Marjorie had worked hard all day. Partly because she wanted to prove herself a good worker, and partly because, if she stopped to think, her troubles seemed greater than she could bear.

But a little after five o'clock everything was done, supper prepared, and the child sat down on the kitchen steps to rest. She was tired, sad, and desolate. The slight excitement of novelty was gone, the bravery and courage of the morning hours had disappeared, and a great wave of homesickness enveloped her very soul. She was too lonely and homesick even to cry, and she sat, a pathetic, drooped little figure, on the old tumble-down porch.

She heard the toot of a motor-horn, but it was a familiar sound to her, and she paid no attention to it. Then she heard it again, very near, and looked up to see her father and Cousin Jack frantically waving, as the car fairly flew, over many minor obstacles, straight to that kitchen doorway.

"Marjorie!" cried Mr. Maynard, leaping out before the wheels had fairly stopped turning, and in another instant she was folded in that dear old embrace.

"Oh, Father, Father!" she cried, hysterically clinging to him, "take me home, take me home!"

"Of course I will, darling," said Mr. Maynard's quivering voice, as he held her close and stroked her hair with trembling fingers. "That's what we've come for. Here's Cousin Jack, too."

And then Midget felt more kisses on her forehead, and a hearty pat on her back, as a voice, not quite steady, but determinedly cheerful, said: "Brace up now, Mehitabel, we want you to go riding with us."

Marjorie looked up, with a sudden smile, and then again buried her face on her father's shoulder and almost strangled him as she flung her arms round his neck. Then she drew his head down, while she whispered faintly in his ear. Three times she had to repeat the words before he could catch them:

"Are you my father?" he heard at last. The fear flashed back upon him that Midget's mind was affected, but he only held her close to him, and said, gently, "Yes, Marjorie darling, my own little girl," and the quiet a.s.surance of his tone seemed to content her.

"Wal, wal! an' who be you, sir?" exclaimed a gruff voice, and Mr.

Maynard looked up to see Zeb Geary approaching from the barn.

"You are Mr. Geary, I'm sure," said Cousin Jack, advancing; "we have come for this little girl."

"Wal, I'm right down glad on't! I jest knew that purty child had a home and friends, though she vowed she hadn't."

"And you've been kind to her, and we want to thank you! And this is Mrs.

Geary?"

"Yep, that's Sary. Come out here, Mother, and see what's goin' on."

Out of shyness, Mrs. Geary had watched proceedings from the kitchen window, but fortified by her husband's presence, she appeared in the doorway.

"They've been so good to me, Father," said Marjorie, still nestling in his sheltering arms.

"Wal, we jest done what we could," said Mrs. Geary. "I knowed that Jessiky belonged to fine people, but she didn't want to tell us nothin', so we didn't pester her."

"And we ain't askin' nothin' from you, neither," spoke up Zeb. "She's a sweet, purty child, an' as good as they make 'em. An' when she wants to tell you all about it, she will. As fer us,--we've no call to know."

"Now, that's well said!" exclaimed Mr. Bryant, holding out his hand to the old man. "And, for the present, we're going to take you at your word. If you agree, we're going to take this little girl right off with us, because her mother is anxiously awaiting news of her safety. And perhaps, sometime later, we'll explain matters fully to you. Meantime, I hope you'll permit us to leave with you a little expression of our appreciation of your real kindness to our darling, and our grat.i.tude at her recovery."

A few whispered words pa.s.sed between the two gentlemen, and then, after a moment's manipulation of his fountain pen and checkbook, Mr. Bryant handed to old Zeb Geary a slip of paper that took his breath away.

"I can't rightly thank you, sir," he said, brokenly; "I done no more'n my duty; but if so be's you feel to give me this, I kin only say, Bless ye fer yer goodness to them that has need!"

"That's all right, Mr. Geary," said Cousin Jack, touched by the old man's emotion; "and now, Ed, let's be going."

Mrs. Geary brought Marjorie's hat and her little purse, and in another moment they were flying along the country road toward Newark.

Marjorie said nothing at all, but cuddled into her father's arm, and now and then drew long, deep sighs, as if still troubled.

But he only held her closer, and murmured words of endearment, leaving her undisturbed by questions about her strange conduct.

In Newark they telephoned the joyful news to Mrs. Maynard, and then took the first train to Seacote.

All through the two-hour ride, Marjorie slept peacefully, with her father's arm protectingly round her.

The two men said little, being too thankful that their quest was successfully ended.

"But I think her mind is all right," whispered Mr. Maynard, as Mr.

Bryant leaned over from the seat behind. "She has some kind of a crazy notion in her head,--but when she's thoroughly rested and wide awake, we can straighten it all out."

The Maynards' motor was waiting at Seacote station, and after a few moments' ride, Marjorie was again in the presence of her own dear people.

"Mother, _Mother_!" she cried, in a strange, uncertain voice, and flew to the outstretched arms awaiting her.

Though unnerved herself, Mrs. Maynard