"Steak!" said Betty. "Did you bring steak? Of course I can cook steak.
That is if I haven't forgotten how. It's ages since we had a real steak
in the house."

"There are potatoes to roast, too," said Marjorie. "And some vegetables,
cans of things, you know. I didn't think we'd have much time to cook
fresh ones today while everybody was sick. But I got some lean beef. I
thought the sick people would need beef tea perhaps, and I know how to
make that. As soon as we get this little sister fixed comfortably in bed
I'll start some, and then it will have time to get cool and be
thoroughly skimmed from grease before it is needed."

All the time she was talking Marjorie was gently undressing her little
sister, marveling at the touch of the soft childish flesh, thrilling to
think that it was her own little sister to whom she was ministering.

Betty was spreading the comforters down on the floor, plumping a pitiful
tiny pillow.

Then Bud arrived with the thermometer.

While Marjorie was taking the child's temperature Betty put on a kettle
of water to heat, and got out some potatoes to wash. It was five
o'clock. Supper would have to get itself done somehow while everything
else was going on. Betty had a frightened sinking feeling. Her own head
was dizzy and her eyes heavy with sleep. If Bonnie was going to be sick
what would they do? They never could carry on with another patient in
the house, and oh, they couldn't let dear little Bonnie go off alone to
the hospital. Bonnie who was so shy of strangers! The tears were
slipping softly down Betty's white cheeks.

And there sat that new sister-interloper, holding a thermometer and
watching Bonnie with her heart in her eyes. A pang of jealousy went
through poor tired Betty's heart. She ought to be caring for Bonnie, not
a stranger, even though she was a kind stranger who had furnished money
for coal and bread and oranges and gas and light and a doctor!

But just then Sunny, having finished his bread and jelly, created a
quick diversion by climbing to the pantry shelf and bringing down the
tin can of sand tarts to the floor with a bang, tin can, sand tarts,
Sunny and all. The cover rolled off with a tinny cry of triumph, and
Sunny came upright with a howl that Betty had to rush to suppress
quickly lest it should waken the invalids upstairs.

When she had quieted him by washing his exceedingly dirty face, and
telling him he must be a man because Father and Mother and little sister
were so sick, Marjorie was holding up the thermometer to the light to
read it.

"It's only a little over a hundred and one, just barely a shade," she
said triumphantly. "Our doctor used to say that unless a temperature
went above a hundred and one there was no need to worry. Now, we'll get
to work and see if we can't bring this fever down. Is that water hot
yet? You'll have to help me. Sunny, how about your going into the other
room and drawing pictures? I've got a note book and little pencil in my
handbag, and I'll lend them to you if you'll be a good boy and stay in
the other room and draw until we get sister in bed and comfortable."

"Okay!" said the subdued baby gulping the last sob.

By the time Ted arrived with the hand cart the sisters had Bonnie
established on a hard little bed on the floor in the kitchen.

"I believe she's getting a little cooler already," said Betty stooping
to lay her hand lightly on the little forehead that had been so very hot
but a few minutes before. "You don't think we need to call the doctor
again, do you?"

"We'll see," said Marjorie. "I'll take her temperature again in a little
while, and we'll call him if necessary. I don't believe in wasting time
if there is any doubt."

"But there will be so much to pay," protested Betty. "You've done so
much already. You don't realize how quickly bills mount up, and I do."

Marjorie smiled.

"It's all right, dear," she said slipping an arm around her new sister.
"There's money enough for this and a lot of other things, and what's
mine is yours, you know. Now don't think anything more about it. Isn't
that Ted with the things? We ought to manage not to have the door open
much to cool off the house. Perhaps Bud would stand there by the door
and open and shut it softly. We mustn't let them make a noise."

"Of course not," said Betty alertly. "I'll see to that. I'll go talk to
Ted. Mother would get so excited if she knew what was going on. What has
Ted been after, anyway? Bonnie's bed?"

"I told him to bring that first and then go get a truck and bring all
the rest of the things."

"Oh!" said Betty breathless with relief. "Oh! Won't that be wonderful!
But--what a lot we'll owe you."

"Don't, please!" said Marjorie sharply. "You hurt me! I'm your sister!
You don't owe me a thing."

Then they heard the front door open and heavy footsteps tramping in, and
the girls flew to caution Ted, and set Bud to watch the door.

"I found Bill hanging round with nothing to do, so we brought
everything," explained Ted in a low mumble to Marjorie, as he measured
his step to suit the step of Bill, the rough truck driver in a sheepskin
coat with a greasy cap on the back of his head.

It proved a bit hard to subdue Bill's voice and step, but Betty was
vigilant, and Bud was delighted with his office of doorkeeper, and it
didn't take long after all to marshall in the poor bits of household
comfort that had gone out one by one to supply necessities. When the
door shut at last on Bill, and they heard his truck drive away, the
brothers and sisters looked at one another in the garish light of a
single stark electric bulb swinging from a long wire in the parlor
ceiling and drew breaths of relief. Suddenly Betty dropped down in a big
shabby faded chair, buried her face in her hands, her weary slender
young shoulders shaking with the sobs she would not allow to become
audible.

Marjorie was by her side instantly, her arms about her.

"There, dear! Don't cry. Poor dear! You're so tired, aren't you? But
listen! We're going to have a nice supper now and a good time getting
things to rights. Come, cheer up! You'll have to put things in their
places because I don't know where they belong."

Betty raised tearstained eyes and began to laugh softly, hysterically.

"I'm--only crying--because it's so wonderful--to see our old things back
again!" she gurgled. "I used to hate them all so, this faded chair, and
couch, and those ugly tables, but now I'm so glad to see them!"

Marjorie smiled.

"Well, it does seem more homelike, doesn't it? My! That couch looks good
to me. I'm going to try it after a while, but now I'm going to take
Bonnie's temperature again and see whether we need the doctor."

But while she was taking the temperature, the doctor arrived.

"I've had a call out into the country," he explained as Betty opened the
door for him, "and I might have to be gone all night. I thought I'd
better just step in and see how the patients are before I leave. I want
to make sure your mother's lungs are not involved before I go so far
away!"

Betty went with him upstairs, hurrying to close the doors into the other
empty rooms so that he would not see their bareness, resolving not to
let him disturb her father if she could help it. She knew he would be
terribly mortified to have the doctor see him asleep on a mattress on
the floor.

Ted came in the back door just as the doctor went upstairs, and Marjorie
turned to him with troubled eyes.

"Ted, could you help me put Bonnie in on the couch?" she asked. "The
doctor is upstairs and I think he ought to see her. Her temperature is
going up in spite of all I've done, and she ought to have some medicine.
It looks better in there than here."

Ted turned and glanced down at the hot little face on the pillow with
new dismay in his eyes.

"Good night!" he said sorrowfully. "Can you beat it? Everything comes at
once. Sure we can move her. I'll carry her and you fix the covers."

He stooped and lifted the little girl gently. Marjorie hurried ahead
with the quilts and pillow, and in a moment the child was comfortably
established on the old couch.

"I'm glad I laid down the rug first," said Ted standing back and casting
a critical glance around. "It doesn't look so bad here, does it?"

"No," said Marjorie with a bright smile, covering a sinking at heart.
"It just looks homey, as if it was lived in, you know."

She straightened a chair, and wiped the dust from the table. Then went
over to the bookcase and took out two or three books, laying them on the
table as if they had been recently read.

"I'm glad you brought the books," she said with satisfaction. "It never
looks like home without books."

"I guess that's so," said the boy seriously. "I brought them because
Mother loves them so much. I didn't know whether I ought to or not. We
can't sleep on books, nor wear them. Maybe I should have saved the
money, but he didn't allow but three cents apiece on them, so I thought
I'd bring them."

"Of course. That was right! I wanted you to bring everything back. Are
you sure there aren't any more?"

"Clothes!" said Ted laconically. "But we sold them out and out. Betts
thought we wouldn't want to wear them anyway after they'd hung up in the
window of that junk shop for everybody to stare at and recognize."

"Of course not!" said Marjorie suppressing a little shudder of horror.
"Well, we'll look after those things later when everyone gets well and
things are going comfortably here. Oh, we'll have things all right by
Christmas."

"Christmas!" said Ted a trifle bitterly. "It'll be Christmas enough for
me just to have our things back, and enough to eat and have it warm
here!"

And then they heard the doctor coming down the stairs and the talk was
cut short.

"All going well above stairs," he announced cheerfully. "Mother's
breaking into a nice perspiration, and her lungs are clear so far. I
don't expect her fever to go up tonight at all."

He glanced down at Marjorie.

"You're the sister, aren't you? You two are very much alike. Well, I
think you can be easy in your mind. I didn't go in to look at your
father. Your sister said he was sleeping quietly, and that was all he
needed, rest. He's been worried of course, like everybody else in these
days of depression, but if he gets rested up he'll take hold of things
with new zest. So you girls needn't worry. Anyhow I'll be back in the
morning and if you need anything early you can call me."

"But we have another patient in here," said Marjorie. "I think you'd
better look at her before you go. I've done all I know how to do but her
temperature seems to be going up in spite of it."

She led the way to the couch.

"We put her down here so we wouldn't disturb Mother," she explained.

The doctor bent over the little girl, touched the hot forehead, the limp
wrist, counting the pulse, then he straightened up, asked a few keen
questions, and called for glasses of water and teaspoons.

"I'll get them," said Ted, and hurried to the kitchen terribly glad that
the teaspoons were back from the pawn shop.

Betty came downstairs while the doctor was giving directions. She stood
by the doorway looking anxiously at the little sick sister.

"I don't anticipate anything serious," said the doctor with a smile
toward Betty, and another at Marjorie. "Her fever may go up a trifle
until midnight, but there's nothing to be alarmed about. Give the
medicine regularly and I think you'll see the fever go down before
morning. Thanks to your prompt treatment I think the worst is over. It's
her stomach, of course. Children will eat all sorts of things, you know.
It looks like a light case of ptomaine, but I think she'll come out all
right."

Betty and Marjorie exchanged glances, and then Betty spoke up, telling
about the "hot-dogs-that-were-cold," that Sunny had said Bonnie had
eaten. Betty's face was crimson with shame lest the doctor would wonder
why a child would be so hungry that she would pick up cast out food, but
the doctor took it in a very matter-of-fact way, twinkling his nice kind
brown eyes at Betty, and grinning.

"The little reprobate!" he said, patting Bonnie's thin little hand.
"Isn't it a wonder that any of us survive? My mother used to tell a tale
of finding me at the age of two seated on the back steps devouring the
skins of baked potatoes that I had snitched out of the garbage pail!
Well, we all have to learn by the hardest. I remember I got a very
effectual spanking before I learned my lesson. I guess she'll be all
right. Give her the medicine every hour, and orange juice if she wants
it. Nothing else. I'll come in the first thing in the morning and see
how you girls are getting on. You look young to run a hospital, but I
guess you'll make a go of it."

There was a sudden dismay in Betty's face as the doctor opened the door,
and perhaps he saw it, for he reached over and patted her shoulder
before he put on his glove.

"Don't you worry," he said comfortingly, "everybody's going to be all
right. They'll all be decidedly better in the morning, I'm sure."

Betty looked up and met his eyes wistfully, and Marjorie watching saw
the glance, and thought what nice eyes the doctor had. Nice brown eyes.




VII


When the Doctor was gone Betty turned to her new sister.

"You ought to go now," she said sharply. "It's getting dark, and you
ought to go back to your hotel. You can't stay here tonight in a mess
like this."

Marjorie looked at her sister with a startled glance. Was Betty anxious
to get her away?

"Oh, my _dear_!" she said aghast. "You don't think a mess like this is
any worse for me than it is for you, do you?"

"You're not used to it," said Betty sullenly. "I can manage. And you've
done a lot. You ought to get a good night's rest and not be burdened
with things that don't belong to you."

"But they do belong to me!" said Marjorie. "It's my father and mother
who are sick upstairs, isn't it? The father and mother God gave to me as
much as to you? And it's my little sister who is sick down here! And how
could you possibly think you could manage alone? You are half sick
yourself. And even if Ted helped you he is just about ready to drop. You
know you are all weakened with cold and hunger and anxiety. Please, my
dear, don't shove me out! After everybody is well I'll go away and give
you a chance to talk it all over and if you decide you don't want me I
won't trouble you any more. But I couldn't leave you now. I haven't even
seen my mother yet."

There was a sob in her voice that went to Betty's heart.

"I didn't mean that!" she said almost fiercely. "I don't want you to go.
Goodness knows how I'll get along if you do, but I'll do it, somehow, or
die in the attempt. But--well, how _could_ you stay here? The only bed
there is for you would be my mattress on the floor upstairs, and
Father's asleep there. Maybe he'll wake up after a while, but I don't
think I ought to disturb him till he does, do you?"

"Certainly not," said Marjorie, "and in any case I would want to stay
beside Bonnie--that is, if you would let me, tonight, and you get some
sleep. You look sick yourself. But where were you planning to sleep
yourself, even if I weren't here?"

"I hadn't planned," said Betty with a toss of her head and a weary sigh.
"I can sleep anywhere if I get a chance. The floor is plenty good enough
for me. I could sleep down cellar if I had to."

"I haven't a doubt but that you could," said Marjorie seriously,
"anybody probably could if they were tired enough. But it wouldn't be
good for you, even if you could. As for me, I'm quite rested. I haven't
done anything for the last four or five weeks. I certainly can stand
more hardship than you can. You look as if you were ready to drop. I
fully realize that you have nerve enough to keep you going if you were
dead on your feet, but I don't intend you shall. Not unless you would
rather have me get a trained nurse! Or unless you deliberately turn me
out of the house. Of course I know I haven't any right here at all. I
haven't a right to say what you shall do or shall not, unless you give
it to me. But I wish you would understand that I want to help and make
things as easy for you as I can. Now, suppose we put aside hostilities
and talk it over quietly together, find out what is best to be done. I
had thought that perhaps you would trust me to look after Bonnie tonight
and let you get a good rest. She is the only one of the sick who seems
to be in a condition that won't be hurt by the presence of a stranger. I
thought perhaps Ted could put her little bed in here where if she woke
she wouldn't make any noise upstairs to disturb the others, and I would
just lie down here on the couch beside her and keep watch. Then you
could get a good sleep for you certainly need it. It wouldn't hurt me in
the least for I'm used to night nursing. I did it for several weeks at a
time while Moth--while Mrs. Wetherill was so sick. But, you see, what I
didn't realize was that there wouldn't be a good comfortable bed for
you. You know I haven't been upstairs. It isn't my fault that I didn't
know that. I was only trying to plan to have you comfortable."

"Well, and I was planning to have you comfortable for the night when I
suggested you go back to your hotel," said Betty with an apology in her
voice. "I didn't mean to be disagreeable. I was just worried."

"Well, there, let's sit down in the dining room and talk it over. There
is surely something we can do to make us all comfortable for the night.
Where does Sunny sleep?"

"He sleeps in the room with Ted and Bud. He has a little crib. Why,
where is Sunny? Ted didn't take him with him, did he? Where did Ted go,
anyway? Do you know?"

"He said something about going back for another load. But I don't think
Sunny went with him. At least if he did Ted didn't know it. Bud went
along, but I didn't see Sunny anywhere. He was eating bread and jelly
the last I saw of him. Maybe he's in the kitchen."

The girls hurried into the kitchen, but Sunny was not there. Betty
swung open the back door and called softly, fearing to waken the
sleepers upstairs, and then rushed out into the little side yard
calling.

"He isn't anywhere!" said Betty coming back with terror in her eyes,
"and it's awfully dark and cold. And he didn't have his coat on, either.
Now _he_'ll be sick, I suppose. And where shall I look for him? I guess
I'll have to go to the police station. He might be lost or kidnaped or
something."

But Marjorie suddenly swung open the pantry door and switched on the
light, and there lay Sunny on the floor in a corner with a tin can of
graham crackers clasped in his arms, crumbs all over his baby face,
sound asleep, a half eaten sand tart in one hand, dead to the world!

The girls sat down and laughed till they cried.

"What shall we do with him?" asked Marjorie suddenly sobering.

"Leave him there for the present," said Betty. "I'll get Father's old
coat and put under his head. If we wake him up he may cry, and we
haven't any other place to put him, not till his crib is up. He probably
won't sleep long anyway. I wonder where Ted is."

"Couldn't we put up the crib?" asked Marjorie looking at the unassembled
parts that stood against the dining room wall.

"Perhaps we could," said Betty. "I never tried. Father always did things
like that. This is the headboard. And those are the sides."

Marjorie got down on her knees and examined the side pieces.

"These must hook into those sockets in the headboard," she said briskly.
"You hold the headboard and I'll see what I can do."

"You ought not to be doing that," said Betty coming forward and setting
up the headboard of the crib. "You'll get your pretty dress all dust."

"It will clean," said Marjorie indifferently. "There, see how easily
that slides into place. Now, the other. Why this is no trouble at all.
Now, which is the head of these springs?"

They had it all together when Ted came in carrying a heavy load, and
putting it down he began to open it out, and it proved to be an army
cot.

"Where in the world did you get that?" asked Betty, wide-eyed.

"Over at the Army and Navy store," said Ted laconically. "Bought it.
Fifty cents. They were having a sale. I knew we hadta have something."

"For pity's sake!" said Betty eyeing Ted in astonishment. "But where did
you get the fifty cents? Not out of that I gave you to pay the grocery
bill, Ted Gay?"

"No. Guess again!" grinned Ted, and he hauled the roll of bills out of
his pocket that Marjorie had given him and grinned at her.

Betty looked from one to the other understandingly. Then she said to
Marjorie:

"If you stay here another day we'll have you fleeced."

"Suits me," said Marjorie with another grin. "Now, where is that Sunny
boy? Will he howl if I pick him up?"

"Go get him, Ted," said Betty. "He's asleep in the pantry."

"Good night!" said Ted standing in the pantry door laughing. "Where'd he
get all the grub? Poor little kid, he's been half starved for days!"

Ted put Sunny in the crib, and then turned on the girls.

"Now, what do you want done first?"

Betty looked at her new sister.

"I'll get dinner," she said, "and you show Ted where you want Bonnie's
bed put."

"I thought you girls could have my room," said Ted, "and Bud can have
the cot, and I'll park beside Dad."

"That will be fine for Betty tonight," said Marjorie, "but as for me,
I'm going to watch Bonnie and lie down on the couch between times."

"You think she ought to do that, Betts?" asked Ted. "She isn't usedta
roughing it."

"Indeed I am," laughed Marjorie, "at least I'm used to being up nights
and caring for sick folks."

"Well, she wants to," said Betty with a troubled sigh, "and I'm sure I
wouldn't be much good at nursing. For Bonnie's sake I guess we've got to
let her have her way."

"Okay!" said Ted. "Well, where do we go from here? What do I do next?
Peel potatoes or what?"

"We're not going to peel the potatoes," said Betty. "We're roasting
them. You can light the oven. We're not doing any fancy cooking, just
beefsteak and potatoes and a can of tomatoes. You can open the can. I'll
do the rest."

"All right," said Marjorie, "I'll cut the bread and get the butter and
the pickles, and wash some celery. Open a glass of currant jelly too,
Ted. That will be for dessert."

Dinner was ready in a surprisingly short time, and the starved young
appetites were ready too.

Bonnie was still sleeping, and Marjorie fancied that she was not quite
so hot as an hour ago.

They were just about to sit down when Sunny woke up making an outcry and
had to be hushed and brought in to the kitchen to quiet him.

Then Bud burst in, his eyes wide with wonder at the unusual dinner.

"Gee! Where'd'ya get the meat! Real meat! Can I have a piece too, or do
we have ta save it for Mother 'cause she's sick?"

"No, you don't have to save it," smiled Marjorie, "there's plenty for
everybody. Mother couldn't eat meat tonight anyway, but maybe she can
have some soon."

Marjorie went out to the kitchen to get Bud his glass of milk, while Ted
attacked the big beefsteak with the carving knife which had just been
recovered from the pawn shop.

"It's almost too pretty to cut, isn't it?" he said. And then he heard a
step behind him. They all turned and there stood their father staring at
them all in wonder, and sniffing the air.

"I smelled something so heavenly," he said, and he smiled a tired little
smile that made him look like Bud. "Where did you get the meat, Ted?" he
asked, his eyes resting on the laden table. "It appears that you are
having a feast. Did you succeed in getting any subscriptions, lad? They
surely didn't pay you enough commission on a few subscriptions to buy
all this?"

"Sit down, Dad," said Ted laying down the knife and springing to draw up
a chair for his father. "You aren't fit to stand up."

"Oh, I'm all right," he said, passing a hand over his forehead. "I just
had a little dizzy spell, but Betty gave me some coffee, and I had a
good sleep, and feel better. I thought I'd go out and see if I couldn't
get an evening's work. It might bring in a few cents and help to buy
another bag of coal. You know some of the stores are keeping open
evenings until Christmas and they need extra help. I've heard they pay
pretty well, too. I'll just take a bite and go out. I might get a job
for evenings for all this week."

"My eye, you will!" said Ted. "You sit down and eat your dinner, that
is, if you feel able to sit up. We were just going to bring you up a
tray, but now you're down you might as well eat in style. Shove over
there, Bud, and give Dad more room. But you might as well understand
right now, Dad, that you are under the doctor's orders. You don't stir
a step out of this house till he says you can. See? And not then till
I've gone and got your overcoat back. Where's that pawn ticket, Dad?
Hand it over. No, you don't need to cut this steak. I can do it as well
as you can. Not that I've seen any recently of course, but I remember
how you've cut it for years. I used to think I would really be grown up
when I could cut the meat for the family, and this is about the first
time I've had a chance to try. Get him a plate, Betts, and pour him a
cup of coffee quick while I manipulate this beefsteak."

The father sank back in the chair under Ted's powerful young handling,
and looked about dazed.

"But you haven't told me yet where you got all this dinner? Am I
dreaming or is this a real dinner on the table? Betty, you don't mean
that you allowed the Welfare to furnish this, do you? I couldn't bear to
think we had come to that!"

"No, Father," said Betty with a twinkle in her eyes. "We didn't have to
go out and beg, either." And then as she heard Marjorie's step in the
pantry, Betty suddenly grew sober.

"Father, I'd better tell you right off quick. It's all in the family.
You don't need to be troubled. My twin sister has come and she got all
these things!"

The father looked up with great startled eyes, and turned perfectly
white.

"Your sister has come? What do you mean, Elizabeth? Do you mean the
little sister who was adopted? Do you mean that she has come and gone
and your mother and I did not see her?"

"No. Oh no, Father," said Betty, half frightened at what her revelation
had done to her father. "She hasn't gone. She's right here in the house.
Here she comes now!"

Marjorie stood there smiling with a plate of bread in one hand and the
glass of milk in the other, looking so at home, and so sweet and
domesticated that he had to look twice to be sure she wasn't Betty. And
Marjorie met her own father's eyes for the first time in her young life,
and loved him at once.

Suddenly she put down on the corner of the table the things she was
carrying and went to meet the father, who had risen to his feet and was
staring at her, went sweetly across the years into his arms and laid her
golden head on his shoulder looking up into his face.

"Father, I've come home! Do you mind?" she said shyly.

Hungrily his arms went round her, and his face came down softly and
touched hers.

"Do I mind?" he said wonderingly. "Do I mind? Oh, my little girl, whom I
have never seen before! My other little Betty. Do I _mind_?"

He touched her forehead with his lips, almost as if he felt she was not
real, and then he looked up again, while all the other children sat and
looked on in wonder. A sadness had come over that sudden radiance of his
face.

"But what a home you have come to, my child! What a home! All the
comforts gone!" Then suddenly he looked around and saw the familiar
sideboard and chairs and table, and bewilderment came into his eyes.

"Am I dreaming, Ted? Or is all this real?" He turned troubled eyes on
his boy.

Ted gave him a sharp look.

"It's real all right, Dad, but you won't be long if you don't sit down
and eat some of this beefsteak pretty quick, and I mean it. Time enough
to satisfy your curiosity after you have eaten this dinner. This is some
dinner, I'm telling you!"

Ted pushed his father down in his chair summarily, and handed over a
plate with a fine juicy piece of steak on it.

"There! Get on the outside of that as quick as you can. Betts, pass the
potatoes, and get Dad going, or we'll have to put him back in bed
again."

They laughed and kept passing him things, quite confusing him, but
succeeding in turning his thoughts away from the new child for the
moment, till he really got a bite or two swallowed.

But he came back to realities presently.

"But I don't understand," he said looking keenly at Ted, "how did you
get such a dinner as this? You didn't go somewhere and charge all these
things, did you?"

"No, Dad. They are every one of them paid for," said Ted as he handed
out the last plate and sat down to enjoy his own dinner.

"You--didn't do anything--that I wouldn't--approve--did you, son?"

"Not a thing, Dad. Everything aboveboard and honorable. All the bills
paid and everything going slick. Coal in the cellar, fire in the heater,
gas in the range, water in the pipes, light in the wires and the pantry
full of food. Have some celery, Dad, and just be thankful."

"But, my son, I cannot eat until I understand."

"All right, tell him, Betts!" said the boy.

"Why, Father, it's just that we have a fairy sister with pockets full of
money, and she insisted on paying for everything," said Betty.

"Do you mean," asked the father, laying his fork down beside his plate
with a look of finality, "that we are feasting on Mrs. Wetherill's
money? I could not possibly do that, my dear."

There was such pain and pride in his voice that Marjorie's heart was
thrown into a panic. Was pride after all to put an end to her new hopes
and plans?

"Father--" she said earnestly, and did not realize how naturally she had
called him that, "it isn't her money at all. It is my money. It was left
to me to do just as I liked with it. She even left me a letter
suggesting that I would like to hunt you up and use my money in making
you happy. I came here at once as soon as I heard about you. At least I
didn't hear very much about you, only the address, and the fact that I
was one of twins, and that mother wanted very much to see me, and came
after me once not so very long ago. That was about all Mrs. Wetherill
knew. It was all she ever told me. And as soon as I knew I had a living
own mother I came to find her. I didn't know whether you wanted me or
not, or whether anybody was alive or not, but I had to come and see. I
had to find out if there was anybody who really loved me a little bit."

There was the catch of a sob in her voice as she finished, and a mist in
her eyes. Even young Bud paused in his chewing for an instant and looked
at her sympathetically.

"Tourse ve vants you," piped up Sunny with his mouth full of baked
potato and butter.

Then the father came out of his sorrowful daze.

"_Want_ you?" said he tenderly. "How we have wanted you! How we have
longed for you, and talked about you, and tried not to blame one
another, your mother and I, for having let you go! You will never know
how we have suffered. How each of us has blamed ourselves! Your mother
found out that I was desperately ill, and ought not to work for a year
or two, and she was weak and ill herself, and was over-influenced by Mr.
Wetherill. He was kindness itself and very generous, but he was quite
determined to have you. And when they came to me it was represented to
me as a necessity that Betty have the care of an expensive specialist
or she could not live the life of a normal healthy child. So in a moment
of weakness we both gave our consent and signed the necessary papers.
But oh, how we have regretted it all the years, and we did our best to
have the papers revoked and get you back."

"Oh, dear Father!" said Marjorie deeply stirred, and putting out a shy
hand to lay upon his. "I'm so glad it is not too late for me to try to
make up just a little for your suffering!"

He gathered her hand into his thin nervous one and clasped it close.

"Does your mother know?" he asked of Betty.

"Not yet. I thought she ought to get a good sleep first before we
excited her. Besides there was so much to do to get things going right
again," explained Betty.

"Well, this will be meat and drink to your mother," said the father,
gazing intently at the new unknown daughter. "I'd better go right up and
tell her."

"No, Dad! You sit still and eat your dinner. Mother's asleep. You'll
have to wait till she wakes up. You don't want to make her sick, you
know. Come now, you've got to be sensible." It was Ted who set up
authority, talking as much like his father's voice as he could, till
they all laughed, even Mr. Gay.

Then there came a moan from Bonnie in the other room and Marjorie with a
quick glance at Betty slipped out and went to her.

They heard the clink of a spoon and a glass, as Marjorie coaxed the
medicine into the child's lips, and then she was back almost
immediately.

"I don't think she's quite so hot," she said happily.

And then they had to tell the father about Bonnie, and the pleasant
homely talk of everyday matters helped them to eat more quietly and
normally than if they had had a great scene of excitement over the
new-found sister.

"Well, I'd better run down and look at the heater," said Mr. Gay when at
last the delicious supper was finished and he drew back from the table.
"I didn't put much coal on, and I wouldn't have it go out because we
haven't much coal, you know, nor any more kindling."

"That's all right, Dad," said Ted putting a detaining hand on his
father's arm. "Me for the heater from now on. There's a whole lot of
kindling down cellar, besides two tons of coal, and the fire is going
for all she's worth. Don't you feel how warm it is here?"

The father looked at his boy, and then across to the new-found daughter.
Then his eyes traveled around the rest of the group, and suddenly he
bowed his head in a kind of shame.

"I've failed!" he said sadly. "And my little girl had to come and put us
all on our feet again."

"Okay, Dad. She's put us on our feet, but you didn't fail. It wasn't
your fault that you nearly got your death in the world war and haven't
had half your health since. It wasn't your fault that Mr. Matthews died
and the firm went to the wall and there wasn't any job for you to keep.
It wasn't your fault that the bank went flooey and took all your
savings. And it wasn't your fault that there weren't any more positions
waiting for anyone just then when you needed one."

"No, it wasn't my fault, perhaps, but if I'd been half a man I would
have been able to do something." There was dejection and bitterness in
his tone. But Ted put in eagerly.

"Look here, Dad. None of that! Look at the family you've raised. Wasn't
that an achievement? Aren't we something to be proud of? Now quit your
glooming and let's be glad. We're all here together, new sister and all,
and we have a fire, and plenty to eat, and no bills anywhere. Isn't
that enough to smile about for one night?"

"It is," said the father heartily, "it is. And not the least of all that
we have our other little girl here." He gave Marjorie a loving smile, as
if he was afraid even yet to let himself be happy!

"Now, Dad," said Ted pushing back his chair and getting up. "You go
upstairs and get to bed, see? And you're to sleep in Betty's bed. We've
got things all arranged, and you can trust the whole thing to us."

"Oh," said the father firmly, "I can't go to bed yet. I want to be awake
when your mother wakes up and tell her our little girl has come back."

"Sure, you can tell her. You ought to be the one to tell her. But we've
all agreed it would better not be tonight. Mother needs to be perfectly
quiet tonight or her fever will come up again, and you don't want her to
get pneumonia, do you, just because she gets excited? Now you go and get
to bed. There isn't a thing you can do tonight. Positively. Tomorrow
we'll talk things over, and have a good time, but tonight you're getting
a good rest. Perhaps you don't know that was the doctor's orders. Now,
scram!" and Ted led his reluctant parent toward the stairs again, and
himself saw him up to bed.

When he came down the girls were washing the dishes together and
chattering as happily as if they had always done it every night of their
lives.

"Betts, what shall I put on that cot to make it up for Bud?" said Ted.

"You put that cot down here in the dining room," said Betty, "over there
beside Sunny's crib. I'm sleeping on it tonight to keep our new sister
company, and besides, we don't want to bother to take Sunny's crib
upstairs tonight. It might wake Mother. So you just keep Bud with you
tonight, and we'll see about it in the morning. Don't worry about
bedclothes, I'll find something that will do for tonight."

Ted looked at Betty, opened his lips to object, and then closed them
meaningfully. And just as plainly as if he had spoken and Betty had
assented, Marjorie knew that he had been about to say to Betty that
there weren't any bedclothes at all for that cot.

Marjorie went into the dark parlor and looked out of the window and off
toward the city where the sky was lit up like a distant garden of bright
flowers, lights everywhere. Presently she turned and went over to the
little sick girl, touched her lightly with an experienced hand, then she
came back to the kitchen where Ted and Betty were persuading the two
boys that it was bedtime.

"Is there a place near here where I could get a taxi?" she asked.

"A taxi?" said Betty looking up in dismay. "I thought you said you were
going to stay all night."

"Why, I am, of course," said Marjorie brightly, "but I was thinking
perhaps I could run back to my hotel and get my baggage. It wouldn't
take me long and I'd like to have my toothbrush and things. If you
thought you could lie down beside Bonnie for a little while I'd hurry
right back. It doesn't take so long to go places in taxis, you know."

"Of course," said Betty. "I can manage nicely. Only you mustn't go
alone. It's pretty dark and you might get lost."

"Couldn't I go for you?" asked Ted.

"No," said Marjorie quickly, "I'd better go myself and pay the bill and
tell them I'm checking out."

"Well, then, Ted had better go with you," said Betty decidedly. "It
isn't a very nice neighborhood you would have to pass through in going
to the taxi stand."

"You go that way when you go to the office," put in Bud officiously.

"Oh well, I'm used to it. Besides, it's night," said Betty.

"It isn't very late," said Marjorie looking at her watch. "It's only
quarter past seven. We had dinner early, remember, and besides it's
winter. It gets dark early. I'm not afraid. Ted, aren't you awfully
tired? I hate to take you out in the cold again."

"Tired nothing. Of course I'll go. I wouldn't let you go alone. What do
you think I am? Only, maybe you'll be ashamed of me. I haven't anything
to doll up in."

Marjorie laughed.

"What do you think I am? Well, come on then. I'll be ready in half a
second. Betty, if Bonnie stirs just give her a spoonful of the medicine
at the right hand. She'll probably sleep all right. If she wakes up have
some orange juice ready and give her a few spoonfuls. Don't you want me
to fix some before I go? Mother might need some too. You must be awfully
tired."

"No, I'll fix it. It will be such a pleasure to have oranges to fix,
that it will be a real treat."

So Marjorie and her new brother started off together into the dark
little street. Marjorie tucked her arm inside Ted's and fell into step
with him chummily.

"My, but it's nice to have a brother of my own!" she said. "I've always
wanted a brother and a sister."

"Well, you've got plenty of them now," said Ted, both pleased and
embarrassed.

The night was cold and little lazy flakes of snow were floating down.
Marjorie wondered if Ted was warmly enough clad, but she did not dare to
ask about it. She was glad when they found a taxi and got in, glad that
it had a heater. So they rode down to the city together, Marjorie
skillfully questioning, finding out little things about her family
without seeming to do so.

Just before they reached the hotel Marjorie asked:

"Ted, aren't there stores somewhere that would be open at this hour? I
would like to get a few things."

"Sure. All kinds of stores if you know where to find them. Not the swell
places, of course. They close at five o'clock, though I remember some of
even those are open this week till nine o'clock. It's Christmas week,
you know."

"Oh, that's so! That's nice. Well, then, before we get my baggage, let's
drive to a department store. I won't be long getting what I want, and we
can take another taxi from there to the hotel."

So presently they got out at a large department store.

Ted watched his pretty sister with admiration as she went her way,
asking directions to the department she wanted. He was proud to be with
her, yet ashamed of his own shabbiness.

But he was amazed when they brought up in the blanket section and
Marjorie purchased three great warm double blankets and three of single
bed size. They were soft and bright, and Ted stared in amazement.

Suddenly he stepped to her side and said in a low tone:

"What's the big idea? You don't need to get all those. We are used to
getting along with what we have. Get one for yourself maybe, but we'll
be all right with any old thing."

Marjorie turned to him lovingly.

"Ted, look here, I thought you and I were partners in trying to get our
family comfortable as quickly as possible. Please don't try to hinder
me. I knew by the look in Betty's eyes when you talked about the cot
that she was hard put to it to find any bedding for it at all. She told
me a little about things, and I know these things are needed. Don't try
to hinder me. Help all you can. And if you don't say anything about it
nobody is going to notice a blanket or two more or less."

Then Marjorie bought some sheets and pillow cases and a few towels, and
they started for the street door accompanied by two cash boys carrying
their big boxes.

"We travel in style," said Ted with a grin as he hailed another taxi,
helped his sister in, and stowed the big boxes around them. "The beggar
and the maid."

Marjorie laughed.

"I'm having fun," she said.

"Here too," said Ted.

At the hotel Ted stayed in the taxi while Marjorie went in to pay her
bill. She came out with a porter carrying her suitcases. But when they
reached the little house on Aster Street again, Ted's spirits arose to
the top notch.

"I'm the advance guard of Santa Claus!" he announced in a subdued
jubilance as he bore the big boxes into the hall and put them carefully
down.

Betty stared in growing amazement as the soft blankets and smooth sheets
came to light, and finally sat down on the lowest step of the stairs and
cried into a pink blanket for sheer joy in its lovely woolliness.

She looked up at last and smiled wearily.

"I never thought this morning that we would be as happy as this by
night," she said.

Ted grinned.

"I told ya," he said, "I told ya God wasn't dead!" and then he went off
down cellar to fix the furnace for the night, and his new sister stared
after him, and wondered how a boy like Ted came to say a thing like
that. He had said it half sheepishly, but as if he meant it.

Then she turned and asked after the patients.

"Father's sound asleep," said Betty. "He didn't even rouse when Mother
woke. I gave her the medicine and some orange juice and she went right
off to sleep again. Bonnie has talked in her sleep a little, but she
often does that. I don't think she is nearly as hot as she was when you
went away. You go feel of her."

And so presently Marjorie had them all tucked away to sleep under the
new blankets and sheets, and she was thankful to lie down. It had been a
long day, but it had been an interesting one. There was a good deal to
think over, but instead she went to sleep as quick as her head touched
the pillow, and none of the questions she wanted to think over and
decide got even a passing thought.

Just as she was sinking away to sleep she wondered dreamily: "What would
I have thought if I had known I was coming into a situation like this?"
And the answer came quickly from her loving heart, "Oh, I'm glad I
came!"

And still she had not seen her own mother.




VIII


Marjorie was awakened the next morning by soft wet little lips on her
cheek, and soft experimenting little fingers trying to pull open her
eyes.

