Marjorie at Seacote

"Well, but I want it to be to him, too. He was real nice,—in his queer way. And if he hadn't looked after me, where would I have been?"

"That's so. Well, say, 'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary, both.'"

So Marjorie began:

"'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary Both:

"'This is a bread-and-butter letter– '"

"I tell you, Mops, they won't like it. They're not up in social doings, and they won't understand that bread and butter means all the things. I think you ought to put 'em all in."

"Well, I will then. How's this?

"'—and a turnip letter, and a boiled-beef letter, and a baked-apple letter, and a soft-boiled egg letter.'"

"That's better. It may not sound like the fashionable people write, but it will please them. Now thank them for taking care of you."

"'I thank you a whole heap for being so good to me, and speaking kindly to me in the railroad train, when I wasn't so very polite to you.'"

"Weren't you, Mops?"

"No; I squeezed away from him, 'cause I thought he was rough and rude."

"Well, you can't tell him that."

"No; I'll say this:

"'I wasn't very sociable, Sir, because I have been taught not to talk to strangers, but, of course, those rules, when made, did not know I would be obliged to run away.'"

"You weren't obliged to, Midget."

"Yes I was, King! I just simply couldn't stay here if I didn't belong, could I? Could you?"

"No, I s'pose not. I'd go off and go to work."

"Well, isn't that what I did?

"'But you were kind and good to me, Mr. Geary and Mrs. Geary Both, and I am very much obliged. I guess I didn't work very well for you, but I am out of practice, and I haven't much talent for houseworking, anyway. You seem to have, dear Mrs. Geary.'

"That's a sort of a compliment, King. Really, she isn't a very good housekeeper."

"Oh, that's all right. It's like when people say you have musical talent, and you know you play like the dickens."

"Yes, I do. Well, now I'll finish this, then we can go down to the beach."

"'And so, dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary Both, I write to say I am much obliged–'

"Oh, my gracious, King, I ought to tell them how it happened. About my mistake, you know, thinking Mother was talking in earnest."

"Oh, don't tell 'em all that, you'll never get it done. But I suppose they are curious to know. Well, cut it short."

"'You see, dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary Both, I am not a findling, as I supposed.'"

"That's not findling, Midget,—you mean foundling."

"I don't think so. And, anyway, they mean just the same,—I'm going to leave it.

"'I find I have quite a large family, with a nice father and mother, some sisters and a brother. You saw my father. Also, I have lovely cousins and four grand-parents and an uncle. So you see I am well supplied with this world's goods. So now, good-by, dear Mr. and Mrs. Geary Both, and with further thanks and obliges, I am,

    "'Your friend,
    "'Marjorie Maynard.

"'P.S. The Jessica Brown was a made-up name.'

"Do you think that's all right, King?"

"Yep, it's fine! Seal her up, and write the address and leave it on the hall table, and come on."

And so the "bread-and-butter" letter went to Mr. and Mrs. Geary both, and was kept and treasured by them as one of their choicest possessions.

"I knew she was a little lady by the way she pretended not to notice our poor things," said old Zeb.

"I knew by her petticoats," said his wife.

And so the episode of Marjorie's runaway passed into history. Mrs. Maynard, at first, wanted to give up her part in the play of "The Stepmother," but she was urged by all to retain it, and so she did. As Mr. Maynard said, it was the merest coincidence that Marjorie overheard the words without knowing why they were spoken, and there was no possibility of such a thing ever happening again. So Mrs. Maynard kept her part in the pretty little comedy, but she never repeated those sentences that had so appalled poor Marjorie, without a thrill of sorrow for the child and a thrill of gladness for her quick and safe restoration to them.

And the days hurried on, bringing Marjorie's birthday nearer and nearer.

On the fifteenth of July she would be thirteen years old.

"You see," said Cousin Jack, who was, as usual, Director General of the celebration, "you see, Mehitabel, thirteen is said to be an unlucky number."

"And must I be unlucky all the year?" asked Marjorie, in dismay.

"On the contrary, my child. We will eradicate the unluck from the number,—we will cut the claws of the tiger,—and draw the fangs of the serpent. In other words, we shall so override and overrule that foolish superstition about thirteen being unlucky that we shall prove the contrary."

"Hooray for you, Cousin Jack! I'm lucky to have you around for this particular birthday, I think."

"You're always lucky, Mehitabel, and you always will be. You see, this business they call Luck is largely a matter of our own will-power and determination. Now, I propose to consider thirteen a lucky number, and before your birthday is over, you'll agree with me, I know."

"I 'spect I shall, Cousin Jack. And I'm much obliged to you."

"That's right, Mehitabel. Always be grateful to your elders. They do a lot for you."

"You needn't laugh, Cousin Jack. You're awful good to me."

"Good to myself, you mean. Not having any olive-branches of my own, I have to play with my neighbors'. As I understand it, Mehitabel, you're to have a party on this birthday of yours."

"Yes, sir-ee, sir! Mother says I can invite as many as I like. You know there are lots of girls and boys down here that I know, but I don't know them as well as I do the Craigs and Hester. But at a party, I'll ask them all."