Marjorie at Seacote

"I must go away," poor Marjorie went on; "I can't stay here, I should suffocate!"

She sat up on the edge of her bed, and clasped her hands in utter desolation. Where could she go? Not to Cousin Ethel's, she'd only bring her back home. Home! She hadn't any home,—no real home! She thought of Grandma Sherwood's, but she wasn't her grandma at all! Then she thought of Grandma Maynard. That was a curious thought, for though Grandma Maynard wasn't her own grandmother, either, yet, a few months ago, she had begged Marjorie to live with her and be her little girl. Surely she must have known that Midget wasn't really her granddaughter, and yet she had really loved her enough to want her to live there.

Then Grandma Maynard wouldn't have to pretend to love her.

Clearly, that was the only thing to do. She couldn't run away, with no destination in view.

She had no claim on Grandma Sherwood or Uncle Steve, but Grandma Maynard had wanted her,—really wanted her.

Marjorie looked at the little clock on her dressing table. It was almost three o'clock. She knew there was a train to New York about three, and she resolved to go on it.

At first she thought of taking some things in a bag, but she decided not to, as she didn't want any of the things the Maynards had given her.

"Oh," she thought, while the tears came afresh; "my name isn't even Maynard! I don't know what it is!"

She put on a blue linen dress, and a blue hat with roses on it. Some instinct of sadness made her tie her hair with black ribbon.

As she went downstairs, she heard Mrs. Corey say, "I am astounded at these revelations!" and her mother replied, "Dear friend, I knew you would be."

Marjorie wasn't crying then, she felt as if she had no tears left. She shut her teeth together hard, and went out by a side door. This way she could reach the street unobserved, and she walked straight ahead to the railroad station. She had a five-dollar gold piece that Uncle Steve had sent her on Christmas, and that, with a little silver change, she carried in her pocketbook. But she left behind her pearl ring and all the little trinkets or valuables she possessed.

She felt as if her heart had turned to stone. It wasn't so much anger at Mr. and Mrs. Maynard as it was that awful sense of desolation,—as if the world had come to an end.

At one moment she would think she missed King the most; then with the thought of her father, a rush of tears would come; and then her poor little tortured heart would cry out, "Oh, Mother, Mother!"

She knew perfectly well the way to New York, and though the station agent looked at her sharply when she bought a ticket, he said nothing. For Marjorie was a self-possessed little girl, of good manners and quiet air when she chose to be. With her ticket in her hand, she sat down to wait for the train. There were few people in the station at that hour, and no one who knew her.

When the train came puffing in, she went out and took it, in a matter-of-fact way, as if quite accustomed to travelling alone.

Really, she felt very much frightened. She had never been on a train alone before, and the noise of the cars and the bustle of the people, and the shouting of the trainmen made her nervous.

And then, with a fresh flood of woe, the remembrance of why she was going would come over her, and obliterate all other considerations.

For perhaps half an hour she kept the tears back bravely enough; but as she rode on, and realized more and more deeply what it all meant, she could control herself no longer, and burst into a paroxysm of weeping.

She was sitting next the window, and, as there were few passengers, no one was in the seat with her.

But when she raised her head, exhausted by her outburst of tears, a burly red-faced man sat beside her.

"Come, come, little one, what's it all about?" he said.

His tone was kind, but his personality was not pleasant, and Marjorie felt no inclination to confide in him.

"Nothing, sir," she said, drawing as far away from him as possible.

"Now, now, little miss, you can't cry like that, and then say there's nothing the matter."

Marjorie wanted to rebuke his intrusion, but she didn't know exactly what to say, so she turned toward the window and resolutely kept looking out.

The trees and fields flying by were not very comforting. Every mile took her farther away from her dear ones, for they were dear, whether related to her or not.

She pressed her flushed cheeks against the cool window pane. She was too exhausted to cry any more. She seemed to have only enough strength to say, brokenly, "Oh, Mother, Mother!" and then from sheer weariness of flesh she fell into a troubled sleep.

Meantime Marjorie was missed at home. The Sand Club grew tired of waiting for her, and King went up to the house to investigate the delay.

He trudged, whistling, up the driveway, and seeing Mrs. Corey, he whipped off his cap, and greeted her politely.

"Where's Midget, Mother?" he asked.

"I don't know, son; isn't she with you?"

"No'm, and I'm tired waiting for her."

"Is Hester there?" asked Mrs. Corey.

"Yes, Mrs. Corey, Hester's been with us an hour, and we're waiting for Mopsy. She said she'd come as soon as she finished her practising."

"She stopped practising some time ago," said Mrs. Corey. "I haven't heard the piano for half an hour or more."

"I'll bet she's tucked away somewhere, reading!" exclaimed King; "I'll hunt her out!"

"Perhaps she's gone over to Cousin Ethel's," suggested Mrs. Maynard.

"I'll hunt her up," repeated King, and he went into the house.

"Marjorie Mops! I say! Come out of that!" he cried, banging at the closed door of her bedroom.

Getting no reply, he opened the door and looked in, but she wasn't there.

"You old scallywag Mops!" he cried, shaking his fist at her empty room, "I never knew you to go back on your word before! And you said you'd come to Sand Court as soon as you could!"

He looked in the veranda hammock, and in the library, and any place where he thought Midget might be, absorbed in a book; he inquired of the servants; and at last he went back to his mother.

"I can't find Mopsy," he said.

"Then she must be over at Cousin Ethel's. She does love to go over there."

"Well, she oughtn't to go when she's promised to come out with us. I never knew old Midge to break a promise before."

"Perhaps Cousin Ethel telephoned for her," suggested Mrs. Maynard. "Though in that case, she should have told me she was going. Run over there and see, son."

"I'll telephone over, that'll be quicker," said King, and ran back into the house.

"Nope," he said, returning; "she isn't there, and hasn't been there to-day. Mother, don't you think it's queer?"

"Why, yes, King, it is a little queer. But she can't be far away. Perhaps she walked down to the train to meet Father."

"Oh, Mother, that would be a crazy thing to do, when she knew we were waiting for her."