"'Nother Betty, will there be bretsus again this morning?" a little
voice whispered in her ear.

And there was Sunny in his ragged little pajamas standing beside her
couch. He had somehow managed to climb out of his crib and find her. The
rest of the house was still very silent. Perhaps nobody else was awake
yet.

Marjorie laughed softly and looked at her wrist watch. It was five
minutes after eight! She glanced over at Bonnie's bed, and there was
Bonnie very pale and washed-out, sitting bolt upright in her small bed
staring at her.

"Oh, lie down, darling," said Marjorie quickly, "the house isn't very
warm yet, and you will catch a cold. You've been sick, you know."

Bonnie's eyes got larger and sought her little brother's face in
question.

"Who is that?" she asked in a small trembling voice, her lip quivering.
"That's not our Betty!"

"Her's 'nother Betty!" asserted Sunny, round-eyed.

"Her has bretsuses. Bwed an' jelly!"

"You'd like some nice orange juice, wouldn't you, Bonnie?" asked
Marjorie, springing up and flinging her pretty kimono about her.

Bonnie slumped down on her pillow weakly and continued to stare.
Marjorie went over and laid her hand on the little forehead that had
been so hot in the night.

"Why, it's nice and cool, isn't it?" she said delightedly. "Now, suppose
we take your temperature, and then I'll fix your orange juice."

Bonnie lay and looked at her solemnly.

"Now, Sunny boy, back into your bed you go till somebody has time to
dress you. I'll give you a cracker to nibble on. How is that?"

"Nice," said Sunny, putting up a confiding hand to be led away, and
Bonnie lay solemnly with the thermometer in her mouth and stared at this
new sister who was so like Betty and yet wasn't Betty.

Then Betty appeared on the scene, heavy-eyed with sleep.

"Oh, there you are!" said Marjorie cheerily. "How are the patients
upstairs? Did you have to be awake with them much?"

"Not once!" declared Betty. "They seem to be better this morning. Father
says he's all right and is going out to hunt a job. Mother wants some
hot cereal. She asked for it herself. I don't know where she thought it
was coming from, but she wanted it."

"Well, we'll fix her a nice tray. You go and get dressed. Should I do
something to the furnace? I don't know much about draughts and things."

"No, I heard Ted fix it before he went out."

"Oh, he hasn't gone out without any breakfast again, has he?" cried
Marjorie.

"Oh, he probably took a sandwich with him or something. He goes on his
paper route. He told me last night the fellow that bought it wants to
sell it back, and will go shares till it's paid for. He goes out for the
papers about four o'clock."

Marjorie put Sunny in his crib thoughtfully, reflecting on how easily
she had always gone to the front door to pick up the morning paper,
without ever realizing that somebody had to get up at four o'clock to
make it possible for it to be there on the porch when she wanted it.
Life had in one short day taken on a different aspect. She was thinking
of things she had never noticed before.

Bonnie proved to be a little below normal.

"That's all right," said Marjorie out of her superior experience. "It
usually does that the first day after a fever. Now we must keep her very
quiet today so it won't go up again tonight, and then she'll probably be
all right." She smiled cheerfully at the little girl, who managed a wan
quiver of her thin little lips in reply. Perhaps she thought it was a
smile.

Marjorie gave the children orange juice and fixed a tray for her mother.
Betty came down when the cereal was ready and took it up.

"She'll know something's happened with a tray looking like that," she
said as she noticed the daintiness of everything. Even without an array
of silver and linen Marjorie had managed to make everything look
inviting.

When Betty came down Marjorie was setting the table. She had cut the
bread and laid out the eggs and bacon.

"You'd better make the coffee," she said to her sister. "I don't know
how without a percolator. I'm afraid I would spoil it."

"We used to have a percolator when we were at Brentwood, but it got
broken in the moving," sighed Betty.

"Brentwood? What's Brentwood? Was that where you lived before you came
here?"

"Yes," said Betty sadly. "It was swell! It was an old farm house that
had got caught on the edge of a new suburb when the city grew out there,
and it had been fixed up with a great big porch across the front, and
the grass growing up close to it. It was built of rugged old stone, and
they paved the porch with big thin flat ones. It was ducky. We had a
hammock and big rocking chairs out there, and a dear little tiled table.
Mother used to bring her sewing out and stay hours at a time. Mother
loved it. There was a view out across a valley, looking away from the
city, and a little brook in a meadow next to our place. It had a garage
in an old barn, and Father had a little car to go to business in. We
were just getting it pretty nicely furnished too. That was when Mother
was getting ready for you to come to visit us. She just lived on the
thought of it. And then she went out to see Mrs. Wetherill, and she
turned us down, and Mother came home just crushed! A little while after
that the crash came and Dad's money went in a bank failure. Then the man
Dad worked for died, and the firm closed up, and here we are!"

Betty's tone was almost hopeless as she finished. Then after a minute
she went on again.

"Can you blame Mother for getting sick and going all to pieces? It just
seemed too hopeless. And I was thinking last night. You've been
wonderful of course, and you've pulled us out of starvation, but what is
it all going to amount to? You'll get tired of us and go back to
Chicago, of course. You couldn't be expected to want to stick around a
place like this. And we'll all slump again. Of course you've brought
back our furniture, and you've paid our bills, and we've had something
to eat, but Dad hasn't any job, and mine's gone too, and how can I ever
hope to get another job looking like this? Of course we can't go on
living on you, grateful as we are for what you've done for us so far."

"Look here, Betty, you just stop that sob stuff. That's no way to act.
We're all here, the sick ones are better, and we'll get straightened out
after a little and think things out bit by bit. There's no point in
trying to swallow the whole future in one bite when you haven't had your
breakfast yet. Come, let's get everybody fed before we tackle the next
things!"

Then the father's voice was heard calling:

"Betty!"

Betty turned and flew up the stairs. In a moment she was down again, her
eyes full of excitement.

"Father's told Mother, and she wants you to come right up!"

Marjorie turned on her eager sister and kissed her.

"Don't worry," she said softly, "it's all going to come right."

Then she hurried off upstairs.

Afterward Marjorie couldn't quite remember everything that happened, or
what they all said. It was just a memory of being folded in tender frail
arms, gentle hands upon her head, the softest lips in all the world upon
her own, kisses on her lips and forehead and eyes. A voice saying
softly:

"My little, little baby. My lost darling!"

Mrs. Wetherill had loved her. She had never had any doubt about that.
And when Mrs. Wetherill had died she was stricken and forlorn. She had
felt bereaved of mother love. It was all the love she had ever known.
But this was different! This was her very own, and was something sweeter
and tenderer than anything she had ever known.

When she came downstairs at last she had a look upon her as if she had
been crowned.

Betty cast a curious questioning glance toward her and she smiled.

"It's wonderful to have a real mother," she said. "That's something
you've had all these years that I didn't quite have. Of course Mrs.
Wetherill was sweet and dear to me. She loved me very much, and I loved
her dearly. But as I grew older I thought a great deal about what an own
mother would be like, and now I know. I can't just put into words what I
mean, but it is sweet and satisfying and it makes me very happy. She's
beautiful, isn't she?"

Betty's tense expression relaxed.

"Yes, she is. I'm glad you can see it. I thought if you didn't think so
it would be just too bad!"

Marjorie flashed a look at her.

"How could I help seeing how lovely she is? She is like an exquisite
flower! Mrs. Wetherill was a handsome woman, everybody said, and I was
proud of her looks and bearing, but she wasn't anything like this.
Mother is wonderful, beyond anything I ever dreamed. Just seeing her for
that minute I know she is just what I've longed for."

She hesitated and looked at Betty half shyly, as if she wasn't sure just
how this tense belligerent sister would take what she was about to say.

"You are very like her, do you know it?"

The color swept up like a flood into the other girl's pale cheeks.

"They used to say I was when I was younger," she said, "but I've got
awfully skinny and sickly looking. You're more like Mother, yourself."

"Why, we're just twins, my dear, and how could one be more like her than
the other. I can see myself how much alike we are. I'm proud of it and
delighted about it."

"Well, I guess I must have been awfully mistaken about you," admitted
Betty grudgingly for the third or fourth time since Marjorie had
arrived. "I can see you're real. If you'd been like what I thought you
were you would have been ashamed of us all in these old ragged things.
You wouldn't have recognized the beauty in Mother up there in her
tumbled bed with her patched old flannelette nightie on. You would have
flung us a five dollar bill maybe, and then gone off to your nice
luxurious life. That's what I thought you were."

"Well," said Marjorie thoughtfully, "when I've passed my probation, if I
do, perhaps you'll decide to love me like a sister and then won't we
have fun?"

Betty looked at her hungrily.

"I haven't had much fun in a long time. I've about got used to not
having any."

"Well, we'll see about that later. Now, breakfast is ready, isn't it?
Here they come."

There was a new spring in the father's step as he came downstairs.

"Your mother says she's well," he said as he came into the room. "She
says she wants to come down to breakfast and see her family all
together!"

His face was radiant.

"You didn't let her get up, did you?" asked Betty anxiously.

"Certainly not," said the father. "She turned right over and went to
sleep. She was more tired than she realized. That's why I didn't let our
new girl stay in the room but a minute. I told her the doctor wouldn't
let her have excitement. Isn't that right?"

"It certainly is!" said Betty. "The doctor was very particular about her
not being tired or excited."

"Well, I think she's going to get well, now," said the father. "Where is
Ted?"

"Out on his paper route. He's bought it back on time," said Betty.

"But won't he get back to get some of this nice breakfast, at all?"
asked Marjorie. "You certainly are a good cook, new sister."

"Yes, he ought to be here any minute now unless he's found another job
somewhere, in which case he may stay all day."

Then Bud arrived on the scene with tousled head and an eager hungry
look.

"Gee! That breakfast smells awful good!" he declared. "Oh great cats!
Lookit! Orange juice an' cereal an' bacum 'n' eggs! Do we haveta choose,
ur do we get all three?"

"All three!" smiled Marjorie pushing out the chair beside her for him.

Sunny looked up with a face beaming in egg from ear to ear.

"It's 'licious, Buddie," he said with a comical grin, and then they all
laughed.

"I wantta come out, too!" wailed Bonnie from the other room.

Marjorie flew to her charge.

"Not just this morning, Kitten dear," she said smiling down at her.
"We'll have to wait till the doctor comes to see when you can get up.
But don't you worry. We're going to have a nice time. When Betty and I
get the work done we're coming in here and fix you up nice and clean and
then we'll have a story or something. Now, suppose you take another
little nap till I get done my work."

Bonnie obediently turned over and shut her eyes, and Marjorie stole back
to the table. It gave her a thrill to realize that this family were all
hers. They hadn't really taken her in yet, or at least she felt that
they hadn't had time to think her over and decide about her, and they
would probably prove to have faults themselves, but they were dear
already.

Then in came Ted, giving a little shiver, and rubbing his bare red hands
together.

"Gosh, it feels great in here! Nice and warm!" he said, and flashed a
smile at Marjorie that made her feel warm around her heart.

"Say, Dad, you look fine!" he said looking keenly at his father.

"I feel fine, son," said Mr. Gay. "I'm going out this morning and get a
new job and set the world on fire."

"Oh, yeah?" said Ted shutting his lips in a thin line. "Not this morning
you aren't! Not on your life! There's going to be a big snow storm if I
don't miss my guess, and you're staying in till the doctor says you can
go out. Besides, you're not sticking even your nose out the door till I
get your overcoat back. Where's that pawn ticket, Dad? Hand it over."

The father grinned and put his hand in his pocket bringing out the
ticket.

"All right! I guess you're right about the overcoat. I did get a little
chilled yesterday, but it seemed necessary. However, since we have a
Santa Claus in the house, perhaps it will pay in the long run to get
that overcoat back, for I couldn't reasonably expect to get a job going
out in a day like this without an overcoat. That overcoat was one of my
greatest assets, so if you'll run around and get it for me, Ted, I'll be
obliged."

"I'll get it, Dad, but I'll hide it well, until you're fit to wear it
again. We can't afford to have any more sick people around just now.
Christmas is coming."

"Yes!" said the father, a sudden sharp pain in his voice. "Not much of a
Christmas, I'm afraid, for a little new sister who has just come to us,
but we've a lot to be thankful for!"

Ted cast another keen look at his father.

"Mother know about her?"

"Yes!" said the father with a quick radiant look. "She's overjoyed. I
wouldn't let her stay up there but a minute, told her the doctor forbade
it, but she looked perfectly satisfied. I think perhaps in spite of
everything that this is the happiest day of her life."

"Now," said Marjorie when the girls had finished the dishes, and Sunny
was established by the dining room table making a fence of pins from
Marjorie's pin ball around a cake of soap, "it's time you and I had a
consultation."

Bonnie was still asleep and her father was sitting upstairs near his
sleeping wife, reading the paper that Ted had brought him, carefully
going over the want ads.

The girls sat down in the kitchen for a minute. Bud had gone with Ted
after the overcoat and a few things from the store Betty said they
needed, and the house was very quiet.

"You'll want to fix Mother's room before the doctor comes, that is, if
she wakes up in time. If she doesn't we'll just have to let it go as it
is. Doctors always understand."

"Oh, I'll straighten it a little. I can do it without waking her. She's
used to my step. But I wish you would go up with him this time. I hate
to meet him looking this way. I ripped the sleeve half out of my dress
last night when I stooped over to pick up Sunny, and I've just spilled
some grease down the front of it. I'm a sight! And this is the only
dress I have. I couldn't possibly get it washed out and ironed and on
before he comes."

"Oh, I can fix that," said Marjorie smiling, "you'll wear one of my
dresses, of course. We're just the same size, so it's sure to fit you.
Let's open my suitcases and rummage."

Betty's eyes lighted with sudden longing, but her lips set in a thin
line.

"Indeed I couldn't deck myself out in your wonderful clothes. I
couldn't do that!"

"No?" said Marjorie teasingly. "Suppose _I_ deck you then? Come on,
let's see what I've got that will be suitable."

She dashed into the front hall, brought back her airplane baggage and
opened it right there in the kitchen before the ravished eyes of her
beauty-starved sister.

Marjorie reached under the neat muslin packing bags that contained
frivolous evening things and pulled out two knitted dresses, simple of
line, lovely of quality, and rich of color. A brown one and a green one.
Hand-knit and expensive of course, since Mrs. Wetherill had picked them
out for her beloved child. But they were so beautifully simple that they
did not look out of place for morning attire, though they might have
graced almost any occasion.

"There!" said Marjorie happily, "take your pick. I think there's a blue
one here somewhere, too. Yes, here it is," and she flung it across a
chair. "Put them all on and see which you like the best!"

Betty stood spellbound.

"Oh! I couldn't wear those lovely things. It wouldn't seem right!"

"Now, please, Betty, don't spoil things by objections. Put them on one
at a time and let me see which is the most becoming."

Betty finally chose the dark blue.

"It is less dressy than the others," she said gravely, "though it's
awfully smart. I couldn't ask anything handsomer on this earth. I never
thought I'd have a chance to even try on one of those wonderful
hand-knit costumes. I thought about trying to knit one for myself just
before we left Brentwood, and then the crash came and I couldn't even
afford to get common string to knit it with, so I gave it up. But I
oughtn't to put this on in the morning! It's too fine."

"Nonsense!" said Marjorie. "Put it on. I like to see you in it. It makes
your eyes bluer, and how well it hangs! What a pretty figure you have!"

"Well, I'll be awfully careful of it," compromised Betty, "and I'll take
it off as soon as the doctor has gone."

"Nonsense! You'll do no such thing!" said Marjorie. "You'll wear it
whenever you like. Here, I've got a couple of little cotton house gowns,
sort of aprons they are, to slip over another dress when you're actually
working. You take the blue one and I'll take the pink, and then we can
tell each other apart. We'll put those on for kitchen work."

Then they heard Bonnie stirring.

"I'll go and fix her up, give her a little sponging off and make her
nice for the doctor, and you slip up and fix Mother. Then we'll be ready
for the doctor whenever he comes, and after that we'd better plan the
meals and see if we have everything we need. Here, put on this apron
thing. If Mother wakes up she'll like to see you in something
different."

"You make life like a kind of play," said Betty as she wonderingly
obeyed. "It doesn't seem right to be dolled up like this to make a bed."

But she put it on, and Marjorie slipped into the other one and went to
Bonnie.

"You've got a new dress," said Bonnie astonishingly, out of her long
silence.

"Yes, do you like it?"

"Yes, it's pretty. Have you got two dresses?"

"Oh, yes."

"Betty hasn't got but one," said Bonnie irrelevantly.

"Well, we're fixing that all up now," said Marjorie. "How about you? How
many dresses have you got?"

"Just two," said Bonnie. "One white one, only it's too short and Muvver
won't let me wear it in the winter, and one nasty bwown one. I don't
like it. I want a plaid one."

"Well, Christmas is coming pretty soon. We'll see what can be done about
that, too."

"Oh, but we aren't going to have any Chwistmas at our house," said the
little girl sadly. "Betty said we wouldn't. Muvver was going to do
sompin about it but she got sick, and so she can't. So we won't have
any."

"Well, perhaps Betty will find she was mistaken," said Marjorie.
"Besides, Muvver is getting better, we hope."

"Oh, is she?" The little girl raised her head with a light of hope in
her eyes. And then suddenly her face clouded again.

"Do Sunny and I haveta go to the nursewy today?"

"Oh, no," said Marjorie, "we have a nice fire here now and you can stay
at home."

"We don't liketa go ta the nursewy," said Bonnie wearily. "It smells of
onions and they said my muvver was high-hat because we had wubbers on to
keep our feet dwy."

"Well, now, shall we have our face washed and get fixed up nicely for
the doctor?"

And so Marjorie made the little girl fresh and sweet, brushed out the
pretty curls and put her own pretty pink dressing sack about the child's
shoulders to her infinite delight. Then she made the room somehow look
lovely, even with the old shabby furniture, and the faded wall paper.
Marjorie had a knack at doing things like that. Presently they heard the
doctor coming up on the porch, and Betty in the slim blue dress went to
open the door, her hair a little gold flame of light about her shapely
head. Marjorie, standing back in the tiny parlor almost out of view had
time to notice the quick look of interest in the doctor's face as he
took account of the exceedingly pretty girl who was meeting him, and the
little flush of rose that crept up into Betty's cheeks as she met his
gaze.

Mr. Gay came down the stairs himself with the doctor, walking straight
and a bit proudly.

"Yes, I think she's decidedly better," the doctor was saying. "I think
another day or so will clear up that fever and then she can begin to sit
up a little, but I would be exceedingly careful. If you want her down
for Christmas she'd better go slowly. And I'll say the same thing for
you, Mr. Gay. You know you are a bit run down, and in a condition like
that a man is open to anything that is going about. If I were you I'd
keep in the house for two or three days yet. It's beginning to snow, and
I think we're in for a big storm. The atmosphere is too damp for you to
be out in it till that soreness in your chest is all gone."

Then the doctor turned and looked keenly at Marjorie.

"Oh, you're the new sister, aren't you?" he said pleasantly. "Aren't you
twins? You look so very much alike. I doubt if I could have told you
apart if I hadn't met Miss Betty before several times."

Marjorie looking up caught a bright flame of color on Betty's face and
thought how pretty she looked in the new dress. She wondered in passing
if this nice pleasant doctor was interested in her sister?

Then she turned to answer the questions about Bonnie.

It was when the doctor had closed his medicine case and was just going
toward the door that silent little Bonnie suddenly sat up and spoke.

"They're having awful good things to eat. Can't I have any of them? I'm
awful hungwy!"

They all laughed and the doctor turned sympathetically toward the little
girl.

"You surely can," he said. "You tell those two sisters of yours to feed
you well. How about some cereal? Do you like cereal?"

Bonnie nodded.

"Wif cweam," she said aggrievedly. "They had it for bweakfast and they
didn't give me any. Just owange juice. It was good, but I wanted ceweal
too, wif cweam and sugar."

"I guess you are really better, young lady. All right. Give her some
cereal, and if she continues to improve she might have a baked potato
for dinner, and a poached egg. Tomorrow she can have chops."

"A whole chop for me?" said Bonnie with wide eyes. "Won't that be too
'spensive?"

"Of course not," spoke up Marjorie. "Oh, we're going to have a good
time, girlie."

Betty lingered a moment at the door talking with the doctor, asking him
particularly about her mother's diet and medicine, and the young doctor
looked at her approvingly and smiled as he finally went out.

Then came Ted with a big basket from the store, and the overcoat over
his arm.

"It's a chicken," said Ted succinctly as he handed over the basket.
"There's two of them. I thought Mother ought to have chicken broth."

"Oh, you extravagant boy!" said Betty aghast.

"That's nice, Ted," said Marjorie, "be just as extravagant as you want
to. Mother needs everything nice, and so do the rest of you, and chicken
will be good for the children, too. I'm so glad you got it!"

Then the real business of the day began, Betty and Marjorie settling
down to plan the meals, Betty trying to save, and Marjorie determined to
spend for her dear new family.




IX


For two days the girls had their hands full caring for the invalids,
getting the house in some sort of order, and doing the necessary cooking
and cleaning in a household that had been near to being cleaned out
entirely. But the third day the invalids were decidedly better. Bonnie
was dressed and playing about with Sunny, or tagging after her two
sisters, pretending to help a little.

The mother was allowed to sit up against her pillows for an hour at a
time, and to have gay little visits from her family a few minutes at a
time, while the father hovered over her and called time up so that she
wouldn't get exhausted. It was rare, his care of her. They were like two
lovers, Marjorie thought as she watched them shyly, and tried to work
out her new relationship and understand just what her absence had meant
to them. Precious little times together, Marjorie and her mother had,
too, although both of them were shy, and though they felt deeply, they
could not yet bring themselves to tell out all they had felt.

Meantime it had been snowing hard for two days, and Ted had been absent
most of the time. He came home the first night with a new snow shovel.
Snow was a windfall for Ted. He shoveled snow early and late, and was
proud to bring home a pocket full of dollars all his own. But he said
very little about it. He wasn't a boy who talked much about himself or
his doings. It was only by chance that they found out he had been
shoveling snow. It was Bud as usual who let it out.

They discovered Bud working away at their own walk with the heavy coal
shovel from the cellar, and Marjorie gave him some money and sent him to
the store to buy a snow shovel suited to his years. He came back
triumphantly and not only polished off the family paths elaborately, but
afterwards shouldered his new shovel and started out on a business
enterprise of his own, coming home proudly with a dollar and a quarter
in silver jingling in his pocket.

"Chrismus money," he told Betty with shining eyes. "Don'tcha guess we
all can have Chrismus now, seein' Muth is gettin' well?"

And Christmas was only a week off!

"Why, of course!" said Marjorie coming into the room just then. "That's
what I came here for in the first place, to spend Christmas with you
all. Certainly we've got to have a Christmas. Where do you put the tree,
Betty?"

"Tree!" said Betty with a sudden scorn. "We haven't had a tree since we
left Brentwood. I don't even know if Bud remembers our last one, and I'm
sure Sunny doesn't."

"Sure I remember it," said Bud indignantly. "Whaddaya think I am?"

"We could put it over there by the window," said Bonnie thoughtfully,
"if we weally had a twee. Over where other peoples could see how pwetty
it is. That's what the other children's folks are going to do wif their
twees, put 'em where other folks can see 'em."

"Of course," said Marjorie. "We want to give pleasure to others as well
as ourselves."

There wasn't much more said about it then, but a kind of joyous
expectancy began to pervade the house as it came to be a fixed
possibility that there would be a Christmas.

Ever since she had arrived Marjorie had been planning what she would do,
but there hadn't as yet been time to carry out her plans.

"Monday you and I ought to go out and do some Christmas shopping," said
Marjorie to Betty as they were putting everything in shining order
Saturday evening after supper.

"Christmas shopping, my eye! A lot of Christmas shopping I could do. I
haven't got ten cents of my own," said Betty ruefully.

"Oh, yes, you have," laughed Marjorie. "Look in your purse. I put some
in there this afternoon while you were down at the store and it's for
Christmas shopping and nothing else."

"Do you think I would go Christmas shopping with your money?" asked
Betty scornfully.

"It's not my money," laughed Marjorie, "it's yours. I gave it to you so
we could have some fun. You don't think it's any fun, do you, to do all
the shopping myself, and not have anybody else be getting up secrets
too? Now don't act that way. Let's have a real Christmas, gay and happy.
Let's not think who the money belongs to. Let's just get the things for
each other we know each likes or wants, and make up for all the other
Christmases that I've lost in the family." She beamed lovingly upon
Betty, and Betty softened.

"And I used to think you were selfish!" said Betty sorrowfully.

It was Sunday morning while they were getting breakfast together that
Marjorie asked quite casually:

"Where do you go to church? Is it far from here?"

Betty stopped stirring the pancake batter she was preparing and stared
at her.

"Go to church?" she laughed. "We don't go. We haven't since we left
Brentwood. For one thing we didn't have the clothes to go there or
anywhere else. And for another thing I guess we were all too discouraged
and disheartened to bother about church. People don't feel much
interested in going to church when they are having such a time as we've
had. It isn't easy to believe in a God who lets people like Father and
Mother suffer as they have done. I don't believe in a God myself. At
least if there is one He doesn't know anything about us individually. He
certainly can't care anything about us or He would make things different
for us, that is, if He could."

Marjorie looked at her aghast.

"Oh, Betty! That's awful! You mustn't talk that way."

"Why not, I'd like to know? Do you believe in a God?"

"Certainly."

"Why do you?"

Marjorie looked at her thoughtfully.

"I never stopped to think about why," she said slowly, "but I do. I
certainly do!"

"You do just because you were taught that way probably," said Betty
bitterly. "But people aren't doing that any more, believing just because
somebody else does."

"Betty dear! Don't talk that way," said Marjorie deeply troubled. "That
isn't right."

"Right! Ha! What's that anyway? Who said I had to do right? Well, I
didn't mean to worry you, only you asked about going to church, and I
suppose you'll be disappointed in us if that's what you expect of us.
Not one of us goes to church except Ted. He's the religious one of the
flock."

"Ted?" said Marjorie lifting astonished eyes.

"Yes, Ted. He's as faithful as the clock. He walks away back to
Brentwood every Sunday. He's got a crush on a young preacher back there,
and we can't keep him away. He'll probably want to walk you way out
there with him if you suggest church to him."

"Why, I'd love to go," said Marjorie. "Why don't we both go? It's a
gorgeous morning."

"Thanks, no," said Betty coldly. "I don't feel religiously inclined, and
anyway, I haven't any coat. You couldn't just divide your coat with me,
though I presume you would if it were possible. Besides, it's you that
wants to go to church, not me. Here, Ted," as the boy came in from the
street, "here's a candidate to go to church with you."

Ted looked at Marjorie with a sudden sparkle in his eyes.

"Sure, I'll take her," he said diffidently. "But you haveta walk.
There's no carline except a long roundabout way."

"I'll love to walk!" said Marjorie.

"In this snow?" asked Betty scornfully.

"Yes, the snow makes it all the nicer. But I can't go and leave you to
get dinner all alone."

"I don't mind getting dinner. I enjoy it with all these nice things
you've bought us. If you only knew how many dinners I've got with only a
can of beans and some stale bread!"

"You poor dear! But that's all the more reason why you should have a
vacation from it. You go to church and I'll get dinner!"

"Not on your life!" said Betty, using her brother's phrase. "If I had
any time for church I'd use it trying to fix up a little. My hair needs
washing."

"We'll go to a beauty parlor tomorrow."

"No, we won't do that either," said Betty. "If I had any money for
beauty parlors I wouldn't use it that way. Not with all the things I
need."

Just then came a call from upstairs.

"Betty, your mother thinks she would like to have a little talk with
your sister now, if you can spare her," called the father.

"All right, Father, I'm coming," called Marjorie. Then she turned to
Ted.

"If Mother wants me perhaps I ought not to go with you this morning. But
how about tonight? Do you go at night too?"

"Sure I do!" said Ted snapping his jaw together as if he had often had
to contend for his right to do so.

"Oh, yes, he goes. You can't keep him home!" snapped Betty. "You'd think
it was a saloon with a pool table they have there the way he's devoted
to it. You can't pry him loose. Even the long walk doesn't stop him!"

There was a sneer in the end of Betty's voice, and Marjorie thought she
saw resentment quiver over Ted's sensitive face, as if Betty's words
were like whiplashes on his bare flesh, but he lifted his head proudly
with a kind of defiance in his eyes. If she was going to laugh at him he
was ready for her.

But Marjorie smiled warmly, with sympathy in her voice as she said:

"That's a pretty good recommendation for the church, I should say. All
right, I'll go tonight if I find I can't go this morning. How soon do
you start?"

"Ought to get going in a half hour," said the boy glancing at the clock.

"All right. If I don't get downstairs in time you just start without
me."

Then she went upstairs to her mother.

"Your mother did not sleep at all last night," said the father, standing
at the foot of the bed looking anxiously toward her. "She has been
worrying a lot about you, and I told her it was best to send for you and
just talk it out and get it off her mind. This morning she has just a
shade of fever again, and I thought if we could only get to the bottom
of the trouble and talk it through and have a thorough understanding
Mother could rest and not worry, and maybe get a bit of sleep before the
doctor comes."

"Of course!" said Marjorie eagerly. "But why should there be anything to
worry about? I do hope I haven't made you worse, Mother dear, by coming
now when you were sick! I didn't know, of course, but I guess I should
have written first and asked if you were willing I should come."

"No, no, dear child!" said her father protestingly, "I'm glad you
didn't. We probably would have felt it wasn't fit here for you to come
now when we are in such straits. We would have been too proud to let you
see to what we had fallen. And your poor little mother would have gone
on grieving. No, it isn't about your coming at all that your mother is
worried. Although of course she as well as all of us are ashamed that
you had to find us in great poverty. Your mother has been worrying lest
you may have thought that when she came to see you some two years ago
you might think she came to try and get money out of your foster mother.
The thought has fairly obsessed her until I can do nothing to take it
out of her mind. She seems to think it will always be there in your mind
when you think of us."

"Oh, my dear little Mother!" said Marjorie flinging herself down on her
knees beside the bed and gathering her mother into her arms, brushing
the tears away from the thin cheeks and kissing the trembling lips. "Of
course not. How could I? In the first place I didn't know a thing about
you until I found that letter that had been written before Mrs.
Wetherill died. I only knew that you had given me up, and I did feel bad
about that. I felt as if I had not been wanted, and I suppose that
feeling made me love the Wetherills all the more fiercely. They were
lovely to me, Mother, of course, and they did love me. But sometimes my
heart would ache thinking how my own mother didn't want me, and wishing
I could see you just once to know what you were like. But as for money,
I never once thought about it. They told me when I was quite young that
you were not in circumstances to bring me up the way you wanted me
brought up, and so you gave me to them. I think that was all Mrs.
Wetherill knew about it until a short time before Mr. Wetherill died.
Then he told, but I do not know just what he told her. I do not think he
told her much, because from her letter written just before she died she
seemed to be very much disturbed at what she had found out from you, and
terribly upset that you had returned in full all the money they paid for
the privilege of adopting me. No, Mother dear, there wasn't ever a thing
said to make me feel you were after money when you came to see me. I
think that was what had made Mrs. Wetherill feel that she must tell me
about you before she died. I think she was conscience-stricken when she
found you still cared about me, and she felt she ought not to have kept
you from seeing me. She rather put it upon me that I ought to come and
find you, and she suggested that I would have plenty of money and was
free to do what I would with it. I think she knew that she ought in some
way to make up to you for her selfishness in keeping your child when you
wanted her back. I think she understood herself that you were not the
kind of people to whom money could make up for what they loved."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" sighed the sick woman with relief. "Then you didn't
come here just out of pity for us?"

"My dear, I hadn't the slightest idea of pitying you. I felt that I was
the one to be pitied. I was all alone in the world, and I didn't even
know if my own people were still living. You know it was some time since
you had been heard from. You might have all died for all I knew, or
moved to another country!"

"You poor little girl!" said her mother softly, gathering Marjorie's
hand into her own frail one and squeezing it gently. "You poor little
abandoned baby!"

"No, Mother, don't say that!" pleaded Marjorie. "I was not abandoned, I
was sort of cheated away from you, wasn't I? The letter makes it very
plain that you were sick, and under great strain of worry about Father
and my twin sister, and you were too sick to realize what you were
doing, and goaded into doing it. At least that was what I read between
the lines."

"Yes," said her mother, "they came to me when I was too weak to
understand it all. They told me your father would not live unless he had
certain care and attention. A specialist to watch over him, and a year
or two in a quiet outdoor place where he would be absolutely free from
worry. They said your little sister could not live, or at least she
would be a cripple if she didn't have a certain difficult operation."

"And wasn't it true, Mother?" Marjorie was wide-eyed with consternation.

"Partly," said the mother wearily as if it were something that she had
gone over and over so many times that it hurt her to remember.
"But,--there would have been some other way. Oh, there would have been
_something_ else we could have done."

"But who told you all this, Mother? Not the doctor, surely?"

"No, it was Mr. Wetherill. He came to see me several times, till I
didn't know what to do. He kept telling me how his wife loved you and
would care for you as her own, and how he would see that Betty had every
care that science could give her, and that your father should have a
beautiful place to recuperate in, and all he needed. And he was as good
as his word, too. He did all that, lavished things upon us until we had
to protest. He seemed to think that made up for the other. And then the
worst of all was that he gave me the impression that your father wanted
me to sign the papers when all the time he was too sick even to be told
that you and Betty were born, though I didn't know that yet. Your father
did not know anything about the transaction until it was too late to
stop it honorably. He was so sick for months that I did not dare to tell
him what I had done, and so it wore in upon me all the heavier. And then
when your father got better and I told him, he was broken-hearted. It
seemed to me that he would never smile again. He felt that it was a
personal disgrace, even though he hadn't done it himself, nor known
about it, and as soon as he was able to travel he went to see Mr.
Wetherill and tried to get you back. But Mr. Wetherill was very
determined. He had the papers all iron-clad. We had nothing to go on. We
had given you up. He even had the doctor's statement that your father
was not in condition to give consent, and I had the sole authority. He
had managed it with witnesses and clever questions he had asked in their
presence, so that we could do nothing. Of course it might have been
different if we had had money and influence."

The mother sighed deeply and the quiet tears flowed down.

"There, Mother dear," soothed Marjorie, "it doesn't matter now, does it?
It's all over, and we are together at last and understand each other."

"But I feel it was all my fault," wailed the mother. "Sometimes I wake
up from dreaming that I am doing it all over again, and then I scream
out. I felt as if I had done something utterly inhuman!"

"There, now, Mother, you are getting all worked up again, and you
promised me you wouldn't if I called her up here."

"I know," said the mother again, trying to bring out a trembling little
sigh.

"Well, Mother," said Marjorie gently, "I'm terribly sorry you've had to
suffer so many years. If I knew any way I would so gladly take it to
wipe out the memory of all this from your mind, but since we can't,
suppose we just make the rest of the years so bright they will dim the
others out of sight? You see I was spared all that suffering. I longed
to know about you of course, but I was only a child, and I was happy.
They were very good to me. I didn't suffer in any way. But it is awful
to me to know that you did, and why can't we play it never was. Why
can't we just go on from here?"

The mother looked up with a little trembling smile on her lips as if she
dared not quite fling off her burden.

"And you don't blame me?"

"No, I don't blame you, dearest Mother. And you mustn't blame the other
mother, either, because I don't think she ever knew the whole thing, nor
had even the slightest realization that you wanted me until you came to
see her. I think Mr. Wetherill always protected her from everything. He
adored her, and got her anything she asked for. He couldn't bear to say
no to her in anything. I suppose he didn't scruple to do anything to
please her. It was selfish of her, of course, to want me who belonged to
another, when there were so many other little babies in the world who
had nobody to care. But I don't believe _she_ realized until just before
she died that she was selfish. So, Mother, let's forgive her, and forget
all about the pain, and let's have a beautiful time together. Will you?"

"You mean," said the mother anxiously, "that you are willing to come
down to being our child? That you are not ashamed of us?"

"Oh, Mother! Of course not. Of course I'm your child."

"But you have a different name from ours, and a different position. A
position that you would not have had as our child."

"I can change my name," said Marjorie eagerly, "there is no one to be
hurt by my doing it."

"No, my dear, you could not legally do that," said her father gravely.
"I think it might affect your inheritance, and that would not be right.
That is a small matter, of course. Neither your mother nor I would worry
about your name. What Mother wants is merely to know if you really love
us and are willing to forgive us for having allowed you to be put out of
our lives. I am not saying it was not an advantage to you, at least a
worldly advantage, but that does not make our act any the less
questionable."

"Oh, Father, I do forgive, if there is anything to forgive, and I do
love and honor you, and want to be your child. And as for name and
inheritance, why all I care for the inheritance is to use it for you
all, to make it more easy and comfortable. And Mrs. Wetherill
practically suggested that in her last word to me."

"But, my dear, we can't live on you."

"Why not, Father? If I had been your child in the home all these years
wouldn't I have been living on you? And now that I have come back to
you, I have no other way to make up for the lost years except through
the money. Why can't we just be glad in it and call it _ours_?"

"My dear, a man must provide for his family."

"That's all right, Father, when you get well and are able to do it, but
just now _I_ am able, and I'm going to enjoy getting and doing things
for you all more than anything I ever did in my life. Please, dear
Father! And--don't you think Mother is getting a little tired? She
looks to me as if she needed to go to sleep right away. Suppose you tell
her it's all right. It will be, you know, and we can settle all these
details afterward. We're just all a family together. If Betty had a
legacy left to her, you wouldn't hesitate to let her put the family on
its feet would you? Or Ted? And wouldn't they want to right away? Well,
then, why not take me clear into the family and treat me just the same
as you would them? I'm doing the very thing I want to do with my money,
and it's giving me more pleasure than if I were to buy an airplane and a
yacht and three or four estates in different parts of the world, so why
not enjoy it with me? Besides what I have spent so far wouldn't even
make a nick in the estate that has been left me, so why worry? Come,
Father, kiss Mother and tell her it's all right and she positively
needn't worry another bit."

The father stooped over and kissed his wife.

"She is right," he said tenderly, "she's our child, and it's all
forgotten, and it's all right, and you're not to worry again ever any
more. Will you cast it all away?"

"Oh, yes, I will."

"And will you go to sleep?"

She nodded, dropped happily back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

So Marjorie slipped away with a vision of her father sitting by the bed
holding her mother's hand, a long loving look and smile passing between
them.

"Aren't they sweet?" she said as she came down misty-eyed to where Betty
was putting a clean tablecloth on the table.

Betty looked up admiringly.

"I'm so glad you can see that!"

"Why, did you think I wouldn't?"

"Well, you weren't brought up with them," she said evasively.

Marjorie studied her a minute, and then she said:

"It doesn't take long to discover they are sweet. But I suppose Ted's
gone, hasn't he?"

"No, he's outside getting that ice off the step. He's afraid somebody
will fall. He's been waiting for you. I think he's keen on having you go
with him. I shouldn't wonder if he wants to show you where we used to
live."

"Oh, is the church where we used to live?" asked Marjorie, and knew not
that she had said "we."

Betty gave her a quick look and then said with satisfaction, "Yes."

"Well, I'd like to go in the daytime so I can see it. But are you sure
you don't want me to stay and take care of the children?"

"Mercy no. They're used to taking care of themselves, and now that
Bonnie's up again Sunny is no trouble at all. She invents things to keep
him happy. Go on. Dinner won't be ready till after you get back, and you
can help clear away if lack of work troubles your conscience."

So Marjorie and her brother started off to church.

Ted wasn't much dressed up. He hadn't anything to dress up in. But he
had brushed his clothes spick and span, had combed his red curls to a
shining polished mahogany, had shined his old shoes, and he was
scrupulously clean. Marjorie secretly admired his ease of manner and
walk in spite of his clothes, though she could see he was conscious of
his shabbiness, eyeing her handsome fur coat, and finally remarking:

"I guess you'll be ashamed of me, but they don't mind clothes where
we're going."

"No," said Marjorie thoughtfully, "I'm not ashamed of you, I'm proud of
you. Things like that are only comparative, anyway, aren't they? They
shouldn't have any part in going to church."

Ted eyed her speculatively, and finally ventured another question:

"I guess you're saved, aren't you?"

"Saved?" said Marjorie altogether startled. The phrase was not common
among the young people she knew.

"I am a church-member. Is that what you mean?"

Ted was visibly embarrassed.

"No," he said, "that doesn't getcha anywhere in being saved. That's what
comes afterward. It's the sorta sign for others to see, but everybody
who joins church isn't saved by a long shot."

She gave him another keen look. What kind of a place was this church to
which he was taking her? Obviously not an ordinary church. People didn't
talk that way in the church to which the Wetherills belonged. They
attended church and were very faithful in contributing to its support,
but they didn't ask each other if they were saved.

"You haveta be born again, you know."

She gave him another keen look and as if he were answering the question
in her eyes he said:

"You believe, you know, that's how you get to be born again. That's how
you get saved. You just believe."

"Believe?" said Marjorie inquiringly. She didn't say "believe what?" But
her tone said it. So he answered.

"Believe that Jesus is the Son of God and died to take our sins upon
Himself and suffer their penalty." He explained it gravely, as if he had
done it before, and understood thoroughly what it meant.

"Why, I guess I believe that," said Marjorie, "I've never really thought
much about it, but I believe it of course. It's all in the Bible, isn't
it? I believe the Bible. I was taught to believe that when I was very
young, though I'm not sure I know much about it."

"Gee, it's great when you get ta studying it!" said Ted irrelevantly.

Marjorie looked at him in surprise.

"Have you studied it?"

"Sure! We had Bible classes twice a week at the Brentwood chapel. Gosh,
I was sorry to move away! It's a whole lot harder to live the Christian
life when you can't go where there are a lot of believers. Now I can't
go any time except Sunday, and I certainly do miss those classes."

"You must have had a good teacher," said Marjorie wonderingly.

"I'll say he was! He was _swell_! He seemed ta know just what you'd been
going through that day, and how to show you where you'd got off the
track, see? Of course we have him Sundays too, but I certainly do miss
the regular week-day classes. I tried for a while to keep up, but when
you get up at four o'clock and serve papers, and then work all day, you
don't seem to have much brains for study at night. But I certainly do
miss it."

"Who is this teacher?"

"Gideon Reaver's his name. He's just a young fella, only been out of
Seminary a little over a year, but he certainly knows his Bible. He can
preach all around any preacher I ever heard before, even most of the big
guns that come to the chapel now and then because they know him. He
doesn't preach anyway, he just talks, and tells us what the Bible means.
He's a great big fellow, six feet. And a pair of shoulders! Oh, boy!
He's got a nice face, too. The girls all go crazy over him, but he
doesn't seem to know it. He just looks right over them and smiles and
goes on talking, and by and by they settle down and listen and get
sensible. The fellows like him too. Oh, boy, do they like him! And how!
But you'll hear him. You'll see what he's like."

"Well, I hope I shall be able to keep from going crazy over him,"
Marjorie smiled.

Ted turned red.

"Oh, you're not like that. You're sensible! But he's a prince, you know.
I'm not blaming 'em for going crazy over him. If I was a girl I might do
it myself."

"Did Betty used to go to church with you when you lived in Brentwood,"
asked Marjorie.

Ted's face darkened.

"No!" he said shortly. "She wouldn't go. She said she had no time for
church. She was all taken up with a poor fish in the office where she
worked. He useta come out in a secondhand roadster and take her places.
He made me sick. Had one of those little misplaced eyebrows on his upper
lip, thought he was smart, could smoke more cigarettes in an hour than
anybody I ever heard of, and wore his hat way off on the back of his
head like he was bored with the world and thought he was too good to
associate with common people. He useta call me, "M'lad!" just like that,
as though he thought he was some prince and I was to wait on him. I
didn't stick around much when he came here. But he put Betts off the
notion of going to church entirely. I couldn't get her near it. And
then, even if she'd wanted to go she wouldn't attend a plain little
chapel. She wanted some swell church where they had high-hats and swell
music."

"Then she doesn't know Gideon Reaver."

"No, she wouldn't be introduced one day when I brought him home. She
said she didn't care to know preachers, they would bore her, and it
might be embarrassing to have him hanging around. Oh, she makes me sick,
sometimes."

"I guess she's had rather a hard time," suggested Marjorie gently.

"Sure she has! We've all had a hard time. And she's been a good scout,
worked like everything to take care of Mother and Father, and all that,
but still--sometimes she makes me sick."

"Is she what you call saved?" Marjorie asked hesitantly.

"Not she!" said her brother sorrowfully. "She won't let me talk to her,
and she won't go anywhere where she can hear the truth. She says she
doesn't believe in a God who would let us suffer the way we have! I try
to tell her about what the Bible says but she won't listen. There!" He
suddenly broke off and his voice grew jubilant. "There's Brentwood now!
See it up there on the hill? And that's our house, that long low stone
house with the white pillars to the porch? Isn't that some swell
location? And there! Upon my word if there doesn't come Gideon Reaver
now! He must have been up on the hill visiting some sick person. Gosh,
that's great! Now I can introduce you to him before the service!"

Then Marjorie looked up to see a tall finely built young man coming
toward her with astonishingly wonderful eyes that seemed to have seen
further into life than most men see, yet they had a deep sweet settled
peace in them. She wondered if it could be real. She had never seen a
young man who had that look.




X


Meantime back in Aster Street Betty was having a time of her own.

Bud had found a forlorn little alley cat shivering with the cold,
rescued her from a ring of small dogs who were threatening her worthless
life, and brought her into the house. Her fur was caked with mud and
ice, with a tinting of blood from her recent fight, and altogether she
was a pitiful object. He hoped, faintly, to persuade Betty to take an
interest in her, though he was pretty sure she wouldn't. Anyway he meant
to sneak some food out for her.

But when he found that Betty had gone upstairs to make the beds it
seemed to him an excellent chance to carry out his purposes, so with one
free arm he filled the dishpan with nice warm water, took the dish soap,
and plunged the poor astonished kitten into a lovely warm bath.

"There, kitty, there, poor pussy!" he said tenderly, holding the
struggling frantic creature firmly, and dousing her under water in his
efforts. "There, nice little cat! Can't you see you gotta be clean? Stop
your scratching, you poor fish you! Didn't I rescue you from the dogs?
You aren't a bit grateful. But you gotta be clean. Don't you
understand? After I get you clean I'll give you some nice dinner. Nice
warm milk. Won't that be nice, kitty?"

Appeared on the scene Bonnie, wide-eyed and eager.

"Oh, Buddie, what you got? Where d'you get that cat?"

"Sh-h-h!" warned Bud in the midst of his struggles, mingling his own
life's blood with that of the dirty little cat. "Ain't you got any sense
at all, Bonnie Gay? Don'tcha know ya mustn't make a noise an' wake
Mother? Don'tcha know I gotta get this cat clean before Betty gets down
here?"

Sunny came running. Yelling.

"Tat, where's a tat? I wantta see ze tat! Oh! Kitty! Kitty! See ze funny
'ittle kitty!"

"Can't ya shut up, Sunny Gay? Can't ya get outta my way?"

The children were plastered eagerly up to the sink, one on either side,
Sunny with his chin on the edge of the sink, Bonnie holding on and
watching, and suddenly the dishpan, which was a trifle too large for the
inadequate sink, and much too full of dirty soapy water, tilted crazily,
and Bud in his efforts to right it released one hand from the cat. That
cat had learned to take any advantage no matter how small that came to
her miserable life and she clutched and clawed at the edge of the pan,
floundered away from Bud, and made a dive, anywhere out of that awful
bath. One instant she wetly clutched Bud's neck, digging her nails in
deep, the next she trailed sloppily across his front and slid from his
grasp, thumping down on the floor with a flop and then scuttling dazedly
like a little drowned imp through dining room and hall, finding refuge
at last in the best upholstered chair the Gay family owned, and began
licking away furiously at her outraged fur.

But the pan she had left behind her had attempted to follow her descent,
and poured wildly over poor frightened Bud, with branches in every
direction, one going right down Sunny's handy little neck and into his
shoes, and another splashing into Bonnie's face and deluging her neck
and arms and the front of her dress.

A united howl arose, Sunny dancing up and down with his eyes shut and
screaming, and Bonnie setting up a wail like none she had ever given
before.

"Aw, shut up, ya little pests ya! Now see whatchuve done!"

Betty came flying down stairs hushing them up, her eyes flashing fire!
She beheld the dripping crowd in horror.

"Buddie Gay! What are you doing? You naughty, _naughty_ boy!"

Betty seized Bud's arm and jerked him back from the sink, but some
subconscious reaction compelled him to keep his hold on the dishpan
which he had been trying to right, and when Betty removed him from the
sink the dishpan with its remaining dirty water came along, and deluged
Betty who had just changed her kitchen dress for the pretty little house
dress Marjorie had given her that morning. She had been upstairs getting
into array to meet the doctor when she heard the tumult downstairs.

Betty looked down at herself in horror and gasped, the more so as the
nature of the element that was doused over her was gradually revealed by
the dregs of dirt in the dishpan.

It was just at that opportune second that the doctor arrived and rang
the bell. Only Bonnie heard it, and stopping her wail midway she went to
open the door, then went on with her wail.

"Why, what's the matter, little girl?" he asked looking at her
distressed face in astonishment.

"Buddie was w-w-washing--the--kitty!" she sobbed, "and the kitty--flew,
an' it's all over us!" she explained and then opened her mouth in
another howl and led the way to the kitchen where the two boys and Betty
were carrying on.

"You wicked boy!" said Betty in a cold hard tone, never the tone she
would have had the nice young doctor hear. "You wicked, _wicked_ little
boy! What on earth were you doing to make all this trouble?"

"I was--washing--a cat!" howled Bud, forgetting his years and reverting
to babyhood. "She--was--all bluggy! The dogs were--f-f-fighting her!"

"Do you mean to tell me that you dared to bring a cat in here from the
street and wash it in my _dishpan_? A dirty little alley cat? In my
clean dishpan! And my dish soap, too!" as she sighted the sloppy cake of
soap winking at her from across the floor under the table! "Oh, you
unspeakable child! As if I didn't have enough to do without all this
mess. And you've ruined this pretty dress too! You knew it was naughty
to bring a dirty cat in here and wash it, didn't you? Answer me, Buddie
Gay, you knew it, didn't you?"

"She--w-was--all cold--and trembling--and--and--s-s-scared!" howled
Buddie now in paroxysms of hysteria.

"I don't care if she was frozen stark to death!" said Betty in a hard
cold tone of fury. "Where is she now? Answer me, Bud! Where is that cat
now?"

"I d-d-don't k-k-know!" howled Bud. "She--she--she-clawed me, and then
she f-f-flew! I might bleed ta death mebbe, but you wouldn't c-c-care!"

Then Sunny put in with a cheerful excitement.

"Her went in ze parlor, her did! Her is in muvver's big chair wif the
wockers, sittin' up an' wipin' her fezzers wif her little wed tongue!"

Sunny was dripping from neck to toes, and there were both tears and
drops of dirty water on his cheeks, but his face was eager with
excitement.

Then suddenly Betty looked up and saw the doctor standing in the doorway
with the most comical look of amusement and pity on his face that a man
could wear, and all at once Betty knew that she too was crying! The
utmost humiliation that life could bring had descended upon her. The
handsome young doctor had seen her like this, wet and dirty and angry!
He had _heard_ her like this. It was something she could never undo. The
echo of her angry voice was still ringing in her ears, like the sound of
a gong echoing long after the ringer is gone. No amount of apology or
excuse could ever make him forget her that way. She was undone before
him, disgraced forever.

And all limp and dirty as she was she sank down into a kitchen chair and
burst into real weeping.

If she could have seen the doctor's face at that moment she would have
been surprised. The comical look of amusement vanished utterly and a
look of utter tenderness and sympathy came into his eyes. In one motion
he set down his medicine case on a chair in the hall behind him and
strode over to Betty.

"Poor child!" he said. "You've been working too hard. We'll have you
down in bed the next thing if you don't look out. Here!" he said seizing
upon a towel that hung on the rack above the sink out of harm's way. It
was a clean towel. Betty had taken pride in hanging it there a few
minutes before, thinking how nice her kitchen looked, all fixed up for
Sunday. She had been so glad there was that clean towel.

The doctor wet the end of the towel and came over to Betty, lifting her
face very gently and wiping off the tears with the wet towel.

"There!" he said cheerfully. "You'll feel better now. Nothing like cool
water to brace one up. Hand over your hands too. There, now, don't you
feel better? That dress will wash, won't it? No great harm done, is
there? Anyway I don't wonder you felt you'd got to the limit. There! Go
on crying if you want to. It will help you to react. It isn't everybody
that can have the cat give a bath to the whole family at once on a
Sunday morning."

Suddenly Betty looked up and laughed. Laughed with the tears streaming
down her cheeks.

The doctor came over to her again, taking a clean handkerchief out of
his pocket, and lifting her chin with one hand gently wiped the tears
away.

Betty stopped laughing and her face held something almost like awe.

"Oh," she said suddenly, "I'm such a mess! And you will get your nice
clean handkerchief all soiled!"

She was coming back to herself now, with the hard usual edge in her
voice, but somehow that little act of wiping her tears away had taken
the shame and humiliation away from Betty's hurt heart.

"Well," she said after a minute, "you've certainly seen me at my worst!
I'm sure I don't know what I said to those children."

"Do you often have as much cause?" asked the doctor with a companionable
grin. "Now, let's see what can be done for these other drowned people."

Sunny and Bonnie were standing in the middle of the floor, still
dripping, and staring at the two grown-ups, tears on their soiled
cheeks. Bud had returned to the window and was softly blubbering to
himself.

"Ah--bbbbb--bah! Ah--bbbubbubbub--bah!"

"I'll have to take them to the bathroom and scrub them," said Betty
wearily. "And I'd just got them fixed up clean for Sunday!"

"Too bad!" said the doctor sympathetically.

Betty seized Bonnie's little dress and wrung the water out of it.

"There! Go upstairs and take off everything," she said. "I'll be up in
just a minute. You can get into the tub and turn on the water."

She took off Sunny's outer robing, finding him less damaged than his
sister, and sent him up to get his bathrobe on. Then she turned her
attention to Bud and her voice had its hard edge now in full.

"Now, where is that cat?"

Bud turned a woebegone face toward her.

"I don't know."

"Well, find her!"

"Is this the lost article?" asked the doctor coming back from a tour of
investigation and holding up a dreary little wisp of a meek stringy cat
by the nape of her neck.

"Oh, mercy!" said Betty, and in spite of herself broke into a laugh.
"Here, I'll open the door and put her out!"

"You can't do that even to an alley cat," said the doctor. "She's too
wet to put out in this cold. She'd freeze solid in half a minute! The
society for the prevention of cruelty would be after you."

"Sh-sh-she's hongry!" announced Bud anxiously. "I p-p-romised her
something ta eat! An' you can't let her go out there! There's about
thirteen dogs chasing her out there! She's scared!"

"Well, let's see," said the doctor still holding the cat, "how about a
box and some old rags? Couldn't you manage that, Bud? Isn't there a box
in the cellar she would like for a bed? And we could put it down by the
furnace in the cellar until she dries out, couldn't we?"

"Sure!" said Bud, brightening, and he stumped away to get the box.

Betty shamedly brought a saucer of milk and set it down on a newspaper
in the corner, and the poor little rag of a cat, crumpled and damp,
addressed herself to the first full meal she had had since she arrived
in this vale of tears.

They stood watching her for a minute, with an adoring if damp Bud
kneeling beside her, and then the doctor said:

"How about that chair in there? Oughtn't it to be wiped off before it
dries in? Can I use this towel?"

"Oh, I'll do it," said Betty suddenly coming back to reality. "You've
already exceeded a doctor's duties several times."

"Bud, as soon as that lady finishes her banquet put her in her box and
carry her down by the furnace, and then come up and get off those wet
clothes. Make it snappy, too, hear, Bud? I don't want you for a patient,
not yet awhile anyway."

"Awwright!" answered Bud with an absorbed tone. He sounded enraptured
over that poor little ratty kitten. It was a foregone conclusion that he
would not leave her charmed presence nor think of changing his wet
clothes until he heard someone coming after him again.

The doctor smiled indulgently as he hurried upstairs.

"And now where are my real patients?" he called as he came up. "If
they've survived that tornado they must be getting well fast!" and he
came with his cheery presence into the room where Mrs. Gay was just
waking from her first refreshing sleep since she had taken to her bed.

Betty in the bathroom hastening Bonnie through her leisurely bath,
smiled to herself and wondered if all doctors were so cheerful and
comforting. It was probably just because he was a doctor that he had
been so nice to her when she had been down there in the kitchen
hysterical over the mess the children had made. But it thrilled her to
think of his wiping her tears, of the touch of his smooth fingers
lifting her chin so gently. It was that sense of being cared for that
touched her, brought the tears to her eyes.

"Fool!" she told herself, "as if he cared anything about me. He's just a
doctor and it's his business to heal anything, even a cat! He can't bear
to see things suffer even with mortification, I suppose. That's probably
why he chose to be a doctor!"

But she hurried Bonnie into her ragged little undergarments and got
herself freshened up in the pretty knitted dress that Marjorie had given
her. She would take it off as soon as he was gone of course, but she
must appear decently if only for a minute, after he had seen her looking
so disreputable.

So she came shining into the sickroom in an incredibly short space of
time and gleaned an admiring glance from his nice eyes that made her
feel warm all over.

"Fool!" she told herself again bitterly. "It didn't mean a thing! He was
just kindly and impersonal! He's probably in love with some charming
nurse, or maybe married to an heiress. Any good man might have done just
what he did and think nothing of it. He was just being kind and helping
me out of a mess. It's what any true gentleman ought always to do, put a
girl at her ease. Of course there aren't many like that any more, but
it's nice to know there is one left in the world who cares to be kind."
She stared after him wistfully as he went out to his car and drove away,
and then she hurried upstairs to take off the pretty dress and throw on
her very oldest. She had to scrub the kitchen now and she hated it,
dirty cat-bath all over it! And the children's clothes too! And she must
find something to put on Sunny while she did up his only decent suit.

Then it was time to put the vegetables on, and look at the roast. Such a
nice dinner! But she was too tired to enjoy it. There were bright red
spots on her thin cheeks, and her tongue was sharp when she spoke to the
children. She gave Bud the worst tongue-lashing he had ever had, and
coming as a surprise after the doctor's merry challenge it hurt deeply.
He dragged himself upstairs and stayed a long time reflecting how hard
grown-up people were to get along with. He took off his wet garments and
put on the worst things he could find, out at the elbow and out at the
knee. He didn't care. He had the cat anyway. Then he stole down cellar
and sat on the rough dirt floor beside the cat's box watching her sleep,
all curled up in a bunch. She had licked her fur fairly clean, and she
was drying out nicely. She looked like the fluff that came under the bed
when the room needed sweeping. He wondered why grown-up people hated
cats so much. He thought she was lovely.

If Marjorie sitting in the pretty little old stone church of a hundred
years ago, that was now called "the chapel," and listening to the young
preacher making salvation plainer than she had ever heard it before,
could have known what had been going on back at the little house on
Aster Street, she would not have sat so comfortably absorbed in the
sermon. But fortunately she did not know, and so it seemed to her that
she was happier than she had ever been in church before. Always on
Sunday she had gone to church with a vague longing for something, she
hardly knew what, something that would satisfy the wistfulness of her
soul. And it had never been there. Sometimes her imagination would soar
heavenward and she would try to feel as she thought a good saintly soul
should feel, but always such forced emotions left her as she went from
the church, and the days passed on with that uneasy little restlessness
of soul back in her being somewhere, that would not be entirely
satisfied even when things were going just as she had planned.

But here in this sweet old chapel with its lovely arched ceiling of
polished wood, and its fine windows of old-fashioned design, there
seemed a different atmosphere from the churches she had known all her
life. It was as if a strong sea breeze were blowing through the little
audience room, waking up and freshening every mind to keener
intelligence. As if a holy kind of glory pervaded the place. She heard
one woman explaining to another: "Why, The Holy Spirit is here!" She
wondered if that were what she meant. It seemed a place where God dwelt
intimately, companioning with those who came to Him here in a way He did
not reach the people who attended most church edifices. Maybe it was
only a queer idea of hers. Her foster-mother used to tell her that she
was queer sometimes, had quaint old-fashioned ideas. She often used to
wonder if Mrs. Wetherill, much as she loved her, fully understood her
when she tried to explain the strivings of her unsatisfied soul.

Then, too, the singing here seemed to have a different sound from that
in ordinary churches. The people sang the words as if they meant them,
and the music rose like incense from an altar and seemed to mingle with
the heavenly choirs above. Of course that must be just fancy too, for
the people around her were just ordinary people, some of them looked
quite uncultured. It couldn't be the quality of their voices, or their
training either. It seemed to be that they were singing because they
loved to sing, and because they felt what they were singing. "Making a
joyful noise unto the Lord." Wasn't that phrase somewhere in the Bible?
Or was it in the ritual of the church? She wasn't very familiar with
scripture. She didn't know. Bible study had not been a part of her early
training. She owned a beautifully bound Bible and it had its place on
her bedside table, but she had seldom read it. She had no idea where to
begin to read a Bible. The beginning seemed so unreal. So she had seldom
read it, except in snatches here and there occasionally, as one might
pick up a book of poetry recognized as lovely but not suited to
practical life.

But now suddenly it seemed that the Bible was the guide book for the
Christian's way, the indispensable source of all knowledge, the deep
hidden treasury of a Christian's wealth. It had never occurred to her
that the Bible could be all that; that it could be a thing upon which
one lived and depended. She had looked upon it more as a clergyman's
hand-book, too mystical for ordinary mortals to comprehend.

So she sat and listened wide-eyed to the eager young preacher with the
wonderful holy eyes who seemed as he talked to be looking into another
world, listening to a higher authority than himself and merely passing
on to his hearers the word he received from Heaven. He seemed as he
talked to be keeping his eyes above them, looking into the face of God
Himself, using not his own thoughts nor even his own words, but merely
repeating what his soul had caught from the lips of his Master.

When the sermon was over she felt breathless as if she had been
privileged a glimpse into Heaven itself, as if God had been there
speaking to her soul through the lips of this young man. She was filled
with awe. Her heart throbbed a response as though she wanted to answer a
high sweet call she had heard for the first time.

"You have shown me so many things," she said to him afterward as they
stood together at the door a moment, waiting for Ted to gather up the
hymn books and straighten the extra chairs for the night service.
"Things I never knew could be! I never knew the Bible was a book like
that!"

He gave her a startled look.

"Oh, didn't you? I'm glad I helped," he smiled. "I hope you'll come
again."

"Oh, I will!" she said fervently. "What you have said seems to be
something I've been searching for a long time."

His face lit up with a kind of glory light.

"Oh, I _am_ glad!" he said quietly.

Then came Ted with his shy smile of adoration.

"Great service!" he said quietly, and it suddenly seemed to Marjorie
that those two had some secret bond of fellowship that swept aside all
inequalities of age or position or station and made them one. She looked
at her new brother with wondering eyes, seeing him in another light, and
remembering what he had said to her on the way over about being saved.
It became at once apparent to her that this was the real Ted, this was
his main interest in life. Whatever other relationships he might have in
life were subservient in his eyes to this, whatever it was, that this
plain little old-fashioned chapel, and this strangely interesting young
man, represented. She felt a pang of envy going through her heart. Would
that she might know something of this mystic order that seemed to
dignify all other things of life, and make them more worth while for its
sake!

"I wish I could run you home in my car, Ted," said the young preacher
wistfully, "but I have a funeral in half an hour, and just barely time
to get to it. Queer time for a funeral, isn't it, Sunday just after
church? But some of the family have come a long distance and have to be
back again to work tomorrow morning, so they are driving right back as
soon as it is over. Sorry, I'd enjoy taking you."

He included Marjorie in his smile.

"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Reaver," said Ted shiningly. "I'm going to
take my sister over to see our old place. She's never seen it, you
know."

And then as the minister looked at her inquiringly, Ted explained:

"You know she's been away a long time. She's never seen it."

"Oh," said the minister looking at Marjorie quickly again, "then you're
not the sister I saw before? I thought there was something different
about you. You're not twins, are you?"

"Yes," smiled Marjorie, "and I guess we're quite alike in looks, at
least."

"Well, isn't that interesting. I'll have to take time off some day and
come and call and get acquainted with you both. But you know, I really
thought you were--different--somehow--when I didn't know you weren't!"

They all laughed and then the minister looked at his watch and said:

"Well, I'll have to be off. Hope you come again, Miss Gay."

"Oh, I will!" said Marjorie, a bit breathless from hearing herself
called a new name.

Then the brother and sister walked on in silence. Ted was burning to ask
her how she liked the minister, but his boy-code forbade his opening his
lips on the subject. Finally as they turned the corner and the minister
went driving by in his car, bowing to them and smiling as he passed,
Marjorie followed him with her eyes until he turned another corner and
was out of sight and then she said slowly, gravely:

"He's rather wonderful, isn't he?"

"You're telling me?" said Ted in a reverential tone.




XI


The Brentwood house made a great impression on Marjorie. As they
approached it Ted watched her with jealous eyes. She had liked his
minister, now would she like the house he loved? These were the two
tests he had set for this new sister, although perhaps he did not
realize that he was testing her at all. But he did not miss a single
expression on her face as she looked, and every question she asked
proved to him that she was really interested in what he said, not just
making talk to kill time, not merely to be pleasant.

"Why, isn't it occupied?" she asked as they came in sight of the "For
Sale" sign.

"No," said Ted with a heavy sigh. "I've been expecting every time I come
this way to find that sign gone, but it stays. I don't know what's the
reason. Perhaps they are asking too much for these hard times. And then,
of course, it isn't in the new part of town. The high-hatters are all
moving to Rose Hill. That's half a mile farther over, and has a big
fashionable church and a club house and golf course. But I like
Brentwood all the better for that. It's quiet here, and it's near the
chapel, and besides we had enough land to do as we pleased. We were far
enough from neighbors not to be bothered by what they did, nor have them
watching us all the time."

"It's lovely!" said Marjorie, taking in the tall elm trees that were
placed just right to make a picture of the house. The long slope of
snowy lawn, the shrubbery and hemlock trees heavy with their burden of
snow making a delightful screen from the street, all added to the
picture.

"Could we go up closer to the house?" Marjorie paused before the gate of
iron grille work and looked up the long path.

"Sure we could," said Ted, lifting the latch and opening the gate.

As they went up the long path Marjorie was imagining a firelight's glow
through those windows, the house filled with laughter and song, the
children playing on the lawn, riding down hill on their sleds. It was
indeed a lovely place. And in summer it would be wonderful.

Marjorie, used as she was to the great beautiful Wetherill house on the
North Shore in a suburb of Chicago, with its delightful surroundings and
perfection of detail, could yet see something most alluring in this
lovely old stone house on its hill. The very ramblingness of its
architecture, that was stamped with thoughts of generations past, spoke
of lives unhampered by conventionalities, of freedom and love and a real
home. The Chicago house was grand and she loved it, but there was
something gay and inviting about this one that just seemed to fit her
dear family. And suddenly Marjorie knew that she loved them all deeply.
She didn't know them very well, but she loved them anyway. And she liked
this house and loved to think of them as living here.

Ted led her around to the back and opened a loose shutter to let her
look into the long low living room with its great fireplace, flanked on
either side by bookcases reaching to the ceiling, and her enthusiasm for
the house mounted till it equaled the boy's own.

She stood a moment on the front piazza afterwards and looked down toward
the street, and the village, picking out the slender tower of the quaint
little stone chapel, and her eyes grew quiet and thoughtful as she
gazed.

As they turned away from the gate at last Marjorie took note of the sign
board and made a mental memorandum of the name of the real estate agent.

"Now," she said as they walked on toward home, "tell me about it, Ted.
How did Father come to lose it?"

"Oh, it was just one thing after another," said Ted sorrowfully. "First
the head of the firm died where Dad was expert accountant, then the
business went up, and after Dad got their affairs straightened out for
them he got very sick. And about that time the bank where Dad kept his
savings closed its doors, and hasn't opened them yet. That's the story.
We couldn't pay the interest on the mortgage, and we couldn't pay the
taxes; three times it lapsed and Dad was getting into debt and nearly
crazy, and finally the Building and Loan that held the mortgage went up
too, and then the committee that had its affairs in charge got ugly and
demanded the full amount of the personal bond right off the bat, and of
course Dad couldn't pay it, and there wasn't anywhere he could borrow
it. Anyway he was too sick to do anything about it, and of course I
wasn't old enough to do anything. So they took the house away. It was
awfully hard on Dad when he got better, because the way they did it they
fixed Dad so he can't own any property any more. I don't know all the
details but that's how it is."

"Are those people whose names are on the sign the ones who did that?"
asked Marjorie.

"No, I guess not. They're only the real estate firm that's trying to
sell it. They're a sort of trust company or something. Maybe they took
it over. I don't know. But anyway it's gone and that's that!"

Ted rambled on about the school he used to attend in Brentwood and the
way he came to get interested in the chapel, and Marjorie let him talk,
getting sidelights on her brother's character that were interesting. But
all the time she was carrying on a separate line of thought.

For it had come to her in the watches of the night, while she was lying
beside her sister on the hard lumpy bed in Betty's room which they now
occupied, with Bonnie's crib across the foot filling up most of the
space between the bed and the door, that if she was to see much of her
family in the future something had to be done about the place where they
were living. She couldn't help realizing that she was in the way, as
things were now. The very bed she occupied took from Betty's rightful
rest, being only a three-quarter bed, and it was uncomfortable enough
even without two people in it. And there wouldn't be room for twin beds
if they had them.

Was she going to make her permanent home with them? She hadn't had time
to think about it at all, she had been so engaged in helping them to
meet the present crisis. Did they want her to stay? That was another
question. Well, things would have to work out. She mustn't hasten
decisions.

But even if she only meant to visit them occasionally, it meant
discomfort for them all to crowd so to get her in. Of course they were
lovely about it. Not even the belligerent Betty had made a sign that she
was in the way. Of course she realized that she had been saving them
from starvation and freezing, and probably that had something to do with
Betty's willingness to be inconvenienced. But there again was something
that she must wait for. She must see whether they were going to grow
together in real family love, or were going to irritate each other. She
couldn't make any plans for herself until she was sure.

But meantime, even if she herself went back to Chicago to live her own
life apart from them, they were cramped and uncomfortable in that little
six-roomed house. There were too many of them. She could never be happy
back in her home of luxury knowing they were living in poverty and
discomfort.

But then there was that matter of their pride! What could she do to
better their situation that would not hurt them terribly, humble them
utterly? Her father could not hope to recover his fortune and be able to
support them as he had done in the past, even if he got some little job
right away. It would barely supply food and clothing for them all, even
if it did that. Poor Father! What could she do to help him on his feet
again? He wasn't an old man, but he looked older than his years because
of the heavy burdens he was carrying. Was there something she could do
about that? Something that wouldn't humiliate him too much?

But the Brentwood house. Could she possibly make some arrangement with
the people who had taken it over whereby they would transfer it back to
her father's name, _clear_, so that she could hand him the deed of it
without any obligations for him to pay whatever? How she would love to
give it to him for Christmas! Could a thing like that be done so
quickly? There was still almost a week to Christmas!

So she carried on an undercurrent of thought while Ted rambled on,
giving now and then a bit of information about the house that fitted
right in with her thoughts.

"How many bedrooms are there in that house, Ted?" she asked suddenly.

"Seven!" he said promptly. "And then there was a servant's room over the
kitchen, and two big rooms in the attic. Oh, it was great! I wanted them
to keep it and rent the rooms or take boarders, but then Mother got sick
and Betty got a job so that didn't work out."

Ted sighed. He was beginning to take a man's responsibility upon his
young shoulders.

"I don't suppose Dad will ever get a job again," he said sadly, "there
aren't many jobs now, and when a man has been out of things for a couple
of years the way Dad has, people have forgotten how good he was. And
then there are so many young ones coming on! I suppose it's going to be
up to me to take care of the family, and I'm going to do my best.
They're a swell family, I think, anyhow!" he finished with a half
defiant look at the new sister.

"They certainly are!" said Marjorie turning a full frank gaze upon her
brother. "And I'm with you, brother! You're sort of wonderful yourself,
you know. At least I think so!"

Ted met her look of real sisterly affection for an instant and then his
eyes dropped and the color swept up into his lean young face.

"You're pretty swell yourself!" he murmured embarrassedly.

"Well, but I mean that, Ted. It happens that I can do quite a little
just now, and I am so glad I am able to, but the thing is, how can I do
it best without hurting Father and Mother? I think you and I will have
to work together in this. Betty is pretty proud too. I don't blame her.
I like her the better for it of course, and all of you, but if I can
just get them to realize that I'm one of the family as much as you or
any of them are perhaps it won't be so hard for them. Shall we work
together?"

"Sure thing," murmured Ted shyly. "It's great of you!"

"No, that's not the way to take it. You don't think it's great of you to
want to do all you can to help your father, do you? Then why should you
think it's great of me? Am I supposed to be any more selfish than the
rest of you? Just because I happened to be brought up outside the
family, which I couldn't help, does that make any difference? Just
because I could get away with utter indifference, does that make me
great, that I don't want to? And suppose, Ted, that tomorrow morning
some great man should send for you and tell you that he had been
watching you and he liked the way you were doing, and he had a fine
position ready for you at, say, ten thousand or so a year, and he would
give you some of it in advance if you wanted it. Would you think you
were great if you decided to use that money for your home and parents
instead of buying yourself a Rolls-Royce?"

Ted grinned.

"Fat chance!" he said.

"Of course," smiled Marjorie, "but if you had it I think I know you well
enough already to know that you would just delight to turn in every
penny you could to the family treasury and make them all comfortable
before you thought a thing about any luxuries for yourself."

"Sure thing!" said Ted with shining eyes.

"And if some unheard-of relative off in Europe or somewhere should die
and leave you a million dollars, I wonder what is the first thing you
would buy? I wish you would tell me that, Ted. I'd like to know what it
is."

Ted looked up and without hesitation replied:

"I'd buy the house back and give it to Dad!"

"Thanks!" said Marjorie with starry eyes. "That's the way I feel. Now,
brother, do I belong to the family or not?"

"You belong!" said Ted solemnly.

"All right!" said Marjorie. "I appreciate that. And now, suppose we keep
this to ourselves for awhile, shall we?"

"Okay!" said the boy solemnly, as they went up the steps of the home,
and only a quick smile passed between them to ratify the contract, but
both knew that something fine and sweet had happened.




XII


"I've got to go into the city and do a little shopping," said Marjorie
the next morning. "I wonder when would be the best time for me to go?
What had you planned for this morning, Betty?"

"I? _Planned?_" shrugged Betty. "Nothing especially. But I couldn't go
with you today, if that's what you mean. Mother isn't able to look after
those kids. They were awful yesterday!"

"Of course not," said Marjorie. "I wasn't thinking of our trip together
yet. But isn't there some special work to do today that I could help in?
Isn't Monday your wash-day?"

"Oh, _that_!" said Betty with a sigh. "We haven't much to wash and
that's the truth. I had to wash a lot of the children's things yesterday
after the cat episode. No, there's nothing you need to help in. You go.
I should think you'd be glad to get out of this crowded mess."

"No, I'm not glad to get away. I just must do a few things at once. I've
got to make some telephone calls too. I came away in a great hurry and
left a lot of things at loose ends. I really must attend to them. But
I'll be back in the afternoon as early as I can. There's plenty of
chicken broth for Mother, and I'll try and find something nice for
dinner and bring it."

"Oh, you don't need to buy anything else. We've enough in the house for
a week, I'm sure," protested Betty.

"Oh, you'll find it will go fast enough. Well, I'm sorry to leave you
this way. I can see there is plenty to be done, but when I get back I'll
make up for lost time," and with a gay smile she hurried away into the
cold winter morning.

Marjorie went first to the real estate firm whose name had been on the
signboard yesterday at Brentwood.

"I've come to ask about a house you have for sale in Brentwood," she
said, and the man looked her over keenly, noted her handsome attire, and
said "Yes?" in an eager tone.

He gave her a good sales talk.

"That's a bargain," he said, "it's just been thoroughly done over and
modernized, and because the owner was caught in the depression we can
sell it for a mere trifle."

Marjorie let him talk for a few minutes and then she said:

"Could I see the house?"

So she was soon in his car speeding toward Brentwood rapidly.

After she had gone over the house without comment, allowing the man to
continue his sales parley without interruption, she said as they were
about to leave:

"Well, now I may as well tell you, I am Mr. Gay's daughter. I was away
for several years during the time my father lived here and I had never
seen the house. I know all the circumstances of my father's having to
give up the house of course, and I know how they hated to lose it. I
have been wondering if there is any way in which, my father can recover
the house. Can you tell me the lowest terms on which he could recover
it?"

The man's face fell.

"Oh, in that case you had better see Mr. Horgan. He has charge of all
those cases. But I am quite sure that mortgage was foreclosed. We had to
take over the house at a great loss, you know. I do not think that our
firm could place any confidence in your father as one who could carry on
and make his payments. He is not as young as he once was, you know, and
even if he succeeded in getting a position now, it might not last."

"I was not speaking of putting a mortgage on the place. I was speaking
of paying cash. As I understand it my father had only lapsed in his
payments a short time. If he were ready now to pay up all obligations,
and whatever other expenses you had been obliged to meet, isn't there
some way that the matter could be settled and the property be taken off
your hands?"

"Why, my dear young lady," said the man patronizingly, "what reason do
you have to suppose that your father could pay his obligations now any
better than six months ago when he finally surrendered the property?"

"When you finally took the property from him, you mean," said Marjorie
coolly. "I understand you gave him no chance to refinance the mortgage
and that you were very hard on him indeed. However, that has nothing to
do with my question. I have some money myself and I would like to clear
my father's home and put the deed in his hands for a Christmas gift if I
find that your demands are within reason. I shall call up my Chicago
lawyer, of course, and have the whole affair looked into before I pay
the cash, but if I do this I shall want to do whatever I do quickly. Can
you give me an idea what the demands were that my father could not
fulfill, and would there be a likelihood, if they were paid now, with
reasonable interest, of course, for the delay, that you could release
the property?"

There was something about Marjorie's air of assurance, that impressed
the real estate man, who had been having a hard time himself just now,
and felt that in this property he was stuck with a house too large to
realize its full value during the present depressed state of things. He
looked at her a minute questioningly and then he said: "Well, we'll go
and see Mr. Horgan. Perhaps he will know of some arrangement that can be
made. It is very commendable of you, of course, to be willing to help
your father, and I'm sure Mr. Horgan will want to help in any way he
can. Of course you have been misinformed about the transaction. Your
father was given every possible opportunity to recover himself."

He said it with a smug smile and Marjorie felt that she needed a very
wary lawyer indeed to deal with this man. But she said nothing, and the
quick drive back to the office was taken almost in silence on her part.

Mr. Horgan was an elderly man with gray hair parted meticulously in the
exact middle and thin lips that seemed never to give an advantage to
anyone. He had small steel-colored eyes that looked coldly through her,
and tried to put her through a questionnaire about her family before he
answered her question, but Marjorie held her head haughtily, and
gathered her expensive furs about her and arose.

"Excuse me, Mr. Horgan," she said, "I have no time to answer questions.
I want to know if there is any way in which my father can now meet the
obligations. Perhaps I had better get my Chicago lawyer to attend to the
matter, since you do not seem to be willing to name any sum that would
satisfy the demands."

"Oh, not at all," said Mr. Horgan rising in protest, "I was merely
interested to know just how sure a thing this would be. I can't, of
course, enter into any more contracts that will eventually result in the
same disaster and throw the property back on our hands again, with only
more cost and delay."

"If I decide to do this thing," said Marjorie, drawing herself to her
full height and trying to act as grown up as possible--though in reality
she was very much scared--"I will see that you have a certified check
for the full amount within the week."

Marjorie knew about certified checks. She knew their power.

Mr. Horgan became suave at once.

"Oh, well, in that case, of course everything would be different. You
knew, of course, that the sum was quite large that your father was
owing, did you not?" and he sailed into details of interest and
principal and personal bond, while Marjorie stood her ground and tried
to look cool and businesslike and not tremble.

"I would have to talk this matter over with my partner, of course, for
usually you know we do not do things in just this way," went on Mr.
Horgan. "The matter was formally settled up and the property handed
over. But, since you are willing to pay cash we might find a way to get
around the regular routine in such cases. It would be, however, you
understand, at least--" and he named a sum so much smaller than Marjorie
had dreamed that she was almost afraid she showed how surprised she was.
However she had the good sense to keep still and merely bow her head
gravely, and the man was left in doubt whether she was horrified at the
amount or pleased.

"Of course, after we have looked over the figures of the actual cost to
ourselves--" he went on smoothly with a smile which was meant to be
patronizing, "we _might_ be able to do a little better than that, if you
found that was impossible, but I'm inclined to think _if_ we find that
we can make terms at all, it will be in the neighborhood of the sum I
have named."

"Very well," said Marjorie taking a deep breath and hoping the man
couldn't see how excited she was, "I will get my lawyer on the telephone
and consult with him about this. He will know what I should do about it,
and I shall either return sometime this afternoon for your answer, or
send a representative of my Chicago lawyer to talk with you."

Marjorie, still holding her head high, sailed out of the office coolly,
with only an icy little smile for the impressed agent. He bowed her out
ostentatiously, almost afraid to have her go lest he was losing a
prospect that perhaps never would return.

Marjorie, out on the pavement, summoning a taxi, found herself so
excited that she could scarcely give a direction to the driver.

She had gotten from Betty a list of some of the best department stores,
and she went straight to one and hunted up a telephone booth, calling
the Wetherill lawyer on long distance.

"Well, I certainly am glad to hear your voice, young lady," said Mr.
Melbourne, "I was beginning to think you had eloped or been kidnaped or
something. A certain gentlemen in Chicago has besieged me night and day
to discover your address so that he may send you Christmas greetings he
says, and I have been deeply chagrined that I could not give it to him.
Where in the world have you been and what are you up to? Nothing the
matter, is there, that you take such an expensive way of
communication?"

"No, nothing the matter," said Marjorie. "I'm quite all right, thank
you. But I telephoned this morning instead of waiting to write because I
want your help. I've found the house that used to belong to my own
parents and I want to buy it. I want very much to get possession of it
before Christmas if I can. I shall need several thousand dollars at once
and I would like to have you put it into some bank in this city where I
could draw on it within a couple of days. Would that be possible?"

"I suppose it would," said the lawyer. "I could wire it to them today.
But are you quite sure this house is a wise buy? It's my business, you
know, to advise you in such matters."

"I know," she said, "but I'm quite sure about this. And even if it were
not a wise buy I should want it. But, Mr. Melbourne, of course I know
I'm not very experienced in buying real estate, and I was wondering if
there isn't some lawyer in this city to whom you could recommend me, who
would take charge of this transaction for me? I think perhaps these
people who have the house are a little tricky. It certainly seems
crooked to me, the way they got possession of the property when my
father was unable to pay the interest on the mortgage promptly."

"Yes?" said Mr. Melbourne. "Well, you certainly should have someone whom
you can trust to look after the affair. Let me think. Yes, there's
William Bryant. He's in the Federal Trust Company Building. I'll call
him up right away and ask him to look after you. Could you go to his
office at once? All right, I'll phone him about you. He's a very good
friend of mine. In case he isn't in the office just ask for whoever is
taking his place. I'll talk to whoever is there. You can trust Will
Bryant or his representatives perfectly. But if I were you I'd have him
go to see this house and look into the whole matter carefully before
you make your final settlement."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Melbourne!" said Marjorie in a relieved voice. "That
was just what I wanted! I have wished so much that you could be here for
a little while and fix this thing up for me."

"Well, I wish I could. I've an important case coming up today and
tomorrow that I couldn't leave, or I'd fly over and see what you're up
to. But I'm sure Bryant will look after you just as well as I could, and
perhaps a little better seeing he is a local man. And by the way,
Marjorie, I don't suppose you have any idea of selling your Chicago
property, have you? Because I had a very good offer for it last week.
Professor with a family coming to the University next fall. He's been
scouting around looking for an ideal home and has pitched upon the
Wetherill house. I told him I didn't think it was in the market, but I
would inquire. He's keen to get it. Of course I hope you're not thinking
of leaving Chicago, but I thought perhaps you might feel the house was
rather large since you're alone. However, it's not a matter you need
decide at once. Think it over and let me know if you should have any
idea of selling."

"Oh!" said Marjorie a little breathless. "I hadn't got that far yet.
I--don't--quite know what I am going to do."

"Of course," said the lawyer, thinking he knew pretty well that she
would likely be married before long, and would have to consult a certain
young man before she made any decisions, but he did not voice any such
idea. "I just thought I'd mention it."

"Thank you, Mr. Melbourne. And--please, Mr. Melbourne, you won't let
anybody, not _any_body I mean, know about this matter of my buying this
house. I don't see that it's anyone's affair but my own."

"Certainly not, my child. You can trust me for that."

"Thank you. I knew I could. And now you'll need my address, of course.
There isn't any telephone in the house where I am visiting, but I
stopped at the nearby drugstore and made arrangements with them to send
for me if anyone should call me."

"Fine!" said the old lawyer who had known Marjorie for years. "You have
quite a business head, my child."

Marjorie laughed.

"I feel very young and inefficient," she said. "But I've tried to think
things out beforehand. And, Mr. Melbourne, there's just one more thing.
Would you have any connection in this city that would give you influence
to get an opening for my father somewhere here? He's very much
discouraged. He had a very fine position and lost it through the death
of the head of the firm which resulted in the firm's dissolving, and he
hasn't been able to get in anywhere since. He is a very quiet man, and
not one who would push himself to the front, nor sound his own trumpet,
but I have seen letters he has, and I know he was considered very fine
in his line."

"What line?"

"He is an expert accountant!"

"Indeed? What was the name of the firm, do you know?"

"Hamilton, McIvor and Company," said Marjorie, glad that she had
remembered to ask Ted that yesterday.

"You don't say!" said Mr. Melbourne. "They had a fine standing. I should
say there ought to be something pretty good somewhere for a man whom
they employed. I'll see what wires I can pull."

Five minutes later Marjorie turned from her expensive telephone call
well satisfied. Mr. Melbourne had been just as kind and helpful as she
had known he would be. And he hadn't asked for details nor tried to put
obstacles in her way. She was a little surprised at that. She had
thought he would demur at the proposition of her buying a house right
out of the blue as it were, but he had evidently been somewhat prepared
for her to do something of the sort. It must be that Mrs. Wetherill had
given him a hint that there might be some such thing. Well, she felt a
warm glow in her heart for the Mother who in her death had at least put
her in the way of making restitution for the wrong she had unwittingly
done during the years. How dear she had been always! The tears sprang to
Marjorie's eyes and she had much ado to control them as she came out
into the store.

But there was still much to be done before she could get to her
shopping. She glanced at her watch. Half past eleven already! She must
hurry. She must go to see Mr. Bryant at once and get the matter of the
house well started. So she took another taxi to the Federal Trust
Company Building and found to her joy that Mr. Bryant was in and had
just been talking with the Chicago lawyer, so her way was smoothed for
her at once.

Mr. Bryant had keen eyes and a kindly smile. He was not as old as Mr.
Melbourne, but gave the impression of being able to comprehend a matter
at a glance. He asked a lot of questions about the way the Gays had lost
their property, some of which Marjorie could not answer, but she told
him all she knew about it and confided that she wished to give the house
back to her father for Christmas if it could be managed.

Marjorie was delighted with the kind interest he took in the matter and
promised to return to his office at three o'clock to learn the result of
his interview with the real estate company.

She went on her way with a lighter heart now, summoning her wits to
remember all the things she wanted to buy.

First of all she had it in mind to get a warm lovely negligeé for her
mother, and comfortable pretty slippers to go with it. The doctor had
given them hope that she might be able to come downstairs to dinner on
Christmas Day if she was reasonably careful beforehand. She needed
something to wear down. Marjorie chose a charming one of wine red wool,
exquisitely finished with soft silk facings, a rich sash girdle, and
frothy lace ruffling falling deeply from the wide sleeves and surplice
neck. It was such a lovely thing that she couldn't resist it. She
selected a rosy quilted dressing sack for wear now when Mother began to
sit up in bed, and then a couple of very pretty simple dresses. She
wasn't quite sure of the size and she must buy cautiously, for she did
not want to hurt her dear new people. She merely wanted to get
necessities now, and Christmas made a good excuse. But they all needed
so many things, almost _every_thing, that she scarcely knew where to
begin.

While she was eating a hurried lunch she wrote out a brief list of
necessities. Some ready-hemmed tablecloths and napkins, mittens and
stockings for the children, rubbers--? But how could she fit them? Oh,
the list would be endless if she got all they needed. She must have
Betty along to select things. The children's clothes were all too short
and too tight and too ragged. But of course they didn't have to have
everything before Christmas. Better just to get something for each and
buy other needs after Christmas in a leisurely way.

So she hurried up to the credit department, opened a charge account,
giving her Chicago references, and also Mr. Bryant, then went and found
a squirrel coat for Betty that was almost an exact duplicate of her own.
If Betty wanted to change it after Christmas she could, but she had
admired Marjorie's so much that it seemed as if that might be her
choice. Passing the millinery department she found a little soft gray
felt hat with a bright dash of pheasant's feather cocked aslant in the
crown. She was sure it would be becoming to Betty. She bought a couple
of little brother and sister suits for Sunny and Bonnie. They were so
cute she could not resist them; red jersey trimmed with braid for one
set and navy blue sailor style with chevrons for the other. It didn't
take long. Children's things were so pretty it required strength of
character not to buy the store out.

It was getting near to three o'clock, when she was to meet Mr. Bryant.
She hurried to the toy department and reveled in the bewilderment of
delights for the children there displayed. She wished she could buy them
all. A doll for Bonnie of course, blocks and some wind-up toys for
Sunny, an electric train for Bud. Would there be room to set it up? Oh,
but there would be plenty of room in the house at Brentwood? Her heart
throbbed joyously as she remembered that.

After that it didn't take much time to select a warm house coat of brown
for her father, a nice leather coat for Ted, and a thick, warm sweater
for Bud with a bright Roman band of colors in the roll of the turtle
collar. Then she was off breathless with anxiety to meet the lawyer.

She found a better report than she had hoped for. Mr. Bryant had looked
up the records of the transactions at the time Mr. Gay had surrendered
his property, and found more than one questionable trick that the
perpetrators would not care to have brought to light by such a lawyer as
William Bryant, so he had succeeded in bringing them to accept a
reasonable sum for back payment with interest, and the transfer of the
property was not going to cost quite as much as Marjorie had been told
at first.

It is true that Marjorie had been in control of her property for so
short a time that money as yet did not mean much to her, and she would
have as readily bought the house at twice the sum she was paying for it,
but it was nice to know that things were being adjusted in a way that
would please both her lawyers, and would probably afford her father much
satisfaction when he knew about it; so she went on her way homeward with
a light of satisfaction in her eyes. She could hardly wait for her
purchases to come home. They would probably wait for two or three days
before sending them until they had looked up her references, but they
had promised positively that the things would all be there before
Christmas. Tomorrow or the next day she would have to go down to Mr.
Bryant's office to sign the check and get the papers. Then she could get
anything she had forgotten, and perhaps a few more Christmas things.

She stopped on the way out of the store to get a five pound box of candy
and another of salted nuts. Those would be things she couldn't well
purchase at the little grocery store near Aster Street.

She felt conscience stricken as she neared home to think she had left
Betty so long, with her mother still in bed, and all the work to do. But
she had got a lot done. That was good. And now she began to think of the
things she should have bought and didn't. However, that didn't matter.
They had got along without them so far and probably would keep on a few
days more.

She realized as the taxi drove up to the door that the house had become
home to her, so different from what it had seemed the day she arrived,
only a few brief days before! Home because there were dear ones there,
and already her interests were tied up with theirs.

The children met her at the door, Sunny holding up a smeary face to be
kissed, and Bonnie clasping her arm and nestling against her. Betty
came wearily from the kitchen peering out into the hall at her with a
relieved look:

"Oh, I'm glad you've come! I thought something dreadful had happened to
you in the strange city,--or else--!" She stopped suddenly.

"Or else what?" Marjorie looked at her with a sharp note in her voice as
if her answer meant a great deal.

"Or else, maybe you had got tired of us and gone back to Chicago," she
said with her eyes half averted.

"Oh, and would you have cared?" asked Marjorie breathlessly. "Wouldn't
you have been rather glad to get rid of me?"

"Well, I should say not!" said Betty with a catch in the last word like
a sob.

"I should say _not_!" echoed Sunny with a stamp of his foot, and a funny
little shake of his head, ending with a joyous peal of laughter.

And Marjorie caught him in her arms and hugged and kissed him, while her
heart gave a great throb of joy, and her bundles flew this way and that.
Bud had to rush from the dining room and pick them up, touching them
with awe. New bundles! So many of them!

Suddenly a flood of happiness rolled into Marjorie's heart. This was her
Home, where she belonged! They loved her!




XIII


It was such a pleasant home coming, everybody had something to tell her,
how Sunny had slipped on the ice on the front step and bumped his head
against the railing and a great blue lump had come on his forehead and
Betty had to put arnica on it; how Bonnie had mended a hole in her apron
all by herself so Mother wouldn't have to do it, and the mended hole
with its crooked stitches was proudly exhibited; how Bud's cat had stood
out against the neighbor's dog, arched her back and spit at him bravely,
with all her feathers on end, and then had scuttled into the house,
jumped on the kitchen table and eaten every drop of the cream off the
tray Betty had ready for Mother; how Ted had a job evenings the rest of
the week selling in the ten-cent store and Betty was mending a shirt for
him to wear tonight; how Mother ate all her egg for lunch and took a
nice long nap afterwards; how Father had been helping a man with his
books all day and maybe it would last another two days; how Betty had
been to the window every half-hour all the afternoon looking for her to
come!

And then came Ted with a happy face.

"Great! You've got back!" he said with relief. "I was thinking maybe
I'd have to go out and hunt you and be late to my new job if you didn't
come pretty soon!"

So! They were all glad to see her!

And then Mother rang the little call bell, and when Bonnie ran up to see
what she wanted it was Marjorie she asked for.

So she went to her mother and had a sweet little talk with her about how
much better she was, and how she was going to sit up in bed tomorrow,
and maybe in a chair the next day if she was good and very careful, and
then perhaps the next, or the next, she might walk around her room. And
the doctor had promised that if all went well she might come downstairs
for dinner on Christmas.

Marjorie unwrapped the little quilted pink dressing sack and put it
about her mother's shoulders, and they all trooped up joyously to see
how pretty she looked in it.

Then Marjorie went down to help Betty with the dinner. Not that she knew
much about the actual dinner, but she could order the dishes onto the
table and make everything dainty and ready for the food, and not forget
a thing, even to water in the glasses, and napkins at every place,
though they were only paper ones. Tomorrow or the next day the new ones
would come, she was glad of that.

They gave Ted his dinner early and saw him off, excited and happy, so
glad to be earning the pitiful sum the store would pay him for his work.
Yet Marjorie reflected that she was proud of him that he did not want to
lie back and let her take care of everybody. He was a manly fellow, a
brother in whom she could rejoice. She had wanted to tell him about the
house, but there hadn't been any chance, and perhaps there wouldn't be
now until it came as a Christmas surprise.

Mr. Gay came in a little after six, looking weary but with a strange new
content upon him, a new self-respect. Marjorie, looking at the light in
his eyes, realized what a hard thing it must be for him that he could
earn nothing to support his family, and wished with all her heart that
something might come of her request to the lawyer about a position for
him.

That night after they had gone to their room the sisters talked for a
long time. Marjorie got little side lights on various matters that Betty
didn't realize she was revealing.

"Betty," she said, "isn't there going to be some way you and I can get
out together shopping for a little while? If Father were going to be
home tomorrow or the next day, or if Ted didn't have to work all day
couldn't he take care of the children, now that Mother is so much
better? I'd like to have you with me. I really don't know how to pick
out Christmas gifts for them all. You know what they want and need."

"Christmas gifts!" said Betty excitedly. "You've already given us a
fortune! What more do you want?"

"Oh, little pretty things and surprises," laughed Marjorie. "You and I
could have a lot of fun shopping together!"

Betty was still a minute and then she said decidedly:

"I couldn't! I haven't anything fit to wear to go with you. After a
while when things get straightened around so I have time to get my
clothes in shape it will be different. I've got to get my coat cleaned
and pressed and mended. You don't realize. And besides, Father said he
would be two days more on those books. I can see he's very proud and
happy about them, too. He wants to get Mother something for Christmas, I
guess. He's always made a lot of Christmas for us all when he had any
money. And Ted will be out hunting jobs too. No, I couldn't leave now."

"Well, why couldn't I stay with the family and let you go out alone
then, Betty? I want you to have some more money and go get things you
want them all to have. You can wear my hat and coat if you like. I'm
sure my things fit you, and we needn't worry about clothes for you. I
have plenty."

Betty's hand stole over and gave hers a quick clasp and slipped back
again.

"You're good!" she said. "You're wonderful! It would be swell, but I
couldn't do it. I just couldn't. Besides, there's a lot to be done here.
I'd better stay. Don't bother about Christmas. It's enough this year
just to have you and plenty to eat, and a warm house and Mother getting
well."

"Well," said Marjorie thoughtfully, "I don't want you to feel
uncomfortable, of course, but we're going to have a Christmas if I have
to get it myself. You see I had to call up my lawyer in Chicago today
and talk to him about some business that I hadn't settled before I came
away, tell him where I was, and all that, and he's sending on some
papers for me to sign. They'll be at another lawyer's office. I'll have
to go there day after tomorrow likely. I thought that after I got that
done I'd get some trimmings for the tree. Would Ted know where to get a
tree? I'd like a nice big one, wouldn't you, to celebrate our having
found each other? And I'll buy ornaments and balls and things."

"Oh!" said Betty. "We haven't had a tree like that since I was Bonnie's
age. Things were pretty hard up while Father was saving money, and
trying to buy the house at Brentwood. We used to have a tiny little tree
that we got late Christmas Eve when they were cheap, and we trimmed it
with bits of tin foil, and strings of cranberries, and popcorn, and
little paper things we cut from advertisements."

"I can imagine that would be fun," said Marjorie. "Perhaps the children
would like that best. Do you think they would?"

"Oh, no! They don't really know much about a Christmas tree, not the
kind you mean. Mother has always had something for them, but we've
always had to work hard to make everything. Christmas would be nice if
one didn't have to worry about it all the time."

"Yes, I can see how worry would spoil Christmas! Well, we'll have one
without worry this time I hope, and whatever you say about a tree goes."

They lay and talked a long time and Marjorie succeeded in getting Betty
to say that she liked a tree all in silver with just colored lights. She
had always wanted such a tree.

"But I don't want you to spend a lot more money on unnecessary things,"
she finished.

"Well," said Marjorie thoughtfully, "I don't want to flaunt my money in
your faces. It isn't my fault that I have a lot of money. I didn't ask
for it. I didn't do a thing to get it. And it isn't any pleasure to me
unless I can share it. If we could only have a nice time together and
not think whose money it is, that would be a real Christmas for me. I've
always had everything done for me before this, but it would be wonderful
to be allowed to do things for other people, if I was sure I knew what
they wanted."

"Well then, have your own way!" cried Betty and suddenly reached over
and put a quick shy kiss on her sister's forehead. "I'll enjoy every
scrap of whatever you do. I'd like to be able to give you the earth on a
gold platter, but I can't, so I'll just let you do the giving and be
happy over what you do."

They fell asleep at last hand clasping hand, a real sisterly love
growing in their hearts.

It was not until the second day later that Mr. Bryant sent Marjorie word
that he had the papers ready for her. So Marjorie, amid a howl from the
children, started off early in the morning again, having first set them
to cutting out chains from silver paper for the Christmas tree. She had
told them about the tree until their imaginations were on the qui vivé
with joyous anticipation. She had bought silver and red paper, and two
little pairs of pointless scissors and a bottle of paste at the
drugstore, and given careful lessons on how to make chains, and the two
youngest were established at the dining table with their tools before
them with an order for many chains to be finished before she returned.
Bud was acting as overseer and chief adviser.

To Marjorie the day was full of excitement. It was so good to know that
the matter of the house was going through all right and that she would
carry home with her that afternoon the deed which she might do up in
grandest Christmas wrappings for her father and mother.

Mr. Bryant told her that Mr. Melbourne had told him about her father,
and he had been looking up several good openings that might materialize
after Christmas. He didn't tell her that he had been commissioned to
look up Mr. Gay's record and had found it absolutely unimpeachable, both
as to ability and character, but she sensed that he spoke of her father
with respect and it cheered her heart. For more and more as the days
went by she yearned to lift that burden of worry and care from his
shoulders, and see his face calm and at peace.

"Do you suppose it would be possible, if there were an opening, that it
could come as an offer from somewhere, and not have him know that I
asked about it?" she asked the lawyer shyly. "I think he would feel
better about it that way."

And he seemed to understand for he smiled and said:

"I should think that might be arranged."

So she went on her way to complete her shopping in a very happy frame of
mind.

And then, right in the midst of the last few purchases whom should she
come square upon but the young minister from Brentwood, Gideon Reaver!

"Oh!" she said, a quick color flying into her cheeks, "I didn't expect
to recognize anybody in this big strange city."

He seemed as pleased as she was. He paused and talked to her a minute,
told her how much he thought of Ted, and what a fine fellow he was going
to be, and then he hesitated and looked down at her wistfully.

"I was just going into the tea room to get a bite of lunch," he said, "I
wonder if you wouldn't join me? It's lonely eating all by myself,
especially in the midst of these gay Christmas crowds. It seems to
emphasize one's loneliness."

"Why, I'd love to!" said Marjorie, with a sudden unreasoning feeling of
having been crowned. She followed him through the Christmas throngs to a
table in a corner where there was comparative quiet.

Marjorie, of course, had often been out to lunch with her young men
friends, but somehow this seemed the rare experience of a lifetime. How
silly she was! This man was an utter stranger. All she knew about him
was that he could preach an interesting sermon, and her brother adored
him. Well, he was perfectly respectable, and nice and pleasant. Also,
there would perhaps be opportunity to ask him a few questions that had
been going over in her mind ever since Sunday. Meantime, she was tired,
and it was nice to have found a friend in this strange city.

So she relaxed and enjoyed her lunch and the pleasant talk that went on
with it.

"I have been wanting to ask you something," she said at last as the
dessert was placed before them and the waitress hurried away again.
"Perhaps this isn't the place to talk about such things, but I would so
like to know something."

"I'll certainly be glad to help in any way I can," he said.

"Well, then would you tell me please, how can you tell whether you're
saved or not? My brother Ted asked me if I was saved and I didn't know
what to tell him. I never was asked a question like that before. I
didn't suppose it was a thing you could be sure about. I'm a church
member of course. But is there a way to be _sure_ one is saved?"

"There surely is!" said Gideon, his eyes lighting eagerly.

She met his gaze earnestly.

"Sunday in your sermon you talked a lot about the new birth, and I don't
understand it at all. I've always been taught that if I was good I would
go to Heaven when I die."

"So was I," said Gideon smiling, "but that is not true."

Marjorie gave him a startled look.

"No, because the law must be kept perfectly to be a means of salvation,
and no one but Christ ever has or ever could be perfectly good, so it
would be hopeless for us if that were the only way to Heaven. But thank
God it isn't. We have His own word for it! Do you believe the Bible?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I don't know so very much about it I suppose, but,
yes, I believe it."

"Do you believe its gospel: that Jesus was nailed to a cross for you,
taking all the penalty of your sins by enduring God's righteous judgment
upon them?"

"Yes, of course, I believe that."

"Well, do you believe that because He did that God raised Him from the
dead and exalted Him in the highest heavens?"

"Yes, indeed, I believe that, although I never heard it stated in just
that way before."

"You believe, then, that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God?"

"Why, certainly."

"Well, then listen to what this says."

He took a small testament out of his pocket and opened to I John 5:1.

"Whosoever believeth that Jesus is the Christ is born of God."

The astonishment on her face changed slowly into illumination as she
took in the wonderful truth:

"Then I am saved!" she exclaimed, her eyes softening with the wonder of
it. "I am born again! Just because I believe, all that comes to me! I
never knew it was as simple as that! I didn't know ordinary mortals who
had not studied theology could ever quite comprehend it. Born of God!
What a wonderful thing to happen to me! I am so glad you have made me
understand it."

"Yes, it is as simple as that," said Gideon, his eyes drinking in her
eagerness. "God said it and that makes it true, whatever your feelings
are. And if you are born of God that makes you His child! If you are
born of God, you have His life! If you are born of God, you are
possessed of the divine nature. Just as you are born of your father Mr.
Gay. That makes you have his life in you."

Marjorie looked up, her eyes filled with wonder.

"You don't understand how very apt that illustration is," she said
gravely. "You see, I've only known my own earthly father a little over a
week. I was adopted by some very lovely people who rather took advantage
of my parents when they had been unfortunate, because they took a fancy
to me when I was very young. I never knew anything about my own parents
until after my foster parents died, leaving me a letter telling about it
and so I came to find my family. But you know, while my foster father
and mother were precious people and loved me dearly, there is something
about being an own child that is wonderful! I've found that out already,
although I only know my own father a very little yet."

"Ah! That is truly wonderful! The analogy is perfect. And you will find
out more and more of what it is to be an own child every day if you
continue to live with your parents, just as you will find out more and
more of the love and beauty of your heavenly Father if you abide in Him
and walk with Him and come into a deeper and deeper knowledge of His
word. There has to be intimacy to understand the relationship between
father and child. What you have told me is most interesting, the
testimony of a child who has come to find and know its earthly father,
and is thrilled by the precious bond of relationship between them. But
suppose now you should go back to Chicago and live. You would grow away
from your newly found father again, and perhaps become as indifferent as
you were before. It must be a daily walk with God to make beautiful the
relationship. Do you see?"

"Oh, I see! You have made it wonderfully clear! Why! I feel as I did
when I first found out I had a family of my own! Thank you so much! I
shall never forget what you have done for me."

Suddenly Gideon glanced at his watch, and looked startled.

"Excuse me," he said, "I have a wedding in half an hour and I've barely
time to make it. I didn't realize how the time was going. May I talk
with you again sometime about this?"

"Oh, I should love to have you," said Marjorie. "I know almost nothing
about the Bible!"

"You'll have to begin to study it now." He smiled as he turned to the
waitress to get the check. "I'd love to help if I may. I have a little
book that may help at the start. I'll send it over to you. Good-bye, I
wish I didn't have to rush away. You've given me a wonderfully pleasant
hour."

"Oh, and you've shown me an inheritance I didn't dream before that I
had!" said Marjorie with shining eyes.

As she took her way home an hour later she reflected how utterly changed
was her life just in a short week's time. It almost seemed that she was
a different girl from the one who had come up in the beautiful Wetherill
mansion doing all the proper conventional things that a girl in her
station should do, happy and care-free, a trifle wistful, and not quite
satisfied. And now here she was in a new city, with a brand new family
all her very own, a new home, new interests, and at least one new
friend. Unless she might also count the lawyer Mr. Bryant a friend too,
for he had been very kind. And not once had she felt a pang of regret
for the things she had left behind her. Not once had she been sorry she
had not accepted her other invitations for the holidays! Oh, of course,
she sorrowed for the one who had stood to her for mother for so many
years, but that grief had been so gradual and final when Mrs. Wetherill
was gone, that it was a thing she had to put aside entirely from her
life or else be in continual mourning. And she was glad she had such an
absorbing interest to divert herself from the loneliness that would
surely have settled down upon her if she had stayed in the home alone
and tried to go on with her life as it had been.

The doctor was there when she reached the house. He was standing in the
living room talking to Betty, telling her about a certain Christmas in
his childhood when he had been alone among strangers, desolate and
forlorn, his only Christmas present a maple sugar Santa Claus. He had
stood by the window all the afternoon licking it and staring out on a
strange little western town because he had nothing else to do. He never
had liked maple sugar since.

Betty stood in the doorway listening sympathetically to the story, and
Marjorie thought she saw a wistful look in the young doctor's eyes. She
wondered if he had a home and family now to make Christmas merry for
him, or was he lonely yet? If he was how nice it would be if they were
only in Brentwood and could invite him to Christmas dinner. Nice to have
Gideon Reaver too. But, of course, they couldn't do anything like that
in this little house, especially with Mother sick, and nobody to help
get the dinner. It was not to be thought of, but it was an idea for
another year, supposing all went well. What nice times they could have
in the lovely old house at Brentwood! Marjorie clutched the precious
deed-papers happily in her hand and hurried upstairs to take off her hat
and get ready to help with dinner.

That evening after supper they all gathered for a few minutes in her
mother's room, all but Ted who had to go to his evening job.

Sunny came smiling in and pulled at Marjorie's dress.

"'Nother Betty, story, please! 'Nother Betty! 'Nother Betty! Tell us a
story, please!" he begged persistently.

"Oh, for pity's sake!" said Betty petulantly. "Stop calling her that
silly name! Mother, what are we going to call my sister? We can't go
around ignoring her, or calling her 'you' all the time. Nobody dares
mention her, and I think it's time we had some understanding about it.
I'm sure she doesn't want to go around as ''Nother Betty' all the time.
I guess it's up to you, Mother, to tell us what to do. Are you well
enough to think about it?"

The mother smiled.

"Oh, yes, I'm well enough, but I don't think it is exactly up to me. It
seems to me that the sister herself should be consulted. Your father and
I have talked it over, and he feels that she should keep the name with
which she was christened. He says it is her legal name. It is so
recorded on her birth certificate, and in the papers of adoption, and
also it is courteous for her to keep the name given her by the people
who were father and mother to her all these years."

"But they couldn't be hurt by it now," burst forth Betty.

"No, perhaps not, but there is a fineness of courtesy that goes beyond
mere hurting people," suggested the father. "Besides, none of you
realize that your sister has grown up with her name and it would be
awkward and annoying for her to change it now. All her Chicago friends
call her Marjorie, and if you will just think a minute you will find
that we ourselves have spoken of her as Marjorie. Even you children have
called that picture of your sister 'Marjorie.' You would probably have
to work pretty hard to change to anything else."

They were silent, realizing that this was the truth.

"Well, I like Marjorie better than Dorothy, anyway," said Bud, as if
that settled it.

"I'm not sure but I do too," said the mother. "How about you, dear
child? What would you like to have us do?" She turned loving eyes toward
Marjorie.

"Why, I've always liked Marjorie pretty well," she said, "but I wouldn't
mind changing if you preferred the other. I would want you to call me
what you liked best."

"Then she's Marjorie!" announced the father. "Don't you say so, Mother?"

"Yes."

"Say it, Sunny! Sister Marjorie!"

"Sitter Mar-dory!" said Sunny with great effort, and then laughed long
and loud over his achievement.

The little conference was broken up, and the mother hustled off to bed
soon after that, but Marjorie as she bade her mother good night was
taken in frail loving arms and tenderly kissed.

"My little Marjorie!" she whispered, and Marjorie felt that she belonged
thoroughly, name and all. And it was a relief not to have to get used
to a new name. Some people would call her Miss Gay of course, and her
old friends would say Miss Wetherill, but what did it matter? It
couldn't change herself. And now she had a family of her own what did
she care about a name?

Downstairs, Bud, after a long silence during which he was supposed to be
whittling a boat out of a stick of kindling, looked up and remarked
thoughtfully:

"And when she gets married, she'll have to change her name anyway, won't
she? That is, she'll change the end one. Isn't that so, Marjorie?"

Marjorie laughed.

"Yes, brother, when and if. But that will be something else again, so
don't let's worry about it."




XIV


Lawyer Melbourne forgot to telephone Evan Brower until midmorning of the
day before Christmas. He really wasn't to blame, for the case he was
working on was a very important one and some new features developed
suddenly which made it necessary for him to fly to the far west and be
gone three days. Evan Brower never entered his mind again until his
return home, when he chanced to come on a memorandum on his desk that
Brower must be called.

So Evan Brower was in a state of mind when at last the message got to
him late in the afternoon with Marjorie's address. He immediately went
to work trying to get her on the telephone. Mr. Melbourne had not given
the drugstore number. It hadn't occurred to him. So Evan Brower worked
in vain.

At last he went out and sent a large box of wonderful orchids to her by
telegraph with his Christmas greetings.

He made his plans to slip away from his mother's annual family Christmas
gathering immediately after the old-fashioned midday dinner and take a
plane to the city where Marjorie was staying. He would arrive in plenty
of time to take her out for a late dinner and the evening somewhere. He
did not let her know of his coming. It was better to take her by
surprise.

The Gays, meanwhile, had been having a wonderful time getting ready for
Christmas. Marjorie, of course, had done the ordering. There was a
twenty pound turkey, a wonderful bird, and all the trimmings. The girls
waited upon their mother joyfully, asking questions about the stuffing
and the roasting, and Marjorie had her first real lesson in serious
cooking.

Ted had brought the Christmas tree home two days before and stood it up
at the back door to the envy of all the backyard-gazers. Christmas Eve
he brought it in and set it up in the parlor where it glorified the
shabby little room. They strung holly wreaths and laurel about until the
faded wallpaper retired utterly from view and the ugly wooden mantel
became a thing of beauty.

The children were allowed to stay up and help trim the tree, hanging
their own silver chains, and pretty little strings of silver balls and
tiny ornaments on the lower branches, while the older ones put on the
lights and silver rain and balls above. Then they hung up their
stockings under the mantel and went to bed with shining eyes and rosy
cheeks, almost bursting with excitement.

It was the next morning about ten o'clock while they were just in the
most interesting part of opening the presents that the doorbell rang and
an enormous box arrived from one of the big city florists.

"Miss Marjorie Wetherill," the driver announced. "Sign on the top line!"

Ted who had gone to the door hesitated. "Miss Wetherill!" Then he
remembered, and signed for it. He came back into the room with a ghastly
look on his face, the Christmas joy all flattened out into a drab
dignity as he came over to Marjorie with the box. Chicago had reached
out its long arm and was claiming their Lady Santa Claus! It seemed
that the lovely illusions were about to be dispelled.

Marjorie looked up and smiled.

"For me? How ridiculous! How in the world did anybody find out where I
was? Oh, perhaps it's from Mr. Melbourne, our old lawyer. Shall I open
it now, or wait till we are done with our own things?"

"Open it now and get it over with!" growled Ted in such a bearish voice
that his mother looked up.

"Why, Ted, dear! What a rude way to speak!"

Ted turned red. He tried to think of some apology but the words didn't
come. He couldn't express just what it was that had brought a cloud over
his bright spirits.

"Oh, Mother! That's all right! I know how he feels!" said Marjorie
laughing. "We both hate to have our own nice time interrupted just now.
You know this is the first Christmas I've ever spent with my very own
family and I don't like anybody else to intrude. Put the box on the
stairs, brother. They're only flowers and they'll keep till afterwards."

"No, open them, open them!" pleaded Bonnie.

"Open!" echoed Sunny.

So Marjorie, laughing, opened the box and disclosed the wonderful
orchids.

The card which lay on the top fell to the floor and Bud picked it up and
read it aloud before anybody noticed to stop him.

     "'Christmas Greetings for Marjorie from Evan Brower.'"

"Who's Evan Brower, Marjorie?"

"Buddie!" said his mother severely, "that's very rude! You should never
read other people's cards. Give it back to your sister at once. I'm
ashamed of you!"

Bud hung his head and handed the card to Marjorie, but he repeated his
question, "Who's Evan Brower?"

Somehow Marjorie felt the eyes of the family upon her in question,
though they hadn't meant she should, and the color crept up into her
fair cheeks. But she laughed.

"Oh, he's just an old friend of the Wetherill family," she said
casually. "They're gorgeous, aren't they? But let's put them back in
their box until we get through our fun. They'll keep better there. Then
we can get them out and decorate with them."

"They're orchids, aren't they?" said Ted, almost accusingly, Marjorie
thought. "They're about the most expensive flower there is, aren't
they?"

"Why, I don't know about the expensive part. Yes, I guess they are
considered rather rare. We'll give them to Mother, shall we? I'd like to
have her have them. Now, let's forget them and go back to our stockings.
Bonnie, wasn't it your turn next? See, there's a note in the top of your
stocking that has a cord tied to it, and it reaches down to that box on
the floor. Can you lift it up or do you want me to help?"

So the whole family were presently watching Bonnie with her lovely big
doll and the orchids reposed in their box in the dining room, forgotten
for the moment by all. How mortified Evan Brower would have been if he
could have known. It was not until the girls went out in the kitchen to
put the dinner on the table two hours later that Marjorie found Betty
peeking into the box and touching a lovely bloom with the tips of her
fingers.

It is safe to say that Marjorie had never had such a happy Christmas in
her life. The thrill of giving had never been hers before. She had
bought handsome presents for her friends and acquaintances out of the
generous allowance she always had, but this giving to loved ones,
especially what they needed, was a different thing, and she enjoyed
every minute of that morning intensely. Such surprise and delight as
there was over every little thing! The children went wild over their
toys, and then got very still and sat and held them in a kind of wonder.
Bud, of course, wanted the dining room cleared of everything so he could
set up his electric train at once, but was persuaded to better things,
and so the box with the electric train was relegated to the dining room
with the orchids for a time, and Bud came back reluctantly to watch
everybody and beam and enjoy.

The last present was a long envelope done up in a fascinating box with a
great seal and long red ribbons hanging from the package.

"To Mr. George Gay with many wishes for a Happy Christmas that shall
last all the year," read Ted as he handed it out with a flourish. Ted
was as much in the dark about it as any of them, for Marjorie had
decided not to tell anyone her secret, so they all stood about in awe
and wonder and watched their father carefully open the box, while Mother
leaned over his shoulder and looked with interest. Because it was so
elaborately wrapped they both thought it must be some kind of joke, and
cast amused glances of questioning about the silent young group.

But they had to wait some time, before the legal document finally came
to light, and then there was a note within that had to be read. The
astounded father studied the paper and then the note, and read them both
slowly, as it dawned upon him little by little that the document he held
was a deed to his beloved lost house in Brentwood. But still he didn't
quite understand. So he turned to the note and read it aloud:

     "Dear Father,

     This isn't exactly a Christmas gift. It's only an old possession
     come back to you, and this time entirely free from any obligation.

     Hoping it may bring you joy and comfort for many Christmases to
     come,

     Your loving 'Nother Betty!"

When it finally dawned upon them all that the dear lost home was theirs
again, there was first an awful stillness, followed by the biggest
tumult of shouting and hurrahing the Gay household had ever known. The
children weren't quite aware yet what it all meant but they climbed upon
their father and clapped their hands, and yelled at the top of their
lungs, and then they climbed all over Marjorie, and then they started in
on Betty and Ted, until suddenly Father noticed that Mother was crying
softly. Smiling and crying like April rain in sunshine.

"Look here, this won't do, Mother! You're going to get all used up. You
ought to lie right down and rest and have everybody keep still!" he said
anxiously.

"Oh, no," said Mother smiling through her tears. "Don't you know that
joy never kills? I heard the doctor say that the other day myself, down
in the hall to Betty! I think he was talking about me, and I couldn't
imagine what joy I could possibly be going to have that wouldn't kill.
But now I know. Two wonderful things! To think they should both come
together! My dear other girl, and my dear home, both back again! It
seems too good to be true!"

"It does!" said the father, turning suddenly to Marjorie. "But I don't
understand how you did it? I can't believe it yet. You don't know,
daughter, but those men who took the house from me are tricky."

"Oh, yes, I do," laughed Marjorie. "I found that out. But I had a
trickier one. I had a great lawyer that my Chicago lawyer recommended,
and he made them see the error of their ways. They didn't exactly want
Mr. Bryant to take it to court and make the whole thing public. I
gathered that he had something else on them already and they were
afraid of him, for they came right down to terms as soon as he went to
them."

Mr. Gay looked down at the paper in his hand thoughtfully, gravely,
smoothed it gently with his fingers.

"I ought to tell you, dear, I am not any better prepared to keep this
now than I was when I lost it," he said with a deep sigh. "Not as well,
in fact, for then I thought I would have a good job soon and everything
would be all right. But now I have learned that there are no jobs any
more for such as I. I hate to disappoint you, little girl, after you
have been so thoughtful and taken so much trouble, but I'm afraid I
should not accept this after all. You see, I understand business, and I
know now that I never could possibly pay off this mortgage, nor even the
interest on it. If I am able to supply food and a modest shelter and
clothing for my family, it will be all I can possibly hope for. And I am
exceedingly dubious about ever being able to do even that."

But Marjorie was beside him at once, her hand resting on his shoulder.

"You don't understand, Father," she said, her face full of eagerness,
"the mortgage is all paid off. There isn't a cent for you to pay. Read
your note. Didn't you see it said it was all clear? There'll be nothing
any more on it but taxes and any repairs that have to be made, and I am
going to look after those, at least until you get to be a millionaire."

"Oh, my dear!" said Mr. Gay, suddenly putting his head down on his hand.
"This is too much! Too much! I never dreamed of such a wonderful
miracle!"

It was a long time before the Gay family simmered down to real life
again. Such wonderful things had happened that it didn't seem worth
while to consider common matters any more. Until suddenly the turkey set
up an outcry from the oven and sent Betty and Marjorie scuttling to the
kitchen.

They were all too excited to talk connectedly. They went from one gift
to another, rejoicing over first this and then that. The girls in the
kitchen were getting the vegetables cooking, basting the turkey, putting
celery and cranberries and olives on the table, and talking.

"Oh, I can't believe I've really got a fur coat!" cried Betty. "You
ought not to have done it, Marjorie. It's much too grand for me, and I
know it cost an awful lot. I could have got along with a cloth coat with
just a collar of cheap fur. But oh, I _love_ it! I never dreamed of
anything half so grand!"

"You can change it for any other kind," smiled Marjorie. "I saw a
beautiful beaver one, and a mink. Would you rather have mink or seal? I
think fur is something each person has a special taste in."

"But mine has always been squirrel!" declared Betty. "I've just envied
girls with squirrel coats. I used to think I'd do almost anything to get
one. And now I have one without doing a thing! And that darling gray
hat! Oh, Marjorie, I'm so ashamed of the way I used to think about you!
I don't deserve a thing!"

"Nonsense!" laughed Marjorie. "Forget it! You and I are going in town
the first day Mother is well enough to be left alone and get you some
pretty dresses. You're not going to have to be wearing my cast-offs any
more. You're going to have what you want, what you pick out yourself!"

"What I _want_! How could I possibly want anything better than the
lovely things you've given me. No, you mustn't buy me anything more.
I'll get my head turned. I'm going to get a job just as soon as Mother
is able to be left and I'll buy the rest of the things I need."

Marjorie put a loving arm around her.

"I'm going to get you some pretty things right away," she said. "We're
not going to wait for jobs and things. You need them now and you're
going to have them. Come, let's go back in the other room a few minutes.
There's nothing more to do till those potatoes are ready to mash, is
there?"

Back in the parlor they found their mother lying down on the couch in
her new negligeé, looking as pretty as her girls, and the children still
rejoicing over their presents.

Suddenly Sunny broke forth.

"Evwybuddy's got a lotta pwetty sings but 'Nother Betty!" he exclaimed.
"Her only got hankies an' ittle sings!"

"She's got those stuck-up orchid flowers from Chicago!" growled Bud
savagely.

Marjorie suddenly cast a quick glance around at all their faces, and her
heart tightened with a glad hope. Were her family just the least bit
jealous of her Chicago friends?

"But the flowers can't help being stuck-up, Bud," she said brightly.
"You know they're parasites and they find themselves stuck up on a high
tree somewhere when they're born, so it isn't their fault."

Bud stared.

"What's parasikes?"

Marjorie explained.

"A parasite is a plant that lives on other plants. Their seeds float
around and lodge in the crotch of a tree in warm climates, and begin to
grow there, sucking their life from the juices of the tree. Parasites
don't work for themselves. They lodge on some other plant and live from
it."

Bud looked thoughtful.

"They're like tramps, aren't they? Won't work. Suckers!" said the boy.

"Look out there, Bud! You're getting pretty near home," grinned Ted. "If
this family isn't living on somebody else just now I'll miss my guess.
You're sure right that some people are parasites."

Bud turned solemn eyes on Marjorie.

"Is the man that sent these orchids a parasite?" he asked.

Marjorie laughed. What would Evan Brower think of that?

"Oh, no," she said with heightened color. "He works. He's a lawyer, and
I guess he'll have to work hard before he gets to be a noted one like
his father!"

Bud lost interest then and went to examine the signal lights of his new
electric train, but the rest of the family were quiet, thoughtful, as
they looked now and then at the gorgeous orchids flaming at them from
the big china pitcher on the bookcase where Marjorie had put them.
Somehow those orchids represented to them all another world, an alien
world from which had come this fairy sister. Would it sometime take her
away from them again? A hint of sadness hovered in the Christmas air and
threatened the Christmas spirit. They were going to have Brentwood back,
but would it be without Marjorie? Would Chicago claim her?

Betty was just taking the turkey out of the oven and Marjorie was
filling the water glasses when there came a ring at the door again. Ted
went to open it and there stood Gideon Reaver with a small white package
in his hand. It wasn't tied up in ribbons or seals like a Christmas
present, though it looked as though it would like to have been. It just
had a rubber band around it.

Ted welcomed the young man joyously.

"Come in!" he cried as though Santa Claus himself had appeared at the
door.

"Oh, I mustn't," said Gideon smiling. "I just stopped in to leave this
little book for your sister. I told her I'd send it over and this is the
first chance I've had. Also I wanted to ask if you folks wouldn't come
over to our Christmas service tonight at nine o'clock."

"Oh, come on in," said Ted, "I want you to meet Dad and Mother. You
aren't in such a hurry you can't stop a minute, are you?"

"No, I'm not in a hurry at all!" said Gideon smiling, "but I don't
believe in intruding on Christmas Day."

"Intruding?" said Ted, opening the door wide and pulling his adored
pastor in. "Where do you get that word?"

Then he suddenly turned and caught the look on Betty's face as she came
into the dining room exactly opposite the hall door, with the great
brown steaming turkey on its platter.

Betty didn't like him to invite Gideon Reaver in! Betty would be sore!
Now probably Christmas would all be spoiled! Poor Ted! He could hardly
get through the introductions.

But Marjorie came shining into the room and welcomed the guest, and Ted
felt better. Then his father and mother were both very cordial too, and
Ted beamed, though conscious all the time of Betty and the turkey in the
background.

Betty put down the platter and came and stood frowning in the hall door,
but the frown suddenly died down. Betty was surprised to find how young
and good-looking Ted's boasted minister was. She hesitated, wondering
just what to do about the turkey, and as she hesitated Marjorie turned
and introduced her.

"This is my twin sister, Mr. Reaver. This is the one you saw before."

And suddenly Betty was swept into the circle much against her will. But
he was interesting-looking, and she roused out of her annoyance and
greeted him pleasantly enough.

But Gideon Reaver had a lot of intuition, and he had seen that turkey.

"I'm just delighted to see you all," he said with a comprehensive
glance which took them all in, "but I'm not going to stop now. I can
tell by the delicious odors that are going around that dinner is on the
table, so I'll just run away now and come back another time and call if
I may. Far be it from me to delay a Christmas dinner!"

Suddenly the mother spoke up, almost eagerly it seemed.

"Why not stay and share it with us?" she asked. She had seen the eager
look in her boy's eyes.

"Yes, do stay," said the father heartily. "I know everybody will be
delighted."

"Oh, I couldn't think of intruding that way. Indeed I couldn't. I was
just passing and thought I would leave the message."

"But you haven't had your dinner yet, have you?" challenged Ted
wistfully.

"No, I'm just on my way back to my boarding house."

"That settles it," said Father. "Ted go and see if there are enough
chairs to go around, and Betty, put on another plate!"

But suddenly the front door which had the night latch off, opened again,
and in walked the doctor.

"Well, now, upon my word, if I haven't walked in on a party!" he said.
"I beg your pardon. I won't stay but a minute. I just wanted to make
sure my patients were all right and fit for turkey."

"You're just in time!" said Mr. Gay happily. "Have you had your
Christmas dinner yet?"

"Well, no, I haven't yet, but I'm used to waiting. You see I was called
up on the hills to a serious case at five this morning and I'm just
getting back. Haven't had my breakfast yet and it wouldn't do to eat
dinner till I've had breakfast, you see. I'll just look at Mrs. Gay's
pulse and then I'll be moving on."

"We'll call it brunch then," called out Betty suddenly from the doorway.
"Come on, there's plenty to eat. You get the chairs, Ted, two from
upstairs, you know. Hurry! The turkey is already on the table. The more
the merrier."

They all turned and looked at Betty's gay face, so changed from a moment
before. Ted breathed a sigh of relief, and the rest gave quick furtive
glances at the doctor, and then Sunny broke into the silence with one of
his funny little grown-up imitation laughs.

"Ha-ha! More th' merrier! More th' merrier!"

Of course they all laughed then and the stiffness was gone. Marjorie
hurried off to get the extra plates.

Mr. Gay introduced the minister and the doctor and they studied each
other a bit cautiously. But they were both staying, there was no
question about that.

"Dinner is served!" said Betty, suddenly appearing in the doorway
looking very pretty indeed in Marjorie's green knit dress with a bit of
red ribbon knotted in her hair and a scrap of holly on one shoulder.

"It's going to be a tight squeeze, friends, but we thought it was better
than waiting to put another leaf in the table and eating a cold dinner."

Betty's cheeks were rosy and her eyes were twinkling. She seemed like a
new Betty to Marjorie. Ted drew another deep sigh of relief and beamed
at Sunny as he lifted him into his high chair.

The doctor, without waiting on the order of his going, marched straight
over to Betty and pulled out her chair, and then took the one next her.
Mrs. Gay smiled and took her place where cushions had been arranged at
her back and feet. The minister found himself seated between Marjorie
and Ted. Then Mr. Gay's voice broke into the laughter of getting seated.

"Mr. Reaver, will you ask the blessing, please?"

Marjorie stifled a quick look of surprise. There had been no asking of
blessings so far in the meals she had eaten in her new home, although
she reflected they had been most informal, and her father had generally
eaten upstairs with her mother. But her heart warmed to the words that
were spoken and she thrilled at the sweet silence that had settled over
them all. This minister certainly was a rare one. How great for Ted to
have such a man for a friend!

"Lord, we thank Thee today for this sweet fellowship that has gathered
us all around this board to receive of Thy bounties. We thank Thee for
these Thy good gifts for the refreshment of our bodies, and we thank
Thee most of all for this day to keep in memory the gift of Thy Son, our
Savior Jesus Christ, who came to earth to take upon Himself our sins and
their penalty of death, and who bore them all, with their shame and
their punishment, that all we who believe on Thee might go free, and
come Home to Thy House at last without spot or wrinkle or any such
thing. We crave Thy blessing today, and ask it in the name of the Lord
Jesus. Amen."

As the heads were lifted the doctor shot a quick keen glance at the
minister across from him. But it was the minister who spoke first.

"Do you mean to tell me, Doctor, that you can always tell which of these
twins is which?" he asked looking from Betty to Marjorie at his side.

"Well," said the doctor, "I can always tell that this one is Betty, but
I'm not always so sure which one the other one is!"

They all laughed heartily at that and Sunny gave his little laugh that
always brought down the house, bending his head down on the table until
his curls were in his plate.

"Ha! Ha! Which one is 'nother!"

There wasn't much stiffness after that, and the bright talk raced around
the table gaily from one to the other, till finally all the plates were
filled and everybody hard at work emptying them.

Ted was very silent, but his nice grin at all the jokes showed he was
enjoying everything immensely.

"You sure you're not overdoing, Mother?" asked the father at last as he
finished carving and addressed himself to his own plate.

"Oh, no!" said Mother quietly, and added brightly in the lingo of her
children: "I'm having the time of my life!"

The doctor cast a questioning eye toward her, and said: "Perhaps it will
do her good. She's been cooped up so long. Anyhow I'm here to rescue her
if she shows signs of collapse. But what I want to know is, Mrs. Gay,
with you laid up, who cooked this turkey? I never ate one more
delicious. It's the best turkey I ever tasted."

"Betty cooked it," called out shy Bonnie suddenly. "She asked Mother how
and she did it all herself!"

"Thank you, young lady, for the information," said the doctor bowing. "I
suspected as much but I didn't dare ask so personal a question."

"Aw, she can cook other things, too," put in Bud loyally. "She can make
pancakes something swell!"

"Can she indeed! I'm coming around to breakfast some morning if I may.
And I'm certainly coming to Christmas dinner again whether I'm asked or
not, some time when I get another Christmas afternoon off."

It was a delightful occasion, and everyone enjoyed it to the full. They
lingered at the table laughing and telling stories until Sunny, replete
with turkey and his first mince pie laid down his golden head and went
to sleep in his chair.

And then when they at last arose both the guests insisted upon helping
with the dishes, and what a gay time they had at that.

It was after seven o'clock when the dishes were done and the young
people came back to the tiny parlor.

Mother had had a nap on the couch and professed to be as fresh as a
rose, which remark gave occasion for a lot of pleasant compliments from
the two young men guests.

Strange to say neither doctor nor minister seemed to be in a hurry to
leave. In fact both had confessed earlier in the afternoon that they had
been alone and longing for company when they drifted toward Aster Street
but hadn't in mind any such invasion as they had made.

By this time they were excellent friends, having discovered a number of
tastes in common. The doctor had inquired where Gideon preached, and
Gideon had suggested that he'd better come over his way and open an
office. The doctor said he'd think about it, and Betty told him they
were going to move back there and needed to have their doctor handy. He
said he didn't know but he would look into it.

They all settled down, Marjorie on the floor beside her mother's couch
with her mother's hand in hers, Betty and Bonnie together in a big chair
at the foot, Gideon Reaver talking to Mr. Gay in the wide doorway into
the hall, Bud watching Ted as he helped Sunny to make a complicated toy
wind up and run the way it ought to, and the doctor standing behind
Betty's chair looking down at her and talking.

Suddenly Gideon turned around to them all.

"Now, why don't we have a little sing?" he said. "Christmas isn't
complete without carols. Suppose we make the kiddies begin. Bonnie,
don't you and Sunny know a little Christmas song?"

Bonnie shyly nodded her head.

"Soor ve does," piped Sunny getting up from his knees and coming
promptly to the front. "Ve knows 'Vay-in-a-manger!"

So the little sister and brother stood up by the Christmas tree hand in
hand and sang Luther's cradle hymn very sweetly. Then Gideon started "O
Little Town of Bethlehem," and they all sang on. Ted slipped up and
turned off the light, leaving only the lights of the Christmas tree, and
it seemed a holy and beautiful time. Gideon's voice was rich and clear,
and the doctor proved to be a good bass. Song after song was sung.
Bonnie curled up beside Marjorie, and Sunny crept into the big chair
with Betty, sleepy and content, replete with Christmas joys.

It was just as they were singing the last line of "Silent Night," that
Evan Brower walked contemptuously up the narrow steps, and failing to
identify the small insignificant doorbell in the darkness gave a
thunderous knock on the door.

Coming as it did into the sweetness of that "Silent, holy night" of long
ago, it was somewhat of a shock.




XV


Ted snapped on the lights and opened the door, and there stood a tall
haughty young man.

"Does this happen to be number 1465 Aster Street?" he asked.

Ted nodded gravely.

"Is Miss Wetherill here?"

"Wetherill?" Ted hesitated and was about to say no, then suddenly it
dawned upon him again and he took a deep breath like one about to
relinquish something precious and answered with dignity:

"She is." Then he added with what was almost haughtiness in his voice,
"Won't you come in?"

Evan Brower stepped into the house leaving the taxi throbbing outside,
and looked about the tiny hall, and the equally tiny parlor beyond,
searchingly like a warhorse out for battle. And strangely that place
which had before been large enough and sweet with quiet fellowship,
seemed to shrink and reveal all its inadequacies. Betty gasped quietly
and remembered that she had on one of her sister's dresses. Would it be
recognized? She sighted a smouch of chocolate from ill-gotten candies
against orders on Sunny's face. She realized how ugly the wall paper
was, and that the only vacant chair left for the stranger to take was a
shaky one that invariably squeaked when one sat upon it. These things
had not been in evidence all the afternoon, even with their two young
men guests present, but now they came out and mocked her as she gave one
swift survey of the room.

But Marjorie, her color perhaps a trifle heightened, came forward at
once.

"Why, Evan," she said pleasantly, "this certainly is a surprise! Let me
introduce my brother, Theodore Gay, and my father, Mr. Gay. Father, this
is Mr. Brower, a very dear friend of the Wetherill family. This is my
sister Elizabeth, and these are our friends, Mr. Reaver and Dr.
Sheridan--"

She presented them one by one as they were standing about in the
doorway, and each bowed courteously, trying to veil their disappointment
at the interlude in their pleasant evening. But Evan Brower merely
acknowledged the introductions by a level stare at each and the
slightest possible inclination of his head.

"And won't you come in and meet my mother?" went on Marjorie blithely,
though she wasn't at all sure from the look in Evan Brower's eye whether
he was going to follow her or not. "Mother has been very ill, and is
only up today for the first time, or rather she isn't exactly up. She
has to lie on the couch."

Marjorie led the way to the couch, and Evan Brower reluctantly stepped a
few feet nearer and inclined his head again at Mrs. Gay, his face
showing that all this was a matter of utter indifference to him and he
wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

"And these are the children," went on Marjorie. "This is Gresham,
otherwise Bud for short, and this is Bonnie, and Sunny."

Sunny, nothing daunted, stepped forward and put out a sticky hand.

"Merwy Twismas!" he volunteered.

Evan Brower gave him but a casual glance, ignoring the friendly little
hand entirely, and kept his eyes on Marjorie.

"I came," said he in a rudely lowered tone, "to take you out this
evening. Can you get your wraps and go at once? Will you need to
change?"

He glanced down at her pretty knitted dress with annoyance. This was a
part of finding her in this little insignificant house in a common
neighborhood, that she should not be dressed for the evening! Christmas
night and in a daytime dress! Evan Brower was very punctilious about
such things. He always dressed for dinner. Could it be possible that
Marjorie could revert to type in such a few short days?

But Marjorie did not look embarrassed at his evident disapproval. She
lifted calm eyes to his face, and speaking in an ordinary tone that she
was not attempting to disguise, she said:

"No, I'm sorry, I couldn't go this evening. I already have an engagement
for later in the evening, and this is our first Christmas together. I
wouldn't break it up for anything. You know this is what I came on for,
and we're having a grand time. Won't you stay and enjoy it with us? And
then go on with us to the service later? Let me take your hat. Take off
your overcoat. It's warm in here."

Betty gave a quick little frightened gasp almost like a smothered
protest and arose precipitately, plucking a protesting Sunny from the
midst and hurrying him upstairs to get his sticky hands washed. The
grown-ups slid out into the hall and began to talk about the weather and
politics in low serious tones, a pleasant masculine clique. Only Mother
on the couch and little Bonnie, her arm about Marjorie, her head resting
against her lovingly, were left to hear what went on.

"Really, Marjorie, I don't see that you are required to do duty all day
and evening too!" Evan's tone was exceedingly annoyed. He spoke with an
air of authority. "I should suppose when I have taken the trouble to
come all this distance to surprise you that you might spare a few hours
to me. I have something important to tell you."

Marjorie's face did not cloud over. She had made her decision the minute
she saw Evan enter the door and she meant to stick to it. Not for
anything would she desert her dear new family on Christmas night. Not
for anybody would she miss the Christmas night service at Brentwood!
There might be a time for Evan Brower later, she was by no means sure,
but it was not tonight.

"Well, I'm just as sorry as I can be, Evan, to disappoint you, but it's
quite impossible. If you had let me know that you thought of coming this
way I would have told you not to count on Christmas at all as I had made
other plans. I do appreciate your kind thought for me, I do indeed! And,
the orchids were lovely! So nice of you to send them! But you'll just
have to excuse me tonight, unless you find it possible to join us?"

She looked sweetly up into his face with an unruffled brow, and suddenly
she knew that she was hoping he wouldn't stay. He didn't seem to fit
with the rest. He had a lovely rich cultured voice, but would he camp
down with the others and sing carols, and enter into the quiet spirit
that had pervaded the room before he came? Would he know how? Would he
understand it? And yet, Evan Brower was very active in the church at
home. What did it all mean? Was something wrong in herself? She didn't
know. She hadn't time to think it out now. She was here and this was
Christmas, her first Christmas in her father's house, and she didn't
want it spoiled.

Evan Brower's cold, haughty, hurt voice was replying:

"That would be quite impossible. I am hunting up some friends on the
other side of the city!" Was there the least perceptible emphasis on the
words "friends," and "_other side_"?

And then Evan turned and stalked haughtily from the room without
anything but the merest nod in Mrs. Gay's direction.

The low conversation in the hall had suddenly ceased. The participants
hadn't been able to think of anything to cover the haughty refusal of
that strange voice. Ted cast dagger glances toward the intruder, and
even quiet Mr. Gay lifted a grave disapproving look toward him.

It was just at that crucial instant, as Marjorie was following the
offended caller to the door, that Sunny's voice rang down the stairs.

"Betty, vas that the man vat sent my new sister Marg-wy those
or-or-orkid parasikes? Vas it, Betty? Is he a parasike hisself like you
vas talking?"

"_Shhhh!_" came Betty's soft warning.

"Vy do I have to be shsh, Betty? Is he a twamp?"

"Shhhhhh!"

A sound of little feet jerked suddenly by force across the floor above,
and a quick wail:

"I don't not like him anyvay. He vouldn't shake han's. He vouldn't say
Merwy Twismus!" The last syllable was cut short by the sharp closing of
a door upstairs, and Gideon Reaver turned quickly to hide the twinkle in
his eye from Ted who was glaring defiantly at everybody.

But Marjorie, her color rising and her head a bit high, walked coolly to
the door with her caller.

"Too bad, Evan, to have this ride for nothing, but it just couldn't be
helped," she said sweetly, and smiled indulgently upon him.

At the door he turned savagely upon her and said in a low growl:

"When can I see you, _alone_? In the morning? Will you deign to lunch
with me?"

"Why, yes, I think I could," said Marjorie, considering.

"Very well, I'll call you on the telephone. What is the number here?"

"Oh, we haven't a telephone," she answered brightly as though that were
quite a usual thing in her circle of friends. "Suppose I just be ready
when you say you will come. Half past twelve or one. Which will be most
convenient for you?"

"Eleven!" said Evan crisply. "I'm flying back in the afternoon and I'm
taking you with me! Better have your things packed and we can take them
with us where we lunch."

"Oh, no!" laughed Marjorie firmly, "I'm not going back yet. I haven't
finished my visit. But I'll be ready at eleven if you like. Thank you
again for the orchids. So nice of you to think of me. Oh--" as he swung
the door smartly open, "it's snowing again, isn't it? How lovely!
Christmas always has twice the thrill when it snows sometime during the
day! Well, good night! I'll be ready at eleven."

Then he was gone. They could hear the taxi chugging away down the little
common street, and Marjorie came smiling and dropped down beside her
mother's couch in her old place again.

"Come on! Let's get going!" said Ted. "I'd like to hear these two sing a
duet together."

"Why not make it a trio or a quartette?"

The children slipped into their places again, a subdued Sunny with
traces of recent tears damp on his gold lashes came creeping in close
beside Marjorie and slid a clean little hand into hers. She squeezed it
hard, and stooping, softly kissed his round cheek.

So they started in to sing again, discovering a lot of sweet old
Christmas songs they all knew.

A little after eight Gideon rose.

"Friends, I've got to tear myself away," he said. "I have a service at
nine. I came here originally to get recruits for it, but I haven't the
heart to tear you apart on Christmas night. I'd appreciate it awfully of
course if all of you could drive over with me and help with the singing,
but I shan't blame you if you don't want to come. Though it would be
great to have that last song repeated, and if the doctor would come too
he and Ted and I could do the trio! As for the girls, well, we could
have a mighty fine quartette if they two and you two men would be
willing! There, now! I wasn't going to ask you to go!"

"He wasn't going to ask us! No, he hasn't the heart to tear us away! And
yet he's fixed it all up for us to be on the program!" laughed the
doctor. "But friend, you're going to have the surprise of your life.
We're _going_, of _course_, aren't we, Betty?"

"Oh!" said Betty both eagerness and withdrawal fighting for the mastery
in her eyes. "But I have got to put the children to bed--and Mother--"

"Yes, Mother's sat up long enough for the first time even if it is
Christmas," said the doctor, "so Ted and I are carrying her up to her
bed right now, and one of you girls can undress her and put her in,
while the other one sees these two sleepyheads into their cribs. That
oughtn't to take five minutes if you work fast, ought it?" He appealed
to them both. "As for you, Father Gay, I shouldn't allow you out in the
snow storm anyway, so you're elected to watch over your family while we
go a-caroling! Come on, Ted, all set?"

"All set!" said Ted, and stooping gathered his mother into his arms,
while the doctor made a very efficient second, and the procession
started laughing gaily up the stairs.

Marjorie with Sunny and Bonnie in tow passed her brother as he was
coming down the stairs, a kind of triumph in his tread.

"Is Betty going?" she whispered as she passed.

"I don't dare ask," he grinned back. "Leave it to Doc. Perhaps he can
work the trick!"

But Betty was flying as fast as any of them to get ready. Here was a
chance to go out with a good-looking young man and wear her new fur coat
and her new gray hat, and Betty was not the one to turn that down, even
if it was just a religious service in a little old despised common
chapel! She came shining down in her glad finery as soon as any of them,
and Ted looked at Marjorie and winked.

By common consent the doctor went with Betty. They did invite Bud to
ride with them but he shrugged his shoulders and said he guessed he'd go
with Ted. There was more room in the minister's car, so they drove off
into the whitest loveliest Christmas snow that could be imagined.

Seated in the laurel-and-hemlock-decked chapel between Bud and Ted,
Marjorie studied the pleasant keen face of the doctor sitting in front
of them beside Betty. She wondered if he was a born-again-one too, or
just a man of the world? She studied her sister's face too, and saw the
alert keen interest in everything that went on.

It was a beautiful service. The singing was from the heart. Cultured and
uncultured voices, mingling in one Christmas song of the redeemed.

There was much singing and prayer, wonderful, tender prayer from both
minister and people. There was a heart-searching talk from Gideon Reaver
pressing home the fact to each soul present that the Lord Jesus was born
and suffered and died just for him. Marjorie had never realized it as a
personal thing like that before. She was deeply stirred. Young Bud sat
and listened wide-eyed. He had taken a great liking to the minister that
afternoon. He appeared to be hearing the gospel story for himself for
the first time in his life.

And then after another tender brief prayer Gideon called for his
quartette, and Ted calmly arose and led the way to the front. Marjorie
as she walked behind him marveled at his coolness, his reverent
attitude, as if he were a young priest going to perform his duty at the
altar. She found herself a little nervous about Betty, whether she would
come up after all. Betty hadn't _said_ she would sing at the service,
though she had joined with them in the few minutes' practice they had
just before the service.

But Betty came, and her alto was deep and sweet. Betty had a nice voice.
Marjorie found herself thinking that Betty should have some lessons by
and by when things got straightened out.

Then they sang:

    "Oh, listen to our wondrous story,
        Counted once among the lost,
    Yet, One came down from heaven's glory,
        Saving us at awful cost!
                  Who saved us from eternal loss?
                    Who but God's Son upon the cross?
                  What did He do?
                    He died for you.
                  Where is He now?
                    Believe it thou,
                  In heaven interceding."

It wasn't exactly a Christmas hymn, but it exactly fitted the Christmas
message that Gideon had given. Marjorie found her heart swelling with
the message, which a few short days before she would not have understood
so well. And when they came to the last verse she found herself thinking
of Betty and making the song a longing for her to know something of the
wonder and joy that had just come to her own heart.

    "Will you surrender to this Savior?
      To His Sceptre humbly bow?
    You, too, shall come to know His favor,
      He will save you, save you now!"

Her whole soul was in the words as she sang them, and she found herself
longing for the salvation of all those around her, who perhaps did not
know the truth of what it meant to be saved, as she had but just
discovered it.

Ted was singing earnestly. His voice was going to be good. It had a
fresh sincerity that makes people listen. Astonishingly the doctor
seemed to be enjoying the singing too. It must be that even if he wasn't
a Christian he had a Christian background somewhere, for he had seemed
familiar with that song, though it wasn't a common one. And he had
certainly listened to the message.

"Something real about this place," she heard him say to Betty half an
hour later as they stood at the door about to plunge into the snow and
go to the car.

Betty didn't answer, but she gave a quick glance up at him as if she
were trying to understand his point of view.

Then they went home with the memory of the little chapel in its gala
greenery, and the sweet songs, the tender looks on faces, the Christian
testimonies with which the meeting had closed, all a holy beautiful
ending to a day that had been wonderful from start to finish.

Marjorie lay awake for a long time and thought it over, step by step,
thrilling anew at the memory. There was just one part she forgot to
review, and that was the interlude in which Evan Brower figured. But
then, she was having to go home to Chicago pretty soon, and there would
be plenty of time to deal with Evan Brower. That was what the back of
her mind thought, while she brushed lightly over the episode of his
coming to call, and held on to the things she had most enjoyed.

Of course she was having to go to lunch with him tomorrow, but there was
time enough to consider that when tomorrow came. She wanted to hold on
to each moment of this day and get the last drop of joy it had to give
before it passed into oblivion.

And none the least among her memories was that of Gideon Reaver, what he
had said, what he had done, the comical expression of his face now and
again, the quick deep fervor of his voice as he spoke, the merriment of
his laughter, the true look in his eyes, the simplicity of his prayers,
the earnestness of his message. These all hovered in her memory making a
picture that intrigued her. What a wonderful young man to be a minister!
Would he grow dignity and conceit as he grew older? She couldn't believe
it. He seemed as utterly unspoiled and humble as a little child. He
seemed--was it irreverent to think so?--almost like his Master, the Lord
Jesus Christ! But no, that could not be irreverent. Wasn't that what
Christians were meant to be, like Christ? Only she had never seen a
young man before who had impressed her with the thought as he did. She
fell asleep thinking about it, thrilling at the memory of how he had led
her in a few brief words, to understand that she was saved, and to long
to walk with God.

She must ask him again some day about that walking with God. It was a
wonderful thought, to walk with the eternal God!

Betty lay beside her, eyes staring wide ahead at the blank wall of the
room in the darkness. Betty was thinking of the look on the doctor's
face when he had said, "Something real about this place!" Wondering
about the doctor, thinking of all the fun he had made for them during
the afternoon and evening. Contrasting it with a few experiences in her
meager past that she had called "good times." She was being searched as
her bitter eager young soul had never been searched before. Real things!
What were real things? She wished she could know Dr. Sheridan better,
dare to call him by his first name, go out with him sometimes, but of
course that was unthinkable. It wasn't in the least likely that he would
ever think of her again. He was too busy to spend time on girls anyway,
and if he did he wouldn't pick her out for a companion. This had just
been an off day with him, all his friends busy elsewhere, and he
hindered from being with them by that call to the country which had made
him too late to get to house parties, and things that he would of course
be invited to. It wasn't probable that a rising young doctor would
choose to spend his Christmas Day in a poor plain little house on Aster
Street if he had been home in time for more interesting places. Yet he
had seemed to enjoy himself. Or was it only a rare quality he had for
adjusting himself to circumstances? Well, she had had a good time anyway
and she liked him. It was nice to have a memory of such a day even if it
never happened again. Maybe he only stayed because he liked to look at
her pretty new sister. Of course they all said she and Marjorie looked
alike, but she knew herself that there was something more sophisticated
about Marjorie, an air of being to the manner born that she, Betty, did
not have, and that no amount of make-up could simulate. In fact, perhaps
it only made the lack more apparent. And then there had been the way the
doctor had acted in that meeting, taking it all so seriously, actually
interested in it! Well it was interesting. She had to own that. She
hadn't been able to disconnect her mind from what was going on the way
she usually could in churches--though she hadn't been to any very often
of late. She couldn't blame Ted for being so devoted. That young
minister was very interesting, and very good-looking. Though she told
herself she preferred the doctor's type. Gideon Reaver was a little too
quiet for her. However, why quarrel with anything that had happened in
that wonderful day? Here she was lying and thinking over differences in
mere people that she likely wouldn't see much again, when she had a
wonderful new fur coat and a hat that looked as if it was imported! She,
Betty Gay, all rigged up like that sitting beside a handsome doctor and
singing in a church! It was unbelievable!

But just as she dropped off to sleep there came the words of the chorus
she had helped to sing:

"What did He do? He _died_ for you--" it trailed off vaguely and blended
with her dreams. Was it possible that the dying One had really ever
thought of Betty Gay, so long ago when He died on Calvary?

And down on his knees beside the sleeping Bud knelt Ted, thanking God
for the wonderful Christmas Day, and praying for his family.




XVI


The next morning Marjorie became aware of something strained in the
atmosphere that hadn't been there the day before. She didn't quite know
what it was. It was subtle. It evaded her in glances, even loving
glances. It was a kind of shy embarrassment upon the whole family. It
troubled her, though she tried to put it away and tell herself she was
imagining things, but it kept returning.

"No, don't try to help wash the dishes this morning," protested Betty.
"You're going out and you'll get your hands all red."

"The idea!" said Marjorie laughing. "Give me that dishcloth! What do you
suppose I care about my hands?"

"Well, you ought to care," said Betty reprovingly, "with a particular
man like that you might be criticized. He's critical. I could see that!"

"Well, I'm not afraid of him," said Marjorie, "and I'm going to wash
these dishes! I'd better open another box of soap powder, hadn't I? This
one is nearly gone."

"There's plenty there," said Betty frugally. "I wish you wouldn't feel
you have to wash dishes and things like that all the time. I know you're
not used to it."

"Why continually remind me of that? I suppose you judge because I do it
so awkwardly," smiled Marjorie, "but I'll get over that in time, you
know. What I would like to know is why you are so much more solicitous
about my washing dishes today than you were before? Have I done
something wrong?"

"Oh, mercy, no!" said Betty sharply. "It's just seeing that
high-and-mighty friend of yours, I suppose. Have you known him long?"

"You mean Evan Brower? Oh, yes, I've known him practically all my life.
His mother was Mrs. Wetherill's most intimate friend. They lived not far
from our house. But he never took much notice of me till I grew up. He's
very pleasant."

"Yes, he acted that way last night!" said Betty sharply.

Marjorie gave her sister a quick look.

"He wasn't very nice, was he?" she agreed. "I was ashamed of him. But
he's not like that usually, he's most punctiliously polite. I suppose he
was a little annoyed at me for running away from his mother's Christmas
party. I never dreamed that he would come all the way down here to see
me. I suppose they feel a little responsibility about me on the
Wetherills' account, now that they think I'm all alone in the world."

"Oh, _yes_?" said Betty with an upward accent. "Well, his royal highness
certainly knows how to give orders. I admired the way you held your own,
but you won't do that today, lady! He intends to give you his orders. I
could see it in the corner of his eye and the droop of his lips. He
means to take you home with him. Excuse me for listening, I was standing
at the head of the stairs trying to get Sunny's face clean without
stopping to turn on a light upstairs, and I heard him say he was taking
you home today. You'll go, too. I can see that! And if you do it'll be
good-bye sister, all right! Are you engaged?"

"Mercy no!" said Marjorie. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Out of his masterful manner. If you aren't, you probably will be by the
time lunch is over. You ought to have told us about him before you let
us all get to caring about you. It wasn't fair, after all these years
without you."

"Betty!" Marjorie lifted her hands out of the dishwater and whirled
about toward her sister.

"What in the name of peace is the matter with you, Betty?" Marjorie
said, half ready to cry, "there wasn't anything to tell. He's just a
friend of the family and there's nothing at all between us. I'm not
engaged to _any_body, and don't mean to be for sometime, if I _ever_ am.
I'm not interested in such things yet. I've got a family and that's
enough for the present."

"Oh, _yes_?" said Betty again incredulously. "Well, wait till you come
back--_if_ you come back! Don't you mean to pack your things? Or will
you trust me to send them to you if he carries you off willy-nilly?"

Suddenly Marjorie rushed at her sister, half laughing, half crying, and
gave her a loving shaking.

"There!" she said breathlessly. "Stop this! I'm not going away with him.
I wouldn't think of such a thing, and he hasn't a right in the world to
make me, so please be good and let's have a nice time the way we usually
do."

Thus appealed to Betty put aside her bitter little flings, but Marjorie
could see there was something still in her mind that fenced them apart.
She sighed as she went upstairs to dress. There really wasn't much time,
for they had slept late that morning. She tried to get away from the
things Betty had said but they annoyed her.

When she went in to say good-bye to her mother in her wine red velvet
dress she felt the same thing again.

"I hope you'll have a very nice time, dear!" said her mother wistfully.
"Is this young man a very special friend?"

"Why, no, I don't think so, Mother. He's been a friend of the family for
years. I haven't any specials yet. I'll tell you when I do!" and she
kissed her mother and ran down to open the door as the taxi drew up.

"Bye!" she whispered toward Betty in the doorway and blew a kiss from
the tips of her fingers toward her. "Don't you do a thing toward getting
dinner till I get back!"

Then she was gone.

Her father was watching her from the window.

"I'm afraid he is," he said as he turned away with a sigh. "Or at least
he thinks he is. He has a very possessive manner."

"He would!" said Marjorie's mother. "He's that kind. George, don't you
think we ought to have a talk with her about what we're going to do
next, and what she's going to do? She asked me last night if we wanted
her to live with us."

"I certainly do," said the father. "We oughtn't to stand in her way.
It's going to be harder than ever of course, now that she's been here,
to let her go, but--it's her right! That's her natural setting now, a
sort of a birthright that we wished on her! She has a position in
Chicago, in social life, I suppose, that she never could have here as
our daughter, no matter how successful I got to be." He smiled ruefully.
"And you know how likely that is."

"Yes," said the mother tearfully.

And then they sat down and talked the whole thing over, and presently
Betty could stand it no longer and came up to listen. Then came Bonnie
and Sunny in from playing in the snow and caught a few words, and began
to cry.

"Where is 'Nother Betty?" demanded Sunny. "I vants 'Nother Betty!"

And Bonnie came close to her mother and asked sadly, "Is our new sister
going away?"

At noon Ted came in. He had a job for the evening again, cleaning up
after Christmas. He listened to the doleful tale. Then he shook his
head.

"Aw, you're crazy!" he told Betty. "She won't fall for that poor sap!
She's got too much sense! Come on, let's have lunch!"

Down in the city, meantime, Marjorie was having troubles of her own. It
was Evan Brower's idea of a good time to make Marjorie suffer plenty for
having gone off without leaving him her address, and for having refused
to go out with him last evening, and then to show her how generous and
forgiving he could be afterward.

So Marjorie was seated at a sumptuously appointed table in one of the
most exclusive hotels in the city, with a stern companion who lectured
her as if she were a naughty little girl.

At first she laughed it off, and pleased herself by remembering what a
good time she'd had yesterday.

She was wearing the orchids he had given her, but before he was done
disciplining her she wished courtesy would permit her to take them off
and fling them at him.

He was not blind however. He knew that she was looking very well indeed,
and that others at neighboring tables were aware that they were a
noticeable couple. In his heart he was swelling with pride over her
beauty, and her air of gentle breeding, though he prided himself that no
small part of her distinction came from his orchids which she wore so
graciously. But she really was going to make a very fitting wife for
him, and she certainly was taking her punishment well.

At last she looked up and smiled:

"Now, Evan, don't you think we'd better talk about _you_ awhile?" she
suggested. "What have you been doing the last week? Did you go to hear
The Messiah? Was it good with the new soloists? And what did they do
about the Christmas party for the crippled children? I promised to help
at that, you know. Who took my place? And is your mother well? You
haven't told me a thing. And how in the world did you get away from your
family Christmas party? I'm afraid you hurt your mother's feelings
terribly."

That was an unfortunate thought. She saw it at once. Evan stiffened
immediately.

"I _came_ away. I _had_ to. I felt that you needed my protection and I
had something to say to you."

"But I didn't need any protection, you know," smiled Marjorie, "and I
told you I wasn't ready to talk to you."

"Marjorie, you did a most unwise thing when you came all alone to hunt
up your family. You didn't know in the least what you were running
into."

"We won't go into that!" said Marjorie coolly. "I ran into the happiest
thing that has ever come into my life thus far, and I'm glad I came."

"Do you think that statement is kind or fair to your foster parents? Do
you think you are being loyal to dear Mrs. Wetherill who so adored you?"

"Yes, Evan, I do. I do not love her less because I have found my own
mother to love, and it was at her suggestion that I took up this matter
at all. Now, will you please not talk any more about it? Some day you
will learn, I hope, how wrong you are, but at present I would rather not
discuss it. Let's have a nice time together until you have to go. Don't
you think my orchids are lovely with their creamy leaves against this
dark red velvet?"

"They certainly are," said the young man half grudgingly. "I had begun
to think you didn't care for them."

"Care? Why, I love them! They are such wonderful specimens, and it was
so nice of you to send them to me when I was away. I was proud to have
them. We all enjoyed them a lot."

The young man was silent for a little, studying her. He didn't exactly
care whether the rest of her family had enjoyed his flowers or not, and
he was pondering whether to tell her so, but he had been steadily
working along such lines for a half-hour now and had got nowhere;
perhaps he had better try a new tack.

"I've brought you something else," he said with a swift change of manner
and a lighting of his eyes, "something that is just for yourself. I hope
you'll like it."

"Oh, but you shouldn't, Evan," she protested. "The orchids were enough!
They were wonderful. I love having them, especially to wear today, too."

"Well, this is something very special," he said with an engaging smile.
She thought to herself that he was handsomer when he smiled than when he
was trying to lecture her. He had a nice smile.

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a tiny velvet case, of the
color of violets. She looked at it and an anxiety entered her soul.

"Oh, Evan, not some great gift now, please. I don't somehow
seem--ready--" she gave a half-frightened glance at the box, perhaps
divining what it held.

But he handed it across to her, smiling.

"Open it!" he said, "I want to watch your face when you see it."

There seemed nothing to do but take it and open it. She held the little
box gently in her hand as if it were a living thing that she might hurt,
and hesitated, looking at him, and trying to think what to do. Then she
touched the pearl spring and disclosed the wonderful blue diamond set
in a delicate frostwork of platinum.

For an instant she caught her breath at its beauty, for it was a
charming ring. Then suddenly the trouble in her eyes grew definite and
she shut the cover down sharply with a snap.

"Oh, Evan! Please! You ought not to have done this! Not now anyway! I
told you I could not think of such things now. Please! I'm sorry, but I
couldn't take that!" She handed it back across the table but he did not
move to take it.

"Please!" she insisted. "I could not take a thing like this until I was
sure!"

His face was haughty and frozen.

"And why aren't you sure?" he asked. "It's been nearly ten days since I
asked you to marry me. You've had plenty of time to think it over."

"No," she said firmly, "I haven't. I've had other things to think about
and settle. They had to come first before anything."

"Well, haven't you got them all settled?"

A gleam of something like joy flitted across her face, but she shook her
head.

"Not all, yet."

"How long will it take?" There was a trace of anger in his voice.

"I'm not sure, but when I come home I can talk with you about it. I
shall know then what I am going to do."

She laid the box down definitely on the table between them, and sat back
with finality.

"Well!" he said after studying her face a minute, "it won't be long
then, for you are going back with me on the plane that leaves the flying
field at three. We can talk about it on the way."

"Oh, no!" said Marjorie. "I have no idea of going back today. And I have
asked you, both today, and back in Chicago before I left, please not to
talk about this now. I must settle several things in my own mind before
I shall be able to talk with you."

"But I love you, Marjorie!"

She studied him rather hopelessly for a minute and then she said:

"If you truly love me won't you prove it to me by putting that ring back
in your pocket and just sitting there and talking to me in a pleasant
natural way as you always have done, without any perplexing questions or
anything? Just let's talk!"

He looked at her keenly for a minute and then he said quietly, with an
inscrutable mask on his face:

"Very well. What shall I talk about?" She knew by his tone that he was
angry, but she could not help it.

"Oh anything! Suppose I ask you a question. It's something I've been
wondering. Evan, you were brought up a good deal as I was, you're in the
same church, and active in it. What do you believe about being saved?
Did you ever know there was a way to tell definitely whether or not you
were saved? Because I never did till a few days ago, and I've been
wondering if it was my stupidity, or if it was a lack somewhere in the
teaching? Have you ever thought about it?"

He looked at her as if she had suddenly gone crazy.

"Saved?" he said. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Why, saved from your sins. Fit to go to heaven, you know, when you die.
I have always supposed that you had to be as good as you could to get to
heaven, but you couldn't be sure you were going to get there even then,
till after you died. Didn't you?"

His face softened and he spoke to her as if she were a sick person, or
a very young child.

"My dear! I am afraid the long strain of nursing Mrs. Wetherill, and
then seeing her die, has been too much for your nerves. I thought there
was something the matter with you before you left home. I thought you
did not look well, but I never suspected you were growing morbid. I'm
sorry. I should have been more gentle and tender with you, and tried to
cheer you up. Come home with me now, dearest, and let me try to make
life bright and cheerful for you and help you to forget the fearful
shock you have had."

"Oh, no," said Marjorie looking up brightly, "you don't understand me.
I'm not in the least morbid. In a way I'm happier than I ever was in my
life before, because I've found that I have a Savior from sin, and that
there is a way to know without a doubt that I am saved and needn't go
all my life with that worry even in the back of my mind! It's all
plainly written in the Bible, only I never searched it to find out
before. I was only wondering if you had known about it all the time, or
if you didn't know it yet?"

He studied her face with vexed unresponsive eyes a moment and then he
said coldly:

"So, that's the line of your new family, is it? They are fanatics!"

She sprang up as if he had struck her, and her eyes grew suddenly alien.

"No, Evan, you are mistaken! My family are not fanatics. I do not know
yet whether they even know this or not. Except my brother Ted. He is a
Christian, but he is not a fanatic. But I heard this in a sermon, and
then I read it in the Bible. It is there quite plainly if you will hunt
for it."

She was speaking almost haughtily, as if he were a stranger. Then she
glanced down at her watch. "And now if you will excuse me I will take a
taxi back home. I have something else to do at once, and you will be
going to the flying field soon. I will let you know when I get back to
Chicago. Good-bye!"

She flashed a distant little smile at him and walked out of the dining
room.

He followed her, of course, instantly, his face haughty and indignant,
but he summoned a taxi and put her in.

"You are very headstrong!" he said as he gave her hand a cold hard grip.
"I didn't dream you had it in you to be so hard. When are you planning
to return?"

"I'm not hard, Evan, really. Only you've said some things that were
rather difficult to bear. But we'll talk about that when I get home. I
shall probably come a few days after New Year's."

He watched her gravely as the taxi took her away into the light falling
snow, his own face stern, reproachful. Well, he had done his best. She
would have to go her own gait and learn her lesson.

As the taxi rounded the corner and went away out of sight a wild idea of
taking another and following her, compelling her to listen to him, to
_make_ her accept his love and let him have a right to protect her, came
to him, but his natural restrained nature told him that would be very
bad policy, if he ever hoped to train her to be a sweet submissive wife.
It was only a week till she would return anyhow, and it would be far
better to let her see how she had jeopardized such a love as he intended
to give her. She would come to her senses. She wouldn't keep this up.
She was young and out from under discipline and a little skittish. This
religious line of course was bad for one like Marjorie, with an already
uncomfortably keen conscience, but once she got home he would see to it
that she had something to offset such nonsense. The best thing he could
do now was to take a plane home and get some work done, laying his plans
for a campaign against her return.

All the way home he was planning. It didn't take him long to lay aside
worries when he once decided what line of action he should take. So he
gave his whole energy to thinking out his future, his and Marjorie's.

It was very annoying that Marjorie had acted so about the diamond after
he had taken so much trouble to select it, but he would make her regret
that, and after all, perhaps she intrigued him all the more that she
wasn't too eager. Although he didn't at all like this family complex she
had suddenly acquired. He would have to be very firm indeed about them.
He couldn't have a family hung around his neck, no matter how much she
wanted it. That was why it was such a pity that she had not been willing
to come with him at once. But perhaps, on the other hand, if she stayed
a little longer in such close quarters with them she might get
thoroughly over her infatuation and be but the more ready in future to
ignore them, perhaps even be willing to acknowledge her mistake in
hunting them up at all. It was only to be hoped that she didn't get too
generous while she was with them and endanger any of her fortune. That
man, the father, was probably capable of begging her to let him handle
her property! Well, if worst came to worst and she had done anything
unwise he could get Melbourne to exercise a little well earned authority
over her. Even if she was of age he could profess to have been put in
charge in such a way that his advice must be asked before anything
definite was done with regard to disposal of stocks or anything of that
sort. He would wait until she came home, and if she had been unwise--of
course he would have to be most careful in trying to find out from her
what she had done or she might fly up again--but if she had done more
than give them reasonable presents at Christmas, he would have a very
confidential talk with Melbourne. He was sure he could easily make
Melbourne see his duty in the matter, even if the will didn't give him
an actual authority to control her. Of course it would be best to urge
her to marry him at once. Then he would be able to stop any further
leaks family-ward. Poor child! She knew nothing of finance of course.
But just fancy her getting all up in the air that way at his remarks
about her family. A family she had known only a few days! A family who
lived in a little tucked-up house like that in such a neighborhood!

Well, he would certainly have some training to do when he married her
and it had better begin as soon as possible before she went off on any
more tangents.

But she was beautiful! Yes, she was very beautiful!




XVII


There was an alert strained something in the atmosphere when Marjorie
got back to her father's house that melted at once under her smiles and
her obvious gladness to be with them once more.

"Well?" said Betty coming out of the kitchen with the dishtowel in her
hand, "did he go?"

"Yes, I suppose he did. I didn't stay to see."

"Do you mean you didn't go to see him off? Do you mean he didn't even
bring you back? He let you come in a taxi all alone?"

"Oh, I wouldn't let him come back with me," said Marjorie, omitting the
fact that he had not suggested it. "It was time for him to go to the
flying field."

"But didn't he try to make you go back with him?"

"Why, yes, he suggested it. His mother is having a family Christmas
affair and wanted me to come back and be with them. But I had no idea of
going."

"H'm!" said Betty. "Well, I'm glad you're back, but I certainly didn't
expect it."

The children came flying downstairs with eager eyes.

"Has she come back?" they chorused.

Bud appeared from his room.

"I wonder if you can make my 'lectric train go together? I got 'em all
laid out on the floor in Ted's and my room, but they don't seem ta fit."

"Well, I'll look at it, Bud," said Marjorie smiling. "If I can't Ted
can, and he ought to be coming along home soon now."

"Marjorie, did you really mean you would make some more clothes for my
dolly sometime?" This from Bonnie.

"Mar-jo-wey, vill oo vind up my nauti-mobile?" demanded Sunny. "Betty's
twoss. Her von't any more."

"Poor Betty, I expect she's tired," said Marjorie. "Yes, I'll wind it
up. Wait till I take off my things, and look in on Mother."

"Okay wif me!" said Sunny.

Oh, it was good to get back where she was wanted and see them all glad
to welcome her.

Her mother was asleep so she went down and patiently wound up the
automobile a dozen times for Sunny while she talked with Betty, and
helped straighten up the kitchen. Betty was tired and she showed it. She
had been worrying all the morning, but she didn't let that be known.

"Didn't we have a good time yesterday?" Marjorie said to Betty, thinking
aloud.

"_We_ all did, but I can't see where the good time came in for you,"
said Betty sourly. "You didn't have a single present that amounted to
anything. Next year I'll have something to give to you if I have to sell
the last rag I have."

"Oh, my dear!" said Marjorie twinkling. "Not that! But please, dear, I
had the best time of my life seeing you all open your things. And wasn't
it funny the way we had company come right down upon us that way, and
weren't they nice?"

"They certainly were," said Betty more mollified. "I wondered what
you'd think of that. Your dinner, and your everything, and we asking
outsiders to help eat it."

"Look here, Betty! If you keep on talking that way about things being
mine I'm going to run away and never come back. If that is what you want
to have happen, all right, go right on! But I mean it! You take every
bit of delight out of life talking that way."

"Well, I won't!" said Betty fiercely, winking hard to keep back the
tears. "Only I've been so afraid you wouldn't come back, or if you did
that you'd be running right away back to Chicago again. You know you
only said you'd come to spend Christmas when you came, and I know if you
go Mother is going right back to crying in the night again, and all of
us are going to slump!"

"Well, I haven't any intention of leaving you unless you want to get rid
of me!" declared Marjorie. "I'm only too happy to get a family! Of
course I'll have to go back pretty soon and do something about my house
and furniture and servants and so on, but I shan't stay long. Not if you
want me!"

Betty's fears were quieted for the moment, but that evening after the
children were put to bed they all gathered in the little parlor again,
with the soft lights of the Christmas tree glowing, and talked.

"Marjorie," said her father, "your mother and I have been talking things
over and we feel that there is grave danger, in our love for you, and
our longing to have you always with us, that we shall be unfair to you.
Since seeing the young man who called upon you last evening we realize
more than ever that there are others whom you have known far longer than
you have known us, who perhaps have a prior claim upon you. You have
doubtless a lot of friends in Chicago whom you love and who love you,
and who are in a social life that we have never had and never could
have. We have always lived quietly. We shall probably continue to live
quietly the rest of our lives. We have no great social standing and no
wealth to bring about such standing for you. We have been talking it
over and we do not feel that it would be right for us to allow you to
make so serious a change in your life without careful consideration. You
understand of course that this is not said because we _want_ you to go,
but because we feel that you should feel entirely _free_ to go and live
your own life as you wish."

"Oh, Father!" said Marjorie in dismay, "why should I care for social
standing? I've had it all my life and I never enjoyed it at all. It
means nothing to me!"

"But my dear, have you ever considered what it would mean to be without
it? Your mother and I would far rather lose you than to urge you to stay
with us at the expense of having you sorry afterward, when you are
missing something that you have never had to think about before because
you had it."

"I should never feel sorry about a thing like that!" said Marjorie.

"But you do not realize what it will be to be alienated from all your
friends."

"Father, if a thing like that would alienate friends then they aren't
friends, are they?"

"Well, that is a question, but in some cases it would undoubtedly
alienate them."

"Father, I don't mind," said Marjorie. "There isn't a soul among my old
friends that I would actually break my heart about if I didn't see them
any more ever. Oh, there are some pleasant people whom I like, some of
them I admire, but I've never had many intimate friends, just a few
schoolmates. But most of those live in other places, and some are
married. In any case, I shouldn't see much of them."

"Hasn't it occurred to you, my dear, that you might marry, yourself, and
that if you came to live with us in our quiet circumstances it might
make a difference? Some people might not care to marry a girl under such
circumstances."

"Do you think anyone who felt that way would be worth marrying?"

"Well, there again opinions might differ. I might not think so, but it
might be possible for some very good worthy person to have been so
brought up as to have his point of view entirely different from mine. It
certainly is not what I would choose for you. I would not call it an
ideal marriage, but yet on the other hand a test like that might
alienate someone who had grown very dear to you. Take that young man who
called here yesterday. My dear, I do not think he would care for any of
us. You know him better than I, and he may have some very good
qualities, and be a most estimable person, but I would feel that if you
meant to marry him, living with us might make trouble for you."

Marjorie was very still staring at the soft brightness of the Christmas
tree, seeing the future perhaps in miniature in those bright balls,
trying to work it out.

"Father," she said at last, "is that what you would rather I would do,
go back to Chicago and make a brilliant marriage, instead of coming to
live with my family? Remain alienated from you always?"

There was a choking in her voice and her father reached out his hand as
she sat on a low footstool by her mother's side and laid it on her head
tenderly.

"No, little girl, that is not what we _want_. But we want you to be
truly happy, and to have no regrets if you should decide to come and
live with us. What we want is for you to go back to Chicago for a time
and think the whole matter over, consider it from every possible angle,
and then make your decision. Will you do that?"

Marjorie was still a long time and then she looked up sadly:

"Yes, I'll do it if you will do the same thing. If you will honestly
talk it all over with the other children, and decide whether you want me
or not."

"There is no question of that, daughter. We want you with all our
hearts, every one of us, even the babies. But we are willing to
sacrifice our own wishes for your sake, since we were the cause of
putting you into another environment, we want it to work out in the best
way for you."

"Well, Father, I feel the same way. It really is silly for me to go to
Chicago just to consider that, for I knew almost the first day I landed
here that this was where I wanted to be. But you must realize there are
things for you to consider, too. I think you ought to go over them all
and consider just as you want me to do, and agree to be honest about it,
no matter how much you think it will hurt me."

Her father looked at her mother, and they smiled tenderly over her bowed
head.

"All right!" said her father, "we'll agree if you will."

Marjorie's face brightened.

"Well, then I'd better get it over as quickly as possible. I've got to
go back of course and see to things. I came away without closing up or
packing or anything. I told the servants I'd be back after New Year's or
maybe before, and I gave them a holiday. The chauffeur and his wife are
living over the garage and looking after things. But I can't leave it
that way indefinitely. I'll write them and set a date for coming, and
I'll stay there a week to consider, no more. A week is plenty. If _you_
need more all right, but I shall wait for your answer eagerly. But I did
want to get the Brentwood house cleaned and you moved into it. I would
hate to miss that."

The father's face softened and then grew reserved.

"Well, that's another thing, again, dear. We don't want to do anything
about that, Mother and I, until this other matter is settled. You
needn't think that you will be left out of things, but I've got to get
into a position to be earning something before we go into a more
elaborate style of living, that is, if it seems best for you to stay in
Chicago."

"Father!" said Marjorie in a hurt tone. "You don't think I wanted that
house just for my own comfort, do you?"

"No, dear, I know you didn't. I know your dear generous nature wanted to
make your mother and us all happy and comfortable. And we do appreciate
it with all our hearts. And of course we're deeply grateful, and shall
keep the house and try to get into shape to live there, but we felt just
now it was better to wait and settle this other matter first."

"Father, that house is going to be financed all right whether you let me
come and live with you or not. That was a part of my Christmas gift. And
if you or any of you, are going to keep talking about my money as if it
were poison that you mustn't touch then I'm not coming back. I told
Betty that this afternoon! The only reason I'm glad I have money is so I
can do things for you all. There isn't anyone else who belongs to me."

"Don't you realize that wouldn't be fair to your husband if you should
marry?"

"No, I don't! If someone wants to marry me for my money I don't want
him. I'm not sure I shall ever marry anyway! Anyhow I don't care a thing
about my husband now. He can take what he gets if he ever comes into the
picture."

"All right, little girl! Have it your way. We'll put down our pride and
let you fix the matter of the house the way you like, only we're not
going to move in until we hear from you."

"But will they let you stay here?"

"Yes, I arranged to keep the house till the end of January. Ted went and
paid the rent the day after you came, with some money he says you gave
him. Besides, Mother isn't quite fit to look after moving just now
anyway, and I've got to get out and hunt a job."

"All right!" said Marjorie with a sigh, "but there won't be any harm in
getting some of the cleaning done and having the plumbing and heating
plant gone over and things like that. Then when we are ready to move it
won't take long."

Betty giggled.

"It wouldn't take long anyway," she said. "Have you considered how
little we really have to move? One truck load! You'd better think twice,
Marjorie. It will be quite a come-down to go into a big house and see
our few sticks rattling around in those big rooms, after the luxurious
home you've always had. When you get back to Chicago you'll see the
difference right away from this little old dump."

Marjorie smiled.

"I'll see the difference all right. I wish I could take you all with me,
but I know you wouldn't like that, any of you."

"Dear, you're going to mind giving up that lovely house aren't you? But
it doesn't just seem right for us to go there, if we decide to be
together. Mrs. Wetherill's friends would criticize," said the mother.

"No, of course not!" said Marjorie briskly. "But anyway I like Brentwood
best."

They talked of other things before they went to bed, and had a happy
time together, although they were all quiet, thoughtful. The shadow of
the testing time that was coming had already fallen upon them.

The next morning after the breakfast work was done Marjorie wrote to
the servants. She would be at home two days after New Year's. Then she
had a talk with Betty.

"You and I should go shopping," she said. "I want to watch you buy some
pretty things for yourself, and there are things the children ought to
have."

Betty, nothing loath, consented.

"We can go tomorrow," she said. "Father says his work on those books
will be finished then and he can stay home. Anyway Mother feels so much
better now that she will be all right with the children. If it only
weren't for Bud. He'll drag in a goat or a rabbit or something from the
street and wash it in the dishpan again, I suppose. He does think of the
most impossible things to do."

"We'll talk to Bud and put him on his honor. I'll promise him a crossing
light for his train if he cares for them all beautifully."

"You mustn't begin by giving him everything he wants or he'll be utterly
spoiled," warned Betty.

"No, I won't, but this is a special time, holidays, and Mother not well,
you know."

"Mother won't be really well till this thing is settled," said Betty
with pursed lips.

"No, I suppose not," said Marjorie with a sigh, "but I don't know what
to do. They would have it this way."

"I know," said Betty with a sigh, "I guess it's right, too. You oughtn't
to be tied down by us."

"You don't suppose I feel that way about it, do you?"

"Well, maybe you don't now, but you might sometime."

Marjorie smiled.

"You'll see!"

So they went shopping.

They had a lovely time and bought a lot of fascinating things. Betty
said it was Christmas all over again.

She looked very pretty as she waited for Marjorie who had gone to
another part of the store to get Bud's signal light. She watched the
throng of shoppers, well-dressed and happy, moving by. She was conscious
of looking just as well as any of them. Fur coat and chic little hat,
new gloves, and trim shoes. She had never been so handsomely dressed in
her life. She glowed all over with comfort and satisfaction, and her
cheeks had a pretty pink that was very becoming.

Just then a long, lank, sallow youth with a dare-devil in his eye, and a
loose handsome mouth, brought up standing before Betty and gave her a
long admiring stare.

"Well, some baby-doll!" he exclaimed. "Am I seeing aright? Is this my
one-time co-laborer in Old Jamison's musty office, or is it some
millionaire's daughter?"




XVIII


It was Ellery Aiken, who had been in the office where Betty worked
before her mother was taken sick. It was he to whom Ted had referred as
a "poor sap."

He grasped her hand in a long lingering clasp that expressed as much as
the languishing look in his bold eyes.

Betty was delighted. Here was a chance to show off her fur coat where it
would be appreciated. Here was a chance to impress the young man who
hadn't taken the trouble to come and see her after she moved. She had
never been quite sure that Ted had not had something to do with that.

But now here he was and taking in her changed appearance!

She lifted her chin proudly and smiled, and he let his eyes linger on
her pretty face with that intimate glance that all the girls usually
fell for. A kind of triumph filled Betty's heart. She hadn't lost her
power over him yet.

"Well, beautiful, you're lovelier than ever. Where did you get the glad
rags? Struck oil or anything?" His eyes roved boldly over her garments
as if he had a right.

"How about a date, Baby?" he asked. "Got anything doing tonight or
tomorrow night? How'd you like to do the round with me? Little supper,
dance, and go the rounds of the night clubs? Like to show you something
real."

Betty flushed proudly and her eyes sparkled. Ellery had never asked her
out before. She suspected that it was because her clothes were plain and
worn. But now he wanted her, did he? Well, he would have to ask humbly.
With a coat and hat like that she could afford to be the least bit
haughty.

"Thanks, that's kind of you," she answered trying to feign an
indifference she did not feel. It was going to her head to have
attention. Two young men in one week, even if one had taken her to
church!

Of the two dates she preferred the night clubs.

Of course the Doctor was much higher class than Ellery, who was only a
subordinate with a very small salary, but she had always secretly
yearned to see a real night club, and she had heard Ellery boast of his
intimate acquaintance with them. "I don't just know what free time I
shall have the next few days," she said casually. "My twin sister is
visiting us. I wouldn't feel like leaving her."

"Twin sister!" said the young man deeply impressed. "Lead me to her! Is
she as pretty as you are, Baby?"

"People say we are alike," said Betty with a toss of her head.

"All right, bring her along," said the Lochinvar graciously. "Be
delighted to entertain you both. Just phone me at the office and name
the night and I'll be ready to go."

"Well, I'll talk to my sister," said Betty, flattered as she could be.
Poor Betty had been bitter that she could not have nice things and go
out like other girls.

Marjorie was longer being waited on than she had expected, and young
Ellery's lunch hour was over-past, so he left a minute or two before
Marjorie arrived, but Betty's cheeks were still blazing proudly and her
eyes shining.

"You just missed meeting an old friend of mine," said Betty.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Who was it?"

"Oh, just a fellow that worked in the same office with me on my last
job. Maybe you wouldn't have thought much of him, but he's awfully
good-looking. He's asked us to go out with him some evening this week. I
told him you were here and he's crazy to meet you. Would you like to go?
His name's Ellery Aiken."

Marjorie had a sudden memory of Ted saying "he's a poor sap from the
office where she used to work." Could this be the same one?

"Why, that's very kind of him," she faltered. What should she do? Not
antagonize Betty if she could help it, of course. Maybe she ought to go
along and find out what kind of a person he was. Ted might be
prejudiced, of course. Boys were, sometimes. "Where is he going to take
us?"

"Why, he'll take us somewhere to supper and then the round of the night
clubs," said Betty enthusiastically. "He knows them all. I've heard him
talk about them at the office. He's awfully good-looking, and very
popular--" Betty's knowledge of Ellery's popularity was mainly gleaned
from his own words--"and he knows the ropes all around places. We'll
really see things!"

"Night clubs!" said Marjorie in a dismay she could not keep out of her
voice. "Oh, my dear! Do you go to night clubs?"

"I've never been, but I've always been crazy to see one. Why? Don't you
like them?" She almost glared at Marjorie. Was Marjorie going to
high-hat her now when she had been so pleased that she had a social
advantage to offer her?

"I've never been to a night club of course, but I don't think I would
care to go," she said gently.

"But if you've never been how do you know you don't like them?"

"Why, I shouldn't care to go among people who are drinking," said
Marjorie with a troubled look at her pretty sister.

"Drinking! Why, for pity's sake, you wouldn't have to drink if you
didn't want to, would you? And anyway, everybody drinks in society
today. It isn't courteous not to drink, I've heard."

"_Every_body doesn't drink, Betty, not in the society I know, and we
were well acquainted with some of the nicest people in Chicago. None of
them drank. Of course Mrs. Wetherill was particular about the people she
was intimate with. She just didn't go with that kind of people."

"For pity's sake! Why not? Was she very religious?"

"No, I wouldn't call her religious. She went to church of course, but
she did not say much about religious things. I wish she had said more. I
grew up without much idea of such things except that it was respectable
to go to church. But the churches she picked out were rather cold and
uninteresting. Lovely services and excellent music of course, and nice
people there, but--no, I wouldn't say she was religious. She just didn't
like to be with people who drank. She didn't think it was nice. She
didn't like fast society. We were rather quiet people, you know!"

"For pity's sake, and I've been envying you all the chances you've had
to see life."

"But I don't believe that's life, Betty," said Marjorie thoughtfully.
"The people I've seen who go in for that sort of thing look to me more
as if they'd been seeing death than life. It always fills me full of
horror to see people under the influence of liquor."

"Oh, I don't mean really drunk," said Betty glibly, "people don't need
to drink too much."

"Don't they? I wonder why so many of them do, then!"

"Oh, you don't see so many drunk! They're only a little gay. They say a
little drink or two makes you bright and interesting."

"It makes people utterly silly," said Marjorie, "and entirely
disgusting. I've seen girls coming home from parties, sometimes in the
public railroad station, acting like fools. If they could once have a
picture of how they looked and see it when they were sober, I shouldn't
think they'd ever be able to hold up their heads again!"

"Then you won't go?" said Betty vexedly.

"No, Betty, I couldn't. I wouldn't feel at home in a night club."

"I didn't know you were strait-laced."

"Is that strait-laced? I thought it was only a kind of refinement. Just
plain decency."

"Well, I'm sure most young people do those things today. All except
fanatical people. Religious cranks, you know."

"I guess a good many do," said Marjorie, "but I don't like such things.
I can't help it. I've never been religious or fanatical that I know of.
But I just don't like a letting go of the fine things of life. It seems
to me that people who do things like that are just letting go of
everything worth while."

"Oh, heavens! You sound just for all the world like Ted!" said Betty
almost angrily. "Here I thought I had something nice, to show you a good
time, and you've spoiled it all."

"I'm sorry, Betty, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't go to places like
that. I just wouldn't belong. I wouldn't feel it was the right thing."

Betty sulked almost all the way home, with stormy eyes averted, looking
out the other side of the taxi. At last as they were nearing home
Marjorie said sadly:

"Well, now I suppose you won't want me to come back and live with you,
since you've found out I don't agree with you on the way to have a good
time."

"Oh, forget it!" said Betty unhappily. "I suppose I've been terribly
disagreeable to you again, and you won't want to come back. But I can't
help it, I've always wanted to have a good time, and I've always wanted
to go to a night club."

Marjorie looked at her earnestly.

"I don't believe you'd really like such things, Betty. I think you'd be
disappointed."

"How do you know if you've never been there?"

"I know the kind of people who go to such places. In fact I know
personally a few, that is, they are not my _friends_, but they are
acquaintances, and--well they are not like you, Betty. I think you
really like fine lovely things, not wild hard-boiled places and people
who are just out to do some new crazy thing and find a new thrill, no
matter how dangerous, or unconventional it is. Oh, Betty, dear, I don't
know how to talk about such things, but I just feel they are not the
thing for you and me to do. They are not things that our mother and
father would approve, at least it seems that way to me."

"They belong to another generation," pouted Betty.

"What difference does that make? The world is the same in any
generation, and human life is the same. Good and bad are the same.
Kicking over pleasant helpful rules and running wild doesn't change
results."

Then they reached home, and Betty with a sigh went in and took off her
beautiful finery. That night before they went to sleep she had the grace
to apologize to Marjorie for being disagreeable after Marjorie had got
her so many lovely things.

But Marjorie lay wakeful through several hours, and in her heart began
to pray for her sister, the first prayer she had ever made for anybody
else.

It troubled her, too, that they had found a point of disagreement. What
if they came to live together and found more and more that their ways
differed! Would it make life unhappy for them all? Was this one of the
things that her father and mother wished her to consider before deciding
whether or not to cast in her lot with her family?

But then other families must differ. What did they do? They didn't go
off and live away from home because they differed, at least not many of
them, not nice people. They learned to adjust their differences, and to
help one another to find the right values, and make a happy home for
all. Wasn't that what God had meant people should do? How she would like
to talk it over with Gideon Reaver!

And then she suddenly realized that he was one very strong reason for
her coming to live with her parents. She wanted to hear Gideon preach.
She wanted to learn more of the way of Life. She wanted to be able to
ask him a lot of questions. Not just once, but many times. She wanted to
learn to study the Bible in the right way, the way Ted said was so
interesting.

If it should come about that as her parents suggested, she should meet
with hindrances and find her way hedged from coming back, would she ever
meet one again who could tell her more about the things of God? Perhaps
Gideon Reaver knew of someone in Chicago who talked and thought as he
did. She would ask him.

But no, she would not admit even so much the possibility that she was
not coming back. She must come back. Her heart cried out for her dear
family. She must know them better. And she must somehow try to help
this precious sister Betty, if indeed she was in danger as Ted seemed
to imply. How she wished she could talk it over with the young minister!
That was what a minister was for, to help people about things like that.
He would keep her confidence she was sure. He had such a wonderful face,
so full of peace and yet so strong. He seemed to walk with God so
closely. How she wished she might walk with God and find out daily His
will. She must learn more about it before she went away, for she could
not bear to wait even a week, or a few weeks, without knowing. It seemed
a long time to waste.

The little book that Gideon had brought her was a great comfort, though
she had found very little time in which to even look it over. It had
references to Bible passages to read and study. He probably did not
dream she had no Bible with her. She must get hers out as soon as she
got back to Chicago and begin reading it. That would be another thing
she must ask him, how to study the Bible.

But in this little crowded house with so many daily tasks there was
little time to read, and no place to read alone, nor to pray free from
interruption. And Marjorie was shy about prayer, it was all so new to
her. Oh, she was used to kneeling beside her bed and going through a
routine petition, and that she had done the first night she slept with
Betty, without a thought but that Betty would likely kneel also. It was
the conventional thing she had been brought up to do, and it had meant
nothing but a form until she had heard Gideon Reaver and Ted talk about
being saved. But now prayer had taken on a different look. She wanted
time and quiet to look into the face of the Lord and ask Him what to
pray for. Perhaps the Holy Spirit was already beginning to teach her
things that she had never dreamed of before, things that many an older
Christian had not yet looked into.

It came to her to wonder if God might not Himself do something about
Betty and this Ellery person who seemed to be going to appear on Betty's
path again. She couldn't see anything else she could do immediately but
ask God about it. It wouldn't do to tell even Ted, for he might talk to
Betty and make her angry and do more harm than good. Brothers did that
sometimes, though Ted seemed to be unusually wise for his years.

She fell asleep at last thinking of that happy Christmas day, and how
well all of them seemed to fit together. What nice friends those two
young men had been, what delightful company! And what a pity that Evan
hadn't been able to see how fine and wonderful they all were! Evan had
fine things about him too, but in another line. Would she ever be able
to make him understand the great things that had come to her life
through the last few days? How utterly he had misunderstood her when she
had tried to ask him about being saved. Was she ever going to feel
toward Evan as she ought to feel if she were going to marry him? Well,
she was still not ready to face that question. She must put it off till
she got back home and then she would take time from everything and
settle once and for all whether she could ever love Evan Brower. At
present it seemed such a troublesome question. And yet Evan was fine and
good and respectable, and her foster mother would have been altogether
pleased with such a match. That her own father and mother would not
approve him she somehow knew without asking. Oh, why did Evan have to
act so disagreeable when he came here on Christmas Day? Why did he have
to come then anyway, just when they were having such a wonderful time,
and Heaven seemed so near? He had made a false note, a harsh jarring
note in the harmony of the occasion!

Oh, if Evan could only be more like those other two! Like the young
minister!

And then she fell asleep and dreamed that it was Gideon Reaver who had
sat across from her at the hotel table and handed her the blue diamond
and watched her while she opened the box. Even in her dream a thrill of
joy went through her heart. And then in the dream they seemed to lose
the blue diamond and could not find it, but it didn't matter. They were
happy even without it.

When she awoke in the morning the first part of the dream was vivid, and
the thrill in her heart was there whenever she thought of it, but it was
Gideon Reaver's eyes who looked into hers above the blue diamond, and
not Evan Brower's eyes, and that troubled her. She must not allow her
thoughts to wander off to absurd things like that. As if Gideon Reaver
had any special interest in her, a stranger, to offer her diamonds, and
touch her hands with that strange wonderful thrill. It was Evan Brower
who had offered the diamond, and Evan Brower and his pleas whom she
would have to face when she got back to Chicago.

But meantime, she could not and would not consider him. And she must put
away all thoughts of that ridiculous dream or else she would never be
able to face Gideon Reaver again and ask him the questions about things
she so longed to understand. It seemed a profanation to approach him
even in her thoughts, in any more intimate way. A man like that was set
apart to holy things. His love would be a wonderful treasure to possess,
but it was not to be sought after even in thought. The girl whom such a
man would love would not dream of presuming to hope for his love. It was
something he must bestow, it was not to be won by human arts.

So she put it by, and although she could not help the thoughts
recurring, she decided she could help entertaining them, and she was
determined to keep this friendship upon a sane, healthy footing. It was
a privilege just to have met him, and to have learned at his feet.

So the morning came and Marjorie arose with a gladness in her heart that
promised better things even through a perplexing way.




XIX


But Betty had slipped down to the store on some pretext a little after
nine that morning and telephoned Ellery Aiken in the office. She told
him that her sister could not come and therefore she would not be able
to. But she had finally let him persuade her that she could come for
just a little while. He told her that he wanted to show her a good time,
and had some friends he knew she would like to meet.

She came back to the house with a shamefaced look, and worked madly all
day doing little extras for everybody, to make up for what she meant to
do that evening.

After the dishes were done that night she hurried upstairs and came down
in the pretty velvet dress that Marjorie had bought her. She had been
careful to wait until Ted had gone out and her father was safely
upstairs with her mother, who was still supposed to rest a good deal and
go to bed very early.

Marjorie looked up surprised.

"How lovely you look, dear? Are you going out?"

"Why, yes," said Betty apologetically, "I have to, just a little while.
I'm sorry to go when you have so few nights left, but I really couldn't
get out of it very well. But I'll be home early. However, don't you sit
up for me if you are tired. Good-bye. I'm enjoying my pretty clothes a
lot."

Marjorie looked after her in dismay, her heart sinking. Was she really
going out with that young man Aiken? Going to the night clubs after all?
But--who had come for her? The doorbell hadn't rung.

Marjorie slipped into the dark parlor and looked out the window. A
shabby little runabout was just pulling away from the door. Betty must
have been watching for him out the window and gone down at once. They
must have had an agreement that he would not ring the bell. She turned
from the window and went sadly back to the children whom she was about
to take up to bed when Betty came down. She must pray a lot this
evening. She wished Ted was at home to help. Or, should she tell Ted?
What could he do anyway if he was here? Betty was gone! Poor foolish
Betty!

Meantime Betty was discovering that Ellery Aiken was cross at her for
not bringing her sister. He wanted to see her. Ellery was great for new
girls. Also he sometimes got commissions from men he knew for bringing
new attractive girls for the evening, and his exchequer was low just
now.

Betty was disappointed too in the car he had brought. He had told her he
had the use of a new car, but this one sounded like an old tin pan as it
rattled along. Somehow she began to suspect that the evening was going
to be as cheap as the car. But she roused herself to throw off her
conscience and forget her discomfort at the way she had stolen out and
what Marjorie would think about her, and tried to be gay.

It had never seemed to her before that Ellery was coarse. She had always
thought him extremely amusing, but tonight he seemed to select the most
questionable stories on his list to tell her, and when she did not
respond warmly to his mirth he looked at her sharply.

"What's the matter, Baby? Getting high-hat with your glad rags? You
better get warmed up or you won't go down a little bit where I'm taking
you. I've got a fella wants ta meet ya, some swell! Got millions! Always
ready ta spend it on the right kind of a girl. But you gotta be a little
interested when he talks. You can't just sit around like a marvelous
icicle all the evening. You've gotta get busy and be conversational if
you wantta be popular."

Betty was suddenly a little frightened.

"I thought I was going with you, Ellery. I didn't know there were other
men along. Perhaps I wouldn't care to meet them!"

"Wouldn't care to meet 'em! What's gettin' ya? What-cha goin' for, then?
You didn't suppose we were just goin' ta sit around and hold hands all
the evening together, did ya? I've got other girls ta dance with. I
can't just stay with you, ya know."

Ellery didn't state that he was paid by the club to dance with other
girls, but that was really the case.

Betty was still a long time. The little tin car was rattling along at a
lively pace, screeching its horn at every crossing. Ellery was late.
Betty had been slow in coming down in answer to his signal. She had
waited to be sure that her mother's door was shut before she slipped
down the stairs. Now she began to be greatly troubled. At last she said
a trifle haughtily.

"I think perhaps you'd better take me home again, Ellery. I don't think
I care to go, after all."

"Aw, you gettin' cold feet, are you? But you don't get out of it now,
Baby. I haven't time to run you back and forth while you change your
mind a dozen times. Besides, I promised to bring this guy a pretty girl,
prettiest girl he's ever seen, and I've got to deliver the goods."

"But I don't care to go with a stranger, Ellery!" she cried aghast. "I
had no idea--"

Ellery saw that he was going to have trouble and he had no time for
that, so he set himself to soothe her.

"Now, Baby, don't you worry! It's going to be marvelous! You said you
wanted ta see the night clubs and I've arranged to give you an eyeful.
You just trust me and I'll see you through the evening. B'lieve me
you'll be glad you did! It isn't every gal that will get all the
attention I'm aiming to have for you. You're some sweetie! I'm proud to
be escorting ya! Of course I appreciate your wanting to be with me
exclusive, but it can't be done. You're expected to be social and
affable and all that, you know. And we have ta be like the rest. But
you'll like it, Baby, b'lieve me! You take my word for it, you'll like
it!"

Betty felt a strange cold draught about her heart. She was growing more
and more frightened. Ellery strung his long arm around her shoulders and
drew her up close to him, but she drew away again and sat up very
straight.

"'S the matter, Babe? Ain't sore, are ya?" he said as he brought the car
up in front of a sordid looking place. Betty had expected to see glitter
in a night club, but this place looked fairly grubby, the more so as
they entered. It was blue with smoke. This was a different world, right
enough. She shrank back at the door, but he pushed her forward.

"Right over here, Baby! Got a table reserved for four. Nice party! Other
girl's real refined. You'll like her. Sit down. We'll have a little
cocktail to start things going and get us warmed up."

Betty sat down fearfully and looked about her. She didn't care for the
look of the men in the place. Surely this could not be one of the nicer
places. She met bold intimate glances appraising her, and shrank in her
soul. The women wore more make-up than she liked. It gave them a hard
look. Perhaps the haze of smoke that hung over everything emphasized it.

Ellery ordered cocktails, and when they came Betty tried to keep her
hand from trembling as she raised the glass to her lips. She must not
let Ellery see that this was her first taste of liquor.

But the fumes of it were anything but pleasant to her unspoiled senses,
and she didn't care particularly for the taste. She kept thinking of
what Marjorie had said about drinking. Still, she kept taking little
sips, scarcely more than touching her lips to the glass sometimes. She
didn't like the strange stinging sensation. It frightened her. It sent a
tingling down her arms and quickened her heart beats.

Ellery tossed his off, and ordered another, chided her for being so
abstemious.

"Plenty more where this came from, Babe!" he said jovially, so loud that
people at the other tables heard him and laughed. They called out
remarks over her head. He knew everybody.

They began to come over to be introduced, and Betty didn't feel at home
among them. They were of another world. She felt herself growing
haughty. Ellery kidded her about it.

"You're too high-hat, Betts!" he shouted genially. "Just because you've
got a new fur coat doesn't crown you queen!"

Ellery had finished his drink now and reached over and took her glass.

"Here, I'll finish yours and you can get a fresh glass. Waiter, here,
double it for us both!"

But Ellery was not himself. He must have been drinking before he came
for her. His loud excited voice seemed to rasp through her sensitive
nerves.

Then the other two of the party arrived. A small dark girl with no back
to her dress. She had vivid coloring, and her black hair was plastered
wickedly to her head with points on her cheeks. She looked Betty over
and raised what eyebrows she had left, pursing her lips amusedly. Betty
felt herself weighed and found wanting. It made her angry. What was this
girl?

The man with her was overweight with a bulging stomach and heavy bags
under his small eyes. But the eyes twinkled when they saw Betty. He kept
them on her for a full minute and she felt as if he had seen into her
soul. She barely kept herself from shuddering. She loathed him. He wore
an enormous diamond on his little finger. Another in his tie. His lips
were thick and fulsome.

More drinks were brought, and some food. But Betty had no wish for food
now, and she lifted her glass only now and then to keep up a semblance
of drinking so they would not call attention to her. The floor show that
was presently put on was almost a relief to Betty, though in spite of
its glitter she was soon disgusted with the girls. In her guarded life
she had never seen such girls close by before. But the show did not take
the eyes of the men from herself, and she was fairly sickened by the
gloating in their faces as they watched.

After the show Ellery asked the other girl if she would like to dance
and she arose and floated off with her head on his breast, her cheek to
his, till they disappeared in the maze of tables.

Left alone with the other man Betty was terribly frightened. But she
mustn't let him see it, of course. She must try to think of something to
talk about until Ellery came back, and then she would demand that he
take her home at once. But she couldn't think of a thing to say, and the
man was looking at her. She hated that. Of course looks, just _looks_,
couldn't really _hurt_ you, but she felt so ashamed to be sitting
there! How terrible if her father, or Ted could see her!

But she must shake this feeling off. Perhaps it only came from hearing
Marjorie talk. She had wanted a try at this and now she was getting it,
she must accredit herself well. Somehow she must get out of here, and
never, never let her family know what she had gone through.

The man asked her to dance, but she shook her head.

"Thank you, no, I don't feel like dancing," she said languidly.

He offered her cigarettes but she shook her head.

He looked at her puzzled.

"What are you, anyway? Don't wantta dance, don't wantta smoke, don't
wantta drink. Guess you're a kind of a frost, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Betty trying to keep her lips from trembling, "that's what I
am, a frost! That's what I'm trying to be--a frost!"

He gave her another puzzled look.

"You're deep! That's what you are, you're deep!" he decided.

"Yes," said Betty quickly, "I'm deep. I'm deep water frozen over!"

"Well," said the man lifting his weight and moving his chair nearer to
her, "I've got to look into this. I've got to get to the bottom of this
and melt the ice. Let's have a friendly little drink. Here, try my
glass. Make it all the better kick for me to drink after you." To her
horror his massive arm came out around her shoulders and he lifted his
own glass to her lips.

She was on the point of screaming, but she cast a quick wild look about
her and realized that she was on her own. This was the sort of thing
that was common in this joint. It certainly wasn't the kind of night
club she had dreamed about. But whatever it was she must work her own
way out, for it was evident nobody else, not even Ellery, was going to
help her out. She must use her wits, and she wouldn't get herself
anywhere by screaming either.

She suddenly slid her chair away from the encircling arm and the offered
glass, and looked at the man with what she frantically hoped was a
bright smile.

"I'll tell you what you can do," she said with a shaky little voice that
was trying to be gay, "you go and find Ellery Aiken for me and tell him
I've been taken sick. Tell him I want him right away!"

He stared at her a minute and laughed.

"Is thish some joke?" he asked. He wasn't exceedingly keen or he would
have seen that she was frightened. But then he had been drinking freely
and he was somewhat foggy in his perceptions.

"No!" she said sharply. "It's true! I'm sick! Get Ellery for me quick!"

He studied her stupidly another minute and then he said:

"All rightie, darling, if you shay its sho it musht be sho! I'll do my
besht!" He got up and tottered off, but then to her horror he turned
back again and leaning over her chair said:

"You wouldn't razyer I'd take you home, m'shelf?"

"No, thank you!" she said drawing a deep breath and feeling suddenly
faint. The world seemed whirling under her.

But he went off and was lost among the dancers.

He was gone a long time, but she wasn't alone. The informality of the
place amazed her. Other men came and sat at her table, tried to get her
to dance, to smoke, to drink, and it seemed hours before she finally saw
Ellery steering toward her.

She had done her best with the ring of admirers that had come, laughed
and talked with them in a dizzy whirl of nothings, told them all she
was too tired to dance, and didn't want to drink or smoke. The truth was
she was afraid. Terribly afraid. This wasn't the kind of thing she had
envisioned when she had longed to go about to the night clubs. This must
be a very low-down resort indeed. Her estimate of Ellery had gone down a
good deal, yet she was glad to see his familiar form wending its way
toward her, even though unsteadily.

"Wha's the matter, Baby? Didn'ya like the millionaire I got for ya,
darling? Poor fish been taking too many drinks. I'll get ya 'nuther
fella!"

"No, no! Ellery. I want to go home! I'm sick!" she shuddered and
certainly did look sick.

"Aw, Baby! It isn't time ta go home. Not quite half past one yet! Never
go home that soon! Take 'nuther drink, Baby, an' see if ya won't feel
better. Get ya a nice drink!"

"No!" said Betty sharply. "Ellery, if you don't take me home at once
I'll go by myself, and I'll tell the people at the office what kind of a
place you brought me to!"

"Aw, Baby! Don't get harsh with me! I'm your own dear Ellery! You
wouldn't do that to me! Come on, Baby! Have it your own way then. We'll
go home!"

She was glad she had insisted on keeping her coat with her when they
came in. Ellery had a terrible time trying to find his overcoat and hat
at the checking room, and finally went off with one that didn't belong
to him, but she didn't realize until she was down in the car and they
were starting off, that Ellery was really drunk. She wasn't used to
drunken men. She didn't know what strange things they could do. But when
she saw the car start off with a leap and a shock she was more
frightened than she had ever been in her life. She wished that she had
stolen away without Ellery, after the fat man had left her. She might
have had a terrible time in finding her way out of this strange part of
the city, but somewhere she could have found a policeman to direct her.
She would have had to walk home, for she had not thought to bring any
money with her when she came, but anything would have been better than
this!

Oh, if she could only get out and run away from this maniac. He was
driving like mad, whirling around corners, into alleys and backing out
again. The car lurched, and rode over a curbstone, jolting down again,
and on around another corner. She dared not ask him if he knew where he
was going. She had no knowledge herself of the part of town where they
were now.

At last he came up with a jerk under a street sign.

"You read that shine fer me, Baby!" he cajoled. "Hurts my eyes ta read
in this light. Is that Ahster Street? We wanta go ta Ahster Street,
don't we?"

At last in her terror she begged him to let her out.

"I can easily walk from here," she said, trying to speak pleasantly,
though her heart was beating wildly.

"Na, na, can't let ya out. Never let a lady down that way!" said the
drunken knight. "We'll jusht drive a little farther. P'raps we'll find
Ahster Street! Never let a lady out on streetsh at this time a-night.
I'm a gentleman if I am drunk!"

He put his foot on the starter and they whirled away like a streak
again, Betty trying to still the wild beating of her heart and wishing
she knew how to pray!

They were going at such a wild pace now that Betty felt that every
moment might be her last. Past red lights they dashed on, and the tears
rolled down Betty's cheeks as she gripped the seat and tried to keep her
balance.

There were not many cars on the road so late, else they must have come
to disaster almost at once. But perhaps some guardian angel was at work
protecting Betty.

They had gone a long way. Betty could not tell in the darkness now just
where they were, but she steadied her voice and cried out.

"Here! Here! Isn't this Aster Street? Yes, let's stop here! This will do
nicely."

"This it? Okay by me! Let's just park awhile an' get a little sleep,
Baby!" said the gallant knight, bringing his car up to the curb with
such a flourish that he mounted the curb and headed right into the pole
that held the street sign.

"Whoa, there, Lizzie!" he called out as he swayed in his seat and put on
the brakes. "Pardon me, shir! Shorry ta run ya down, but couldn't be
helped. Gotta get a l'il shleep!"

Betty thought the end was coming, and she had a wild thought of her
mother, wondering who would tell her. The next second came the shock and
she was thrown to her knees with her head against the dashboard of the
car, stunned for the minute. Then her senses returned and she could hear
Ellery talking, apologizing over and over to the sign post.

"Didn't mean ta disturb ya, shir, just hadta get a little rest. Sure,
I'm okay. Not hurt. Fresh as a rose an' twicesh as happy!" and Ellery
slumped down in his corner and settled himself for a nap.

But Betty, frightened and bruised and trembling, managed to get the car
door open and stumble out to the street.

She looked wildly back at Ellery, but he was unconscious of her
presence. Already he was drawing long loud breaths in a drunken sleep.
Then she fled up the dark street. She did not know where she was, and
her legs under her were very shaky, but she must get away before Ellery
came to himself and realized that she had gone. She was more afraid of
him now than of any death that could come to her.

Keith Sheridan coming home that evening from a hard drive which had
taken him into the country on a road that had a long rough detour,
turned into the city at last with a sign of relief. He was tired out and
needed a good night's rest. He had done two operations that day, and had
a patient who was going to die, and his nerves were on edge.

As he turned a corner he noticed a car ahead of him being crazily
driven, turning a corner on two wheels and tearing madly away. A block
farther on the same car came around another corner straight at him, and
he barely avoided a collision. He swerved away from the catastrophe and
looked ahead to where the car was dashing up on the sidewalk. He heard
the crash of the pole and the splintered glass of a windshield, heard a
girl's voice cry out in fear, and then silence!

Quickly he drove to the spot to see if anyone was hurt. He stopped his
car and listened. He heard a man talking, but there seemed to be no
girl, and he was about to drive on, when suddenly he saw a stealthy form
like a shadow slip out the other door of the car and topple up the
street in the shadow of the houses.

He started his car slowly again and followed, watching. It was a woman!
Was there something familiar about the way she walked? No, she was
almost staggering. She must be drunk! And yet--maybe it was someone in
distress. He drove his car slowly and followed for another block.

And now Betty was aware of a car, and tried to hurry faster. Blindly she
ran, then caught her toe in a brick of the pavement and fell prostrate.

For a minute the breath was knocked from her body so that she thought
she was dying, and then she felt someone lift her, and she froze with
horror again. Had Ellery run after her and caught her? Oh, she wished
that she had died! Rather anything than to be in his power again.

The doctor lifted her very tenderly and looked into her face, gently
lifted one of her eyelids, and in the flare of a street light Betty
suddenly recognized him.

"Oh, Doctor, Doctor, you won't tell Mother, will you?" she gasped. "It
would kill Mother to know I had done this!" And suddenly Betty burst
into a flood of tears and buried her face in the breast of the doctor's
big fur-lined overcoat.

"Betty! Is it you, dear child!" The doctor's voice was very tender, and
he held her close in his arms an instant looking quickly up and down the
street. Not a soul in sight that minute, but a car was coming around the
second corner above.

He quickly strode with her in his arms to his car, and put her in,
shutting the door quickly and hurrying around to get in himself and
start the car. He rounded the next corner and drove straight ahead for
several blocks. Then he stopped in a quiet street and reaching out drew
the still sobbing Betty closer to him putting her head down on his
shoulder comfortably.

"You won't tell Mother!" pleaded Betty between the sobs.

"No, of course not, dear child! Now tell me all about it!"

"Oh--I went out--with a young man from the office.--I thought he was all
right--He was going to take me to a night club!" Betty was talking very
fast, trying to get her breath and tell a coherent story, but her sobs
interrupted her.

"He took me--to a dreadful place! It was awful! Everybody was drunk!--I
was frightened. I made him bring me home. But I found he was drunk too!
He wouldn't stop--and let me out--!"

She gave way in another burst of tears, and he put both arms about her
and held her close again, as if he were comforting a little child.

"Oh, I'm so--so--glad you came! I thought he was--chasing--me!"

Keith Sheridan's face suddenly went white and his lips touched for an
instant the hot wet lashes that lay on the wet cheeks.

"_And so am I glad!_" he whispered.

Then suddenly he drew his handkerchief from his inside pocket and softly
patted her face dry from the tears.

"There," he said in a matter-of-fact voice, "now let's get going! The
sooner we get home the less for anybody to worry about. No, of course we
won't tell Mother. Now, put your head down on my shoulder and rest and
forget it. It's going to be all right. I'd like to get out and whale
that friend of yours, but I guess I'd better confine my efforts to
getting you home. If he's only drunk he can look after himself. I heard
him talking to the sign post as I came by. Now, cheer up, little girl,
and don't try to talk about it. I'll fix things up at home for you.
Straighten up your face and put on a grin and we'll face 'em out. Ready?
Here we are at Aster Street!"

He helped her out most tenderly and went up the steps with her.

The door opened at once and a much scared Ted stood behind it, white
with anxiety. Marjorie in a dark robe stood just behind him and their
relief when they saw the doctor was almost amusing.

"I brought her home. I hope you didn't worry," the doctor said
comically. "She preferred my company to the fellow she started out with,
and the pleasure was all mine. I hope I haven't worried you by keeping
her out so long. I'll promise never to do so again. But she's been a
little worried and I guess you'd better put her right to bed and not ask
her questions tonight. She's pretty tired."

"Okay!" said Ted gravely, his face relaxing from its anxious strain.
And Marjorie put her arm around her sister and led her upstairs softly.
The father and mother were sound asleep with the door shut and hadn't
heard a thing.

Betty closed the door softly, faced around toward her sister, and spoke
in a low shamed tone:

"Marjorie, I've got to tell you that you were right, and I'm ashamed! I
don't know whether it was a regular night club I went to or not, but
even if it wasn't, even if night clubs are a great deal different from
that one, I _never_ want to see one as long as I live! And I never want
to see Ellery Aiken again either! I'm cured! And I want you to forgive
me for the way I went away and left you, and for the hateful things I
said to you."

Marjorie put her arms around her sister and kissed her lovingly.

"You precious sister! There wasn't anything to forgive. I'm only so
thankful you are safe home again. Now, don't think another thing about
it tonight. Get to sleep as soon as you can."




XX


They were just sitting down to breakfast the next morning when a
messenger came to the front door with a special delivery letter for Mr.
Gay.

His hand trembled as he took the letter which Betty handed him, and the
family were utterly still while he opened it. He couldn't understand who
would be writing him an emergency letter unless those sharks who took
his house away from him before were trying to work some trick again.
Marjorie noticed that he was deadly white as he pulled the letter out of
its envelope.

Then, as he read, a new look dawned on his face. A look of self-respect
in place of the dejection that had been making the corners of his mouth
droop habitually.

At last he laid it down on the table and looked at them all and they saw
a light in his eyes, and then the light grew till it spread over his
whole face.

"Read it, Mother," he said, his voice husky with feeling as he handed
the letter over to his wife. "Read it aloud!" and there was a ring of
triumph and relief in his voice.

The letter head was of a well known and respected firm in the city.

     "Mr. George Gay,
     1465 Aster Street,
     City.

     My dear Mr. Gay:

     Having known of your connection with the former firm of Hamilton,
     McIvor and Company, and being in need of the right man to head our
     accounting department, we are writing to know whether you are at
     present open for a position, and whether you would like to come to
     our office any time this week between the hours of two-thirty and
     four to talk over our suggestions?

     Hoping to hear from you at your earliest convenience,

     Very truly yours,

     Martin Heath & Company."

Mr. Gay's face was a study in deepening joy as he listened to his wife
pronounce the words he had just read, scarcely crediting the evidence of
his own eyes and ears.

"Oh! George!" His wife beamed at him, a look such as she must have given
him on her wedding day, a look so full of trust and triumph that at last
his ability had received recognition.

"Oh, Father!" said Betty her face all shining with relief and happiness.

Marjorie realized that she hadn't understood till then how terrible it
had been for her father, and also for the others, to have the beloved
father out of a job. Her own heart was throbbing with gladness too. But
she mustn't let them see how relieved she was, how thankful to the two
lawyers who had helped to bring this about!

In due time the letter was passed to her to read and she rejoiced with
the others, noting secretly how tactfully the letter was written, so as
not to humiliate him as a man who was out of work, but bidding him to a
place of honor, as one who had been accustomed to that place with
others. It couldn't have been better. Sometime she would hunt up that
lawyer Mr. Bryant, and thank him for his tact and skill in performing so
perfectly a delicate task.

"And now," said the mother, when they had all got their breath again
after their excitement, "you certainly will have to go downtown this
morning the first thing and get yourself some new clothes. You simply
can't present yourself the way you are. And now that you have the
prospect of a position it needn't hurt your pride any longer."

Mr. Gay turned happy eyes on his eager wife:

"But you must remember, my dear, that I haven't got the position yet.
Just getting a bid to come and talk about it may not mean a thing in the
world. They may have seventeen others doing the same thing."

"That's all right, Father," spoke up Marjorie eagerly, "but you won't
stand as much chance shabby, as you would if you were neatly dressed.
Now, please, dear Father, use that check I gave you the other day. Use
it now this morning. If it makes you feel any better you can pay me back
the day you get to be a millionaire!"

"Fat chance!" said Ted, coming in the back door hungry as a bear, from
his paper route.

They all laughed and then they had to tell Ted, and talk it all over
again, till Betty roused to the toast and coffee and scrambled eggs that
were getting cold, and they all began to eat. Mr. Gay ate hastily,
seeming to enjoy every mouthful, and rose before the rest were through:

"Now, if you will excuse me," he said, "I'll run down to the city and
get those new clothes that you all insist upon, and then I'm going right
over to Martin Heath's. I'm not letting any grass grow under my feet--I
mean snow."

"Get something ready-made, George," advised his wife, "and put it on at
the store. You can send your old things up. Don't think of going without
decent clothes."

"That's what I'm going to do," said Mr. Gay briskly, grinning at them
all as he left the room and went upstairs.

When Mr. Gay had left for the city and Ted had gone on his busy way the
house was tense with excitement.

"How are we ever to get through the day till he gets back?" said Betty,
dropping down in a chair and gripping her hands together tightly till
the knuckles showed white.

"Oh," said Marjorie quickly, "we have a lot to do! Mother is going to
spend the morning writing out a list of things that need to be bought
for the children right away, with full directions. And then she's to
write another list of things that must be done before we move. Anything
that has to be bought especially. I don't believe she ought to do much
shopping herself, do you? In these days when things can be returned if
they are not satisfactory you and I surely can buy what she wants.

"And while you are doing that, Mother, Betty and I are going to take a
run out to Brentwood and look things over," went on Marjorie. "I want to
see that plumber I had Ted send there to give an estimate for making
everything ship-shape and ready for immediate use. The man from the gas
company will be there this morning too. I telephoned yesterday. And a
man to put in the telephone. Do you think you would mind being here with
the children for a couple of hours? We thought we would take Bud with
us. Then you won't have so much confusion."

Betty's face was bright with joy, and Bud shouted, "Oh Boy! I'm going
back ta Brentwood!"

Mrs. Gay smiled her willingness.

"Only, dear, I don't think you ought to plan those things for us now
when you're going to Chicago so soon. I'm getting much better and will
be able to look after things myself pretty soon."

"So you shall, Mother, but I'm having the time of my life spending money
just now, and if I left it all to you, you wouldn't spend any, you
dear!" So she kissed her mother and she and Betty and Bud went joyously
on their way.

Such a happy morning as they had! Betty stood in what had once been her
own room at Brentwood and looked about like one who had been shut out of
heaven for a long time and had just got back again!

"To think that your coming meant this, too, as well as yourself!" she
exclaimed. "But say, Mother wanted me to find out which room you liked
the best. She thought maybe you and I would like these connecting ones!
That is--but I forgot--I mean, in case you don't decide to stay in
Chicago!"

"Keep on forgetting, Betty!" said Marjorie. "That is all what the boys
call bologny! I promised to go back and think it over, but I know now
just as well as I will at the end of my week of probation what the
answer will be. You don't think I could have a taste of a lovely big
family like ours, and then want to go back to living alone, do you?"

Betty's face was still sober.

"But--Mother says you might get married, you know!"

"Well, not at present, sister mine, anyway!" laughed Marjorie.

"Oh, but you can't tell what might happen to change your mind!"

"Yes," put in Bud who had strayed into the room where they stood, "if
that big mutt that sent you those pair-of-sites should put in his
stuck-up tongue you can't tell what she'll do!"

"Buddie! What would Mother say if she heard you talk like that?"

"Well, I don't care, he _is_ a mutt! I heard Ted say so!" defended Bud.
"Say, Betty, would there be any reason why I couldn't set up my
'lectric train in the attic here? That would make a swell place, and I
could add to it bime-by and everything."

"Grand!" said Marjorie. "Let's go look!"

So the subject was dropped.

"After you're gone to Chicago, Marjorie," said Betty as they stood
taking a last look around before they started home, "I'm going to get
Ted to make a fire in the heater, and I'm coming up here with Bud every
day and scrub floors and wash windows."

"That's too hard work for you, Betty, with all you have to do at home,"
said Marjorie, "I told Ted to look up a professional house cleaning firm
and we'll have them clean the whole place. But I was thinking perhaps
you ought to come up every day and see that they are doing it right. You
and Ted could come, and be sure every spot was being cared for just
right."

"That would be great. But why waste money on house cleaning? If I can do
anything I can do that."

"You would just get sick, dear. It is a very large house. And besides,
for the present you have all the housework in Aster Street till Mother
is perfectly well and can help. I aim to put the house in your hands
ready for use. Then you'll find plenty of cleaning after that!"

"You're simply swell!" said Betty with a sigh of relief. "Will I ever
get rich so I can do things for you?"

"Perhaps," smiled Marjorie, "but what difference does it make? We'll
have a good time anyway!"

When they got back they found their mother had the lists all ready.

"Tomorrow we'll go shopping!" said Marjorie.

There had been no word as yet from Mr. Gay, and of course the strain was
still on. The wife went quietly on saying nothing about it, but they
were all thinking of him.

"We gotta telephone already, up ta Brentwood," remarked Bud. "If we was
up there now he could telephone and let us know what happened sooner."

"Well, we aren't," smiled his mother, "but it is going to be nice to
have a telephone again, although, dear, we could easily have gotten
along without that."

Marjorie smiled.

"I shouldn't be happy about you a minute, Mother dear, unless there was
a telephone. I only wish we had one here while I'm gone. Then it
wouldn't be so bad to leave you alone. That was one reason why I wanted
you to move at once. But I guess it is better to wait till I get back."

"Yes, dear,--if you come back!"

"I'm coming back!" said Marjorie with firmly set lips and a little
twinkle of a smile. "And now, Mother, there's something I need your
advice about. Will you promise to tell me honestly what you think I
ought to do about something in Chicago?"

The mother gave her a quick startled look. Was this to be about the
aristocratic insolent young man who came on Christmas Day?

"It's about my furniture, Mother," went on Marjorie, "the Wetherill
furniture! The lawyer said he had a good offer for the house, and if I
sell it, as I probably shall--for anyhow, whatever I did, I couldn't
live in a great barracks alone with a retinue of servants--so if I sell
it, what about the furniture? It's beautiful furniture, Mother, fine old
walnut and mahogany, some of it very rare, some of it antique. I've
always admired it. Some of it I wouldn't like to part with. All of it is
very lovely. My piano, too. What shall I do, put it in storage out
there, or over here? Or sell it somewhere, or give it away? I don't
imagine it would bring much at a sale,--except the antiques,--and those
are the ones I like the best. Mother, if I should live with you, would
you hate to have me bring any of it into your house?"

"Hate!" said Betty who was listening wide-eyed, "I should say not! Why,
Marjorie, Mother has done nothing else since she went to Chicago but
tell us how wonderfully that house was furnished. When she talked about
getting new things for Brentwood she would always say 'I'd like to get a
couch and chairs like those Mrs. Wetherill had! They were wonderful!'"

"Betty, dear!" reproached her mother.

"Well, you did, Mother. You gave us the idea that there wasn't anything
more beautiful in the world than the furnishings of that house."

"Well, I felt that way," said the mother, "but I was never envious. It
just seemed to me that it was the most ideal way for a house to be
furnished one could ever have."

"Yes, but, Mother, that's not saying you would want another woman's
furniture in your own home. We could sell these things and buy some
more, letting you pick out just what you want," said Marjorie.

"Why, my dear, I don't think I have any feeling against those things. In
fact it would be lovely to live amongst them. They aren't hers, any
more, they are yours, as you said about your money. It would be foolish
to have a dislike for them. I would be delighted to have them in the
house and enjoy them. I mean that, dear! And if there is anything that
you want to put away to keep, if you don't think you want to use it now,
there is plenty of room to store great quantities of furniture over the
garage at Brentwood. It would be foolish for you to pay storage! _If_
you come, of course!"

"Yes, _if_ I come," smiled Marjorie. "Mother dear, I'm thinking that it
will all rest in your hands whether I come or stay there. Because,
remember, you promised to write the truth to me too after you have
thought it over. As for me I can't see that my mind will change a
particle."

Then suddenly they heard Mr. Gay's step at the door and all else was
forgotten.

He came in with a shining face.

"Well," he said, "I'm hired! Isn't is great? It isn't a job, it's a
position. I'm head of the accounting department. I can't understand how
it came about. It must be a miracle. But I feel as if I wanted to walk
more softly before God all the rest of the days of my life because of
this! I--haven't--served the Lord the way I started out to do when I was
young. That's going to be different now!"

Ted had come in a few minutes before and now he stood in the doorway his
face shining.

"Oh, Dad!" he said joyously.

Marjorie stole up beside Ted and reaching out gave his hand a little
squeeze. Ted looked down at her and smiled.

"Isn't God good?" he murmured softly.

But Betty stood there staring thoughtfully at her father, and marveling
at the response in her mother's face. Somehow there seemed to be depths
in her mother's and father's characters that she had never sounded. It
surprised her. Perhaps they knew more about life after all than she had
dreamed.




XXI


Suddenly the time began to go by at a terrific speed. It was the day
before New Year's and Marjorie was to leave the day after. The Gay
household went about with sad excited countenances, and Mother shed
furtive tears when no one was about. Bonnie and Sunny had a howling
match when it all came over them. Bud said: "Aw, can you beat it? It's
the limit! Why does she haveta go atall? Why c'n't Ted go get her
things? Wha's she want uv things anyhow? We got enough." Betty worked
tirelessly getting the nicest meals she knew how so that Marjorie would
have pleasant memories.

Ted and Marjorie went out to Brentwood that afternoon to attend to a few
things before Marjorie went, and they had a good talk together. It was
the first chance they had had since they went to church the first
Sunday, for Ted had been busy and there was always somebody else about.
The second Sunday Mr. Gay had gone with them, and Bud. So now they had a
good deal to say to each other. Marjorie told him about the transaction
of the house and how she had done it. She gave him suggestions for
things that might be done. There ought to be a fire while the cleaners
were at work. There was some painting that should be done at once. Two
or three rooms needed fresh paper. She told him to bring a book of
samples from the paperhanger and let her mother and Betty choose what
they wanted and then see that it was done as soon as possible.

They talked about their father and his going to church with them on
Sunday, and what he had said when he came home from getting his job.
They spoke of how wonderful God had been to give him that position just
when he needed so to feel that he could still do something to maintain
his family. He was to start on the third of January. Ted said it was the
greatest thing ever, for he had sometimes feared his father would have a
nervous breakdown just worrying because he was down and out.

Then they spoke of Betty, the possibilities of her future, that Aiken
fellow.

"The poor simp!" said Ted angrily. "I'd like to get him off somewhere
and lick him! I could do it, too. He's soft. He drinks all the time now.
I've been hearing things about him. If he dares come after my sister
again I'll make it too hot for him to stay in this town. I know a lot
about him."

"Well, don't let Betty know," warned Marjorie. "It might just make her
angry so that she would go with him all the quicker."

"I know," said Ted, a softened light coming into his face that changed
its belligerence marvelously. "We've got to pray. That's the only thing!
You pray too!"

"I am," said Marjorie softly.

"Now, Ted," she said, after a little pause, "there's something I want to
ask of you. I think I can trust you perfectly to do what I ask. I think
you understand and believe that I want to come back here and live with
you all and be one of you, but you know I wouldn't want to come for a
minute if I thought even one of you felt it ought not to be."

Ted opened his lips to protest, but she silenced him.

"Wait a minute till I tell you all, Ted. I know you are going to say you
are sure. But you know what the agreement is between us all, that we
shall take at least a week to think it over. So I'm trusting you to let
me know if you hear the slightest question or dissension on the subject.
You'll let me know at once?"

"Okay!" said Ted with a sigh of relief. "I was afraid you were going to
ask something I couldn't do."

"And you'll pray about it, Ted? I want to do what's right about it, you
know, even if it isn't what I want."

"I sure will!" said Ted fervently. "I need you. You're the only _saved_
sister I've got. We _all_ need you!"

Marjorie walked the rest of the way home with the consciousness that
there was a very precious bond between herself and this brother.

When they reached the house they found the doctor had dropped in. He
stopped a minute or two in the parlor to ask how his former patients
were, and then he suddenly got up and sauntered out in the kitchen
whither Betty had been hastily called by a smell of burning cookies.

"Say, Betty," he said, pausing beside the kitchen table, picking up a
cookie that lay on the top of a plateful and taking a bite out of it, "I
hear they're having a watchnight meeting over at the Brentwood chapel.
Like to go? I might get off about nine o'clock if everything on my
schedule comes off on time. I thought perhaps Reaver would like to see
us all come in and surprise him."

Betty looked up with delight.

"Sure!" she said eagerly. "I'll go."

So the doctor sauntered back and told Marjorie and Ted, who had intended
going anyway.

"We'll walk," said Marjorie. "It's a lovely night, and you and Betty can
go in your car."

"No need for that," said Keith Sheridan, "I've got a rumble seat. Room
for Bud, too, if he wants to go."

So they went to the watchnight meeting.

It was a very solemn service. Marjorie was glad to have it for a
precious memory to take with her as she went. She thought as she watched
the beautiful earnest face of the young preacher while he spoke that she
had never seen such a look on human face before. It was a holy look.
Again she was struck by the utter humility of his bearing, the seeming
eagerness to simply pass on the Word of Life as it was given to him, and
she fancied she almost understood the hours of prayer that lay behind
that address. It was as if it had been given to him from a face-to-face
talk with his Lord. Hungrily she listened, breathlessly she put that
memory into her heart to keep, sensing there would come times of need
ahead of her very soon.

At the close Gideon gave the invitation, if any wished to start the New
Year with their Lord, would they come forward while all heads were
bowed, just to take a stand in the new life?

Marjorie had not noticed till then that Ted had disappeared from the
seat beside her, till suddenly she heard his voice blending with
Gideon's, singing:

    "While Jesus whispers to you,
      Come, sinner, come!
    While we are praying for you,
      Come, sinner, come!
    Now is the time to own Him,
      Come, sinner, come!
    Now is the time to know Him,
      Come, sinner, come!"

The singing was very soft and tender. Marjorie's heart thrilled over
those two voices, her brother, and this wonderful man of God, working
together in this way! She hugged to her heart the precious assurance
that she had already come to her Savior, and was now a child of God.

And then she heard a little stir beside her, a low spoken word, intense,
earnest, and realized that it was Keith Sheridan speaking to Betty.

"Let's go!"

Her heart sank! Oh, were they angry? Were they going home? Were they
going to reject openly the Savior's call? Was he the kind of young man
who was going to lead Betty astray?

She began to pray with agonized petition: "Oh God! Oh God!" but her mind
could form no other words.

Betty had risen now, slowly, hesitantly, with a deprecating glance
behind her, and stepped out into the aisle beside Keith.

Then quietly, side by side, Betty with downcast eyes, Keith with lifted
head as if he had just won a battle, they went swiftly up the aisle and
stood before the singers.

Marjorie had lifted her head in amazement as she saw what they were
doing, and now she looked at the glorified faces of the singers as they
perceived who had answered their invitation.

There were others then, several of them, suddenly crowding up as if they
feared it might be too late if they delayed. And Bud, stumbling out
across a seatful at the last minute, red and determined. Marjorie sat
quietly where they had left her and sang hosanna in her heart. What a
celebration for the last night before she went home!

Afterwards when they were all together, Betty, shy and half frightened,
yet wore a shining look.

"I don't know why I ever did it," she whispered to Marjorie, "but I
meant it, and I'm glad I did! I wouldn't have had the courage if Keith
hadn't started first!"

Gideon took Marjorie, Ted and Bud home in his car, and they had a praise
meeting all the way, Bud nestling sleepily against Ted's shoulder,
feeling contented and safe with his brother's words ringing in his mind:
"Good work, kid, you'll never be sorry!"




XXII


Though it was late Gideon lingered for just a minute with Marjorie. He
knew he must not keep her from her rest, but there were so many last
words of rejoicing to say. Then as he turned to go he remarked:

"Oh, by the way, I'm hoping you'll give me the honor of taking you to
the train tomorrow evening."

"Oh, that will be delightful!" said Marjorie. "It won't seem so much as
if I was going away to have someone I know at the station."

"Fine, that's settled then! And there's just the least possibility that
I might go as far as Harrisburg on your train, if I can get someone from
the Bible School to take my prayer meeting tomorrow night. I've just had
word that a cousin of mine is being married tomorrow at noon, and she's
taken it into her head that I must perform the ceremony. I told her I
was too busy, but she's telegraphed again, and if I can arrange it I'll
go. Would I be in the way if I traveled with you awhile? I'd drop off at
Harrisburg before midnight, you know?"

"Wonderful!" said Marjorie. "Then I shall have opportunity to ask you a
lot of questions that have been crowding my mind ever since I first
heard you preach."

A light flashed into his eyes.

"I'll be only too glad to answer anything I can," he said. "That's
settled then. I'll be here in plenty of time. Your train leaves at six
fifty-five. Time enough if we start at ten of six. Well, good night, and
don't stay awake too long rejoicing. My! How we are going to miss you! I
hope Chicago doesn't claim you long."

Marjorie, watching his car spin away into the winter night, had somehow
a happier feeling about going, now that she was to have such good
company part of the way.

Betty and the doctor came in a few minutes later, Betty wearing a
shining look, so different from the one she wore when she came in the
night before.

They talked a long time after they got to bed, in soft whispers, close
to one another.

"I'm happy!" said Betty. "It's so strange! I think I'm happier than I
ever was since I was a little kid. It seems as if everything is all
changed. I think if you weren't going away I'd feel as if I was in
heaven."

"Oh, you dear!" said Marjorie. "And I was afraid to come here! And
didn't know what I was missing. I'm going to miss you terribly. If it
wasn't that Mother isn't fit to be alone yet I'd be tempted to take you
along. But then we couldn't carry out the contract, could we? For I
should only be getting deeper and deeper in love with my family.
However, it won't be long till I'm back to stay!"

"Are you sure, Marjorie?"

"Yes, sure as one can be in this world," said Marjorie happily. "I'm
just crazy to get into the Brentwood house, aren't you?"

"_Am_ I?" said Betty. "Watch me and see!"

So at last they fell asleep.

But the next day wasn't half long enough, and sped away so fast they
were aghast. Marjorie was here and there and everywhere, with her mother
and the children, and everybody restless because the time was getting
shorter and shorter. How they were going to miss her, the daughter who
had only known them a few short days!

Ted came home in the middle of the afternoon with a box of candy he had
bought for her journey. Father said he couldn't get home early enough to
see her before she left, but he would step over to the station and meet
her at the train to say good-bye. Sunny and Bonnie each scribbled a
queer little letter for her to read on the train, and Bud took some of
his cherished Christmas dollar he had found in the toe of his Christmas
stocking and bought her a magazine to read on her way. Then her mother
folded her in her arms and kissed her, fastening a thin little chain
around her neck with a tiny gold locket on it.

"It was mine when I was a child," she explained. "Wear it till you come
back to me, dear! Maybe it will remind you of me. It is long enough to
drop down under your dress and not show. You won't be ashamed of it,
will you?"

"Ashamed! Mother dear!" said Marjorie, on the verge of tears. "Oh,
Mother, I think it was all wrong of me to go back at all. I should just
take you all along, and then we could pack up together and do as we like
about everything."

"No, no, dear! It's right for you to think it over. I'm not crying!
There! Go quick! They are calling you. The minister has come. So nice of
him that he is going part way with you. I shall feel better about you. I
know Ted was terribly disappointed he had to go to work and couldn't see
you off!"

And so at the last minute she hurried away, smiling and waving and
throwing kisses to the children.

But Ted was at the train after all. He met Gideon's car at the curb,
and stood there grinning to open the door for his sister.

"They had to send somebody down to the station to get a reservation for
the boss to go to New York tonight," he said, "and didn't I volunteer!
I'll say I did!"

A few minutes later Marjorie and Gideon were seated in the train as it
moved off, waving to the father and Ted. Then the train swept out of the
station and they were alone.

"Isn't this wonderful of you!" Marjorie said. "You can't imagine how
forlorn I felt going off alone like this after I've had such a nice big
family! It seems like a miracle arranged entirely for my benefit that
your cousin should select tomorrow for her wedding when there were all
the other days of the year she might have chosen from, and it wouldn't
have affected me in the least."

"Well, of course," said Gideon, "I felt that the benefit was all mine,
however I won't grudge you a share. And now, what were those questions
you wanted to ask? I'm eager to hear them."

"Oh," said Marjorie, "I want to know how to walk with God, and I want to
know how to study the Bible, and then all about grace."

Gideon laughed.

"Rather a large proposition for one short evening," he said, "but those
are the best things I talk about. Where shall we begin?"

They settled back on the comfortable cushions and began a talk that
neither of them will ever forget, and the record of which is surely in
heaven.

The minister got out his pocket Bible and again and again the two heads
were bent over the text. Marjorie took out her pencil and note book and
kept a great many references for her help when she got back to Chicago
alone. So the time flew fast. It seemed only a brief space before
Gideon had to put on his overcoat, seize his hat and suitcase, grasp her
hand for a quick instant, and hurry to get off at Harrisburg.

He waved to her from the platform an instant, and then the train moved
on and she was alone. A great desolation came over her. Would she ever
see him again?

But he had her address in Chicago, and he had promised to send her some
booklets to help her in her Bible study. That was something to which to
look forward.

Then the porter came to know if she would like her berth made up, and
she was glad to put her head on the pillow and rest, thinking over the
evening and all the wonderful days since she had come out on this
pilgrimage to find her family! Her dear family!

Ah, she did not need to take even a week to consider whether she wanted
to be with them. She knew now. Just this brief separation had made her
sure, if she needed even that! She thought back to the tiny house on
Aster Street and wondered if they were all sleeping now? Had they missed
her during the evening? Had the children in their evening prayers
remembered her as they had so earnestly assured her they would do? Were
her mother and father talking about her now considering whether she
ought to come back?

Then her mind went to Gideon again. How handsome he had looked as he
stood there waving to her on the platform. How suddenly hard it had
become to see him go!

It was strange the next morning to waken and find herself almost back in
Chicago, to dress hurriedly just in time to get out and to find her own
chauffeur waiting at the station with her car according to orders, to
drive through the familiar streets and see everything just as it had
been when she left it. It was as if she had been moving in a happy
dream for a season, and now was awake again. Would the joy vanish as
quickly as the dream was doing? Were her father and mother perhaps
right, did she really need to come back in order to get a practical
vision of things? In order to find out what she really wanted? She put
the thought from her frantically, a kind of fear growing in her. No, it
could not be that she would ever be content to go back to the old life,
even with all its luxuries and amenities, and forget her beloved family,
to settle down to a life here where she had always been. A life that
would include Evan Brower instead of them all! Evan Brower instead of
the wonderful man of God, who understood the precious vital things of
life! No! A thousand times, _NO!_

And suddenly she knew what she was going to say to Evan Brower.

The house was immaculate, the servants all there in their places,
welcoming her, thanking her for their holiday, apparently ready to go on
with life as she had left it. She could settle down now and every day
would go smoothly, engineered by these trained workers. She wouldn't
have a care except just to please herself. But oh, the emptiness of it
all!

She ate her dainty breakfast, and heard them tell her what a happy time
they had had, and how they enjoyed the Christmas remembrances she had
given them. Then she began to wonder what she was going to do about
them, supposing she sold the house and went away? It was not thinkable
that her father and mother would want a hoard of servants trained by
others. She did not want them herself, although she was in a way
attached to them all. Yet she felt it would be so much better that there
should be new servants in the new life if she went away, servants that
her mother should choose. Was this another of the elements that her wise
father and mother had known she would have to meet and reckon with in
her decision?

After breakfast she went from room to room and tried to take up the
thread of life. For this one week at least she was committed to do
nothing definite about leaving her home. But that did not include Evan
Brower. In the afternoon she wrote a note to him.

     "Dear Evan:

     This is just to tell you that I got home today and shall be glad to
     see you whenever you feel like calling,

     Sincerely,

     Marjorie."

She mailed it late in the afternoon. He would not get it until the next
morning. She could have telephoned him of course but she wanted one free
evening to consider what she should say to him. He could not likely come
until the next evening.

Next morning she went up in the attic and went over the things there,
considering what should be looked over and given away whether she went
or stayed. There was no point in wasting all this week. Some of the old
papers and letters and garments might as well be put out of the way.
Also she could write out lists of things she wanted to get rid of if she
went away.

The morning passed very quickly and in the afternoon she went to see her
lawyer and check up on business matters. Then just after dinner Evan
Brower came.

She had been reading the little book that Gideon gave her, sitting in
the library before the open fire, when he was announced. His coming
brought her suddenly back into the present, exchanging the memory of
Gideon Reaver for the reality of Evan Brower.

Evan had brought her flowers, dignified long-stemmed aristocratic roses,
dozens of them. Thelma the waitress knew just what to put them in, one
of the deep crystal rose jars. She brought them presently and put them
on the low table between Evan and Marjorie. Marjorie had a quick thought
of how it would always be like this if she married Evan. Always sitting
there or somewhere else with Evan, always the most expensive flowers on
all occasions, the best music. He had suggested a concert the next
evening he thought she would like to attend. He took it for granted she
would. Their life together would be well-ordered and peaceful,
meticulously perfect in every human way. But he would have no thought of
the things that had come to mean so much to her. She grasped the little
book warmly. It seemed to her a bond between herself and the things she
had left behind her in the east. Was it going to be humanly possible for
her to cut herself off from those things for even a week, and with
unbiased mind consider what she had promised her parents to consider?

Evan told her of the news since she had been gone, spoke pleasantly like
the old friend he had always been, with no mention of their differences
when he had seen her last. He told her of affairs that were going on in
their social world, said his mother wanted her for a quiet visit,
suggested things they might do together, and at last he got out the
little velvet box again.

"Marjorie," he said in a calm voice, "I want you to put my ring on now
and wear it. It will be a sort of protection for you while you are
alone, and I shall feel a great deal better about you if you are wearing
it. I do hope you are willing to see things in a reasonable way by this
time, and that we can soon get our affairs settled. I hate so to have
you unprotected. Of course, if you feel that you must wait a little
longer to get married I will be willing, though I am quite sure everyone
will see that it is the sensible thing, alone as you are. No one will
criticize you, I am positive, for having a quiet wedding so soon after
Mrs. Wetherill's funeral. She would have wanted you to do this, I am
certain."

Then Marjorie grasped her little book softly, like a talisman, looked
calmly at Evan Brower and answered in a clear voice:

"Evan, I do appreciate your kindness and your thought for me, and I feel
sorry that I had to be so uncertain in the past when you talked to me
about these things. But now that I am home again I have thought it all
over and made my decision. Evan, I am not going to marry you, either now
or at any other time. I am quite sure that I do not love you as a woman
ought to love a man she marries. Perhaps I ought to have known this
before, but I didn't. But now I know, and it would not be right for me
to keep you waiting any longer."

Evan Brower looked at her steadily, calmly, and slowly put the ring back
in its box and the box away in his pocket.

"Very well," he said quietly, determinedly, "if you haven't come to your
senses yet I can wait, of course, till you do. Undoubtedly you will get
over this phase pretty soon and be sorry. In the meantime I am at your
service. Are you willing to be friends? Are you willing to go to the
concert with me tomorrow night? It is a very quiet affair and we can sit
in Mother's box at the Opera House. You will not necessarily be in the
public eye."

Marjorie looked at him and smiled.

"Yes, Evan, I'll be glad to be friends. Friends just as we used to be.
That will be nice. And yes, I'll go to the concert tomorrow night if you
want it. You are really very kind."

He did not stay long. He was a lawyer and canny. He thought he saw that
he must take a new line entirely and drop back into his old role of
friendship without urging her into anything new at this time. She would
change presently, of course, when she got used to the idea of his being
her constant attendant everywhere. He would be patient.

So presently he took his leave and Marjorie went happily back to her new
study with her little book in her hand and her Bible open on the low
table before her, and forgot entirely that she had just refused one of
the most sought after young men in Chicago.




XXIII


The week of probation dragged its slow length along, and Marjorie began
to realize how impossible it was to really fix her mind on the question
in hand. Somewhere in the back of her mind the matter seemed to be
settled and sealed and there was no more possibility of considering it.

As the days went by developments made her feel more and more that
everything was working out to show her that her conclusion had been
right. To begin with, the third day after her arrival, Thelma, the
waitress came to her blushing and told her that she was going to be
married, and she had to give notice.

Marjorie congratulated her, and did not feel the sense of loss as she
would have done if she were convinced she was going to remain in the
Wetherill house. That was perhaps the first happening that made her see
clearly that she wasn't even considering staying.

She went out two or three times with Evan Brower, and was sweet and
pleasant with a kind of vague-eyed detachment that much annoyed that
entirely assured young man, but he shut his lips thinly and went forward
in his campaign as he had planned. Marjorie would be his in the end.
She didn't seem to care for anyone else, why shouldn't she turn to him
eventually?

The fourth day after her home-coming the old Scotch housekeeper, her
former nurse, came to her in great distress with an open letter in her
hand. Her youngest sister back in the old country was very sick with a
lingering illness and wanted her to come home and nurse her. Tessy felt
that she ought to go.

So Marjorie gave her her blessing and sent her on her way to catch the
next boat. Another tie to her old life was broken without her lifting a
finger! God was working her way out for her.

But, suppose at the end of the week there should come a letter from her
Mother saying--oh, very sweetly of course--that they felt it was best
for everybody concerned that she should not come to them? Well, yes, she
would then be rather cut off from everybody who could serve to make her
life pleasant, Evan, and the servants. But she hadn't done it herself,
and there would surely be some way, even if it were a way of heartache.

Then there came a letter from Gideon and her heart leaped up to welcome
it singing a little song even before she opened it. It wasn't a long
letter. It was mostly about his work and the questions she had asked,
and some books he was sending. But it did say how much they missed her,
and it started a lilt in her voice and a joy in her eye that even Evan
Brower noticed when he dropped in with gardenias.

The next day Gideon sent flowers. Marjorie thought they were some more
from Evan, and forgot to open them for almost an hour till Thelma, not
yet departed, asked if she should put them in water, and brought the
card to her. She opened it idly, expecting to find Evan's name as usual
inside, and found instead Gideon Reaver's card. The soft color came
into her face then and her eyes shone with joy. She got up and came over
to them. They were crimson roses, deep and dark. She buried her face in
their sweetness and closed her eyes as she carried them upstairs to her
own private sanctum. She did not want them out of her sight. But Evan
Brower's stately flowers remained downstairs in the reception room.

That same day the lawyer called her up. The man who wanted to buy her
house was insistent. His plans had changed and he wanted to move at
once. Could she give an answer within the next two days?

Marjorie could and would. The week was up day after tomorrow. She would
give an answer then, she told Mr. Melbourne.

Later in the day the chauffeur who had served the Wetherills so many
years presented himself apologetically, and with many a hem and a haw
made bold to ask if it was true that she was going to sell the house and
move away, as rumor had it? If she was he would like opportunity to see
a man about another place he had heard of that paid very good wages, and
was well-fixed with a tidy house for the chauffeur and his wife.

Marjorie smiled and told him to go and see it, that she would let him
know in a couple of days. And so the ties were one by one broken and
again without her making a single move. It was all very wonderful. She
wondered if it was because so many people were praying about it. There
was only the old cook left now, and she was hinting she might give up
work and go and live with her sister. She was getting old and rheumatic
and wanted a rest.

And then the week was up.

Marjorie arose with a feeling that great things might happen today.
Would her mother write at once, or wasn't the week long enough for them
to decide? _She_ had decided. She was only waiting for their word.
Would the morning mail bring her answer?

But it came sooner than that. Thelma brought it up to her before she was
dressed. A telegram:

     "We have kept our contract. The time is up. We want you with all
     our hearts. We feel that this is your place if you still want to
     come to us. But not unless you would rather come. Letter follows."

It was signed with all their names.

Marjorie wasn't long in answering that. She caught up her telephone and
dictated a telegram:

     "Was coming anyway, whether you wanted me or not. Could not stand
     it without you. Brentwood for me! Love to you all. Glory
     hallelujah!

     Marjorie!"

Then she telephoned her lawyer and told him to go ahead and sell the
house. She was moving today. She also called up a mover and asked him to
come at once and arrange about the moving. Then she got out her lists
and began to pack her personal belongings.

Next morning Ted appeared on the scene. A very properly-clad Ted,
looking handsome and capable.

"Mother said I was to come and help pack," he said simply. "She said you
oughtn't to be alone. Dad would have come but he couldn't leave his new
job, of course."

And then when his sister fell upon his neck and embraced him, crying for
very joy, he remarked quite casually though in a jubilant tone:

"Gideon Reaver said he was coming over on Monday to drive us back home.
He said you said you were bringing your car, and I haven't any driver's
license yet. He said I was to wire him when we would be ready. He said
he might bring Bud along for the ride if you wanted him. He's crazy to
come!"

"Oh, wonderful!" said Marjorie looking up with shining eyes! "Won't that
be great! I was planning to have the chauffeur drive the car over, but
now I find he's got another place and they want him right away this
week. That will solve the problem. And what fun we'll have!"

"It might be bad weather," remarked Ted, revealing that the matter had
been discussed at home.

"Of course, but there is a heater in the car, and we don't mind weather!
Won't it be great?"

They were hard at work packing, and there was a large van drawn up
before the door taking away furniture, some that was to be sent to the
auction rooms for sale, and some that was to be given to the mission,
when Evan Brower arrived. He had come to take Marjorie over to the park
to see some professional skaters who were said to be very fine. He stood
in the denuded parlor where furniture was shrouded in summer slips, and
rugs were rolled up in bundles, and looked blankly about him.

"What in the world does this mean?" he asked sternly as Marjorie came to
greet him.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Evan," she said. "I completely forgot you were coming
to take me somewhere. I should have let you know, but I've been so busy
everything else went out of my head. You see, I've sold the house, and
I'm moving. It all happened quite suddenly or I should have called off
our engagement. But you can see I can't possibly go today. I'm sorry.
And I guess there won't be any other time, either, Evan. You know how it
is when people move."

"Moving?" said Evan angrily. "You don't mean you've sold this house
without letting me know? Without saying anything to me about it?"

He glared at Marjorie and then he saw Ted standing straight and
unsmiling beside his sister. He hadn't seen him come in, but there he
was!

"Good morning, Mr. Brower," said Ted, "I think I met you at Christmas
time while my sister was east."

Evan Brower glared at Ted, with scarcely an inclination of his head, and
then he said savagely to Marjorie:

"Can I see you alone somewhere?"

Marjorie gave him an absent-minded smile.

"Why, yes," she said, "for just a minute, I guess. The mover will be
here in five minutes or so, but we can go into the library. That isn't
so much torn up yet."

Ted didn't follow, except with his eyes, but he worked outside in the
hall making enough noise to let it be known that he was there. If his
sister needed assistance he would be at hand. He certainly would like to
wallop that insolent chump before he left Chicago, but of course he
couldn't.

What was said behind that closed door Marjorie never told him, but it
must have been decisive for the caller presently came out walking as if
he were following to the grave after a dead hope.

Marjorie's face was calm however as she came after him briskly and went
with him to the door.

"I'm going to make time somehow to see a few people before I leave of
course, Evan, and I'm coming to your mother first of all," she said
pleasantly.

"Most kind of you," murmured Evan Brower haughtily, "but I beg that you
won't put yourself out in the least for us. Since you have been so
self-sufficient in all your arrangements I suppose of course there is
nothing we can do for you. You have chosen to make your plans without
taking advice from us who supposed we were your best friends. I hope you
will not inconvenience yourself to call."

"Oh, but I want to see you all before I leave," said Marjorie brightly.
"You will run in again won't you, Evan, of course? We shall not be
leaving before Monday or Tuesday."

He whirled then and looked at her full in the face, and Ted in the back
of the hall heard his voice savagely say:

"Do you really mean to tell me that you are giving up this lovely home
and going to live in that little untidy dump where I found you at
Christmas?"

Marjorie laughed.

"Oh, no," she said. "That was just temporary. I am going to live in my
father's house that he has owned for several years. He is moving back to
it next week. We'll be glad to see you out there some day when you are
in the east. It is a lovely home. My father is with Martin Heath
Company. Perhaps you know the firm. I'm sure the family will be glad to
entertain you whenever you are in our vicinity. I have told them what a
good friend of the family you have always been."

"Some sister!" murmured Ted from the depths of the back hall where he
had been rolling up more rugs. Then under his breath, he added, "and
_some mutt_!"

They were ready to leave Wednesday morning. Marjorie had made her calls,
although she had not found Mrs. Brower at home and had to write a note
for good-bye. She had called up some of her friends on the telephone,
and written to others announcing her sudden departure, and she hadn't a
regret. Chicago had been dear, but Brentwood was dearer. Even Bud was
satisfied with the single day of sightseeing which Ted and Gideon had
given him. He said Chicago wasn't so much, though he was glad he'd seen
it; he liked Brentwood a lot better.

The last truck was filled, and started on its way; the cook had wept a
farewell and had been taken to her train en route for her sister's in
the far west; the house was locked and the key handed over to the
lawyer's representative for the new owner; and they were all
comfortably seated in the big luxurious car ready to start.

"It's a beautiful house," remarked Gideon. "I'm so glad to have seen
where you were brought up," and he smiled at Marjorie. "Yes, it's a
lovely home. But you're going to one just as pleasant, I think!"

"Sure thing!" said Ted fervently. "Though this one's all right," he
added as if he feared Marjorie's feelings might be hurt.

"Some dump, I say!" remarked Bud contemptuously looking toward the fine
old house in its setting of evergreens, with the distant blue of winter
water edged with snow behind it. "No place ta play baseball anywhere
about it, and that old lake out there always behind yer back. 'Spose it
might rise some day like the river and drown ya out? Course it would be
nice ta wade in summers, but I'd rather have Brentwood. Give me
Brentwood every time!"

They all laughed merrily at Bud, and it helped to drive back the sudden
smarting tears and the choking sob that threatened Marjorie as she gave
one last wistful glance back and realized that the old life was done
with forever. Yet she was not sad, for Brentwood was ahead, and
Brentwood represented a new life of love and service, companionship with
God, and with dear people who loved her. She was glad as they drove away
into the new life that she had chosen Brentwood instead of Chicago.

Then they wound down along the lake shore, into the city and out on the
highway for Home.

And such a drive as they had!

They had arranged that the trucks should not get to Brentwood ahead of
them, for Marjorie wanted to be there to give directions. But they did
not have to hurry. The day was bright and clear, and the four were happy
and together. It seemed like a great picnic, and every moment was a
treasure to be remembered always.

Especially was it a happy time for Gideon and Marjorie for during that
two days of drive they bridged the years that had gone before, and got
really acquainted with one another, so that by the time they reached
their destination they were like old friends.

Evan Brower had not been present to see Marjorie off. When he had
stopped in the night before for a moment, hoping even yet to persuade
her of her folly and turn her from her purpose, Gideon had opened the
door for him and told him that Marjorie had gone with Ted to take some
jellies and fruit to an old washwoman who lived a mile away. Though
Gideon had cordially invited Evan to wait in the almost empty house
until they returned, Evan had declined, and gone away in a huff, leaving
only his card behind him for farewell. Marjorie would have to learn her
mistake by sad experience, he decided. But when she discovered it, it
would probably be too late.

So the four journeyed back to the east over a hard white road under a
blazing sun, and had a happy time, and never once thought of Evan Brower
all day long.

But oh, that home coming. How precious it was! To be folded in her
mother's arms and to know that she was at home! To watch the lovelight
on her father's face as he said: "Welcome home, my daughter!" To feel
the children's eager sticky kisses and hear their screams of welcome. To
see real joy in Betty's face, real welcome! Ah! That was better than all
the other world had to offer her.

And then to drive hastily over to Brentwood and meet the trucks which
had just arrived, and with Betty direct where things should go. It was
great!

They had reached home early in the afternoon and by evening all the
trucks were empty and the house in fair order.

Ted had had the floors done over, and they laid the rugs down first, so
that everything could be set in place at once.

There were many hands to work. There was Betty in the parlor with Keith
Sheridan to help, taking off the covers from the upholstered furniture.
There was Bud bringing in endless armfuls of wood to the woodbox, and
under Ted's strict directions carefully laying a fire in the fireplace
for later in the evening. And there was Gideon going quietly about doing
things without having to ask what to do next, just as if he were a son
of the house and had always lived with this furniture and these rooms.

"You want this here, don't you, Marjorie?" he would say, and proceed to
put it there.

And once in the back hall, toward dusk, those two came hastily upon each
other, Marjorie from the way of the kitchen, and Gideon from the big
pleasant library where he had just deposited an armful of books that had
been misplaced by the now departed movers, and they ran right into each
other. Gideon put out his arms and enfolded her, perhaps to save her
from falling, but it became more than that of itself as suddenly they
were close to one another, and Gideon stooped and placed a tender kiss
on her lips.

Then, just as suddenly, while they were still under the spell of the
wonder of each other's lips, and did not know anyone else was in the
world for the moment, there stood Betty and Keith hand in hand.

"Might a mere brother-in-law offer congratulations?" saluted Keith
joyously, "because we're in a position ourselves to understand."

He grinned and bowed low with his hand upon his heart. That is, one
hand. The other Betty had.

Then he looked up at the embarrassed two who had been taken unawares and
grinned.

"It's a little soon, I suppose, to spring all this on the assembling
multitudes," he offered. "Wouldn't it be as well if we were to unpack
the supper that I understand is awaiting us in baskets in the dining
room? I thought I'd just let you know that Ted is at the door with the
rest of the family, in case you didn't want them all to become aware yet
of what has happened. I humbly ask your pardon if I have intruded."

Marjorie with glowing cheeks and dancing eyes was laughing now.

"We didn't know anything about this ourselves till a minute ago!" she
announced shyly.

"I believe you!" said Betty solemnly. "That's the way it came to me, all
suddenly."

"Well, I'm not ashamed of it, though I didn't think I dared announce my
intentions so soon. But I'm glad!" said Gideon solemnly.

"Yes!" said Marjorie. "Aren't we?"

"Where are you all," rang out Bud's clarion voice. "The whole family's
here! Where's everybody? Say, I'm _hongry_! When do we eat? Say, whyn't
ya start the fire?"

But the rest were scurrying to the front door to welcome the family.

The mother walked into her house and stood and looked around with eyes
full of wonder. There was Marjorie's piano open, just as if she were
going to play; there were the beautiful couches and chairs and tables
just as she had dreamed she would like them, and beautiful paintings on
the wall. Ted had scratched a match and sent the flames licking up in
the fireplace. It was like having a dream come true.

"Oh, it's too good to have all these things at once!" she said. "My girl
come home to Brentwood, and all my children here!"

"Yes, Mother dear," chirped Betty from the doorway, her hand again in
Keith's who winked across at Marjorie and Gideon, "even more children
than you had bargained for!"

       *       *       *       *       *

BY GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL


    Brentwood
    Sunrise
    The Substitute Guest
    Mystery Flowers
    April Gold
    The Strange Proposal
    White Orchids
    Beauty for Ashes
    The Christmas Bride
    Amorelle
    Rainbow Cottage
    The Beloved Stranger
    Matched Pearls
    The Ransom
    The Patch of Blue
    The Challengers
    Happiness Hill
    Kerry
    The Chance of a Lifetime
    Silver Wings
    The Gold Shoe
    Ladybird
    The Prodigal Girl
    Duskin
    Blue Ruin
    Crimson Roses
    The White Flower
    Job's Niece
    Coming Through the Rye
    A New Name
    Ariel Custer
    Not Under the Law
    The Story of a Whim
    Re-creations
    Tomorrow About This Time
    The Big Blue Soldier
    The City of Fire
    The Girl from Montana
    The Tryst
    Cloudy Jewel
    Exit Betty
    The Search
    The Red Signal
    The Enchanted Barn
    The Finding of Jasper Holt
    The Obsession of Victoria Gracen
    Miranda
    The Best Man
    The Mystery of Mary
    "Lo, Michael!"
    Dawn of the Morning
    Phoebe Deane
    Marcia Schuyler


[The end of _Brentwood_ by Grace Livingston Hill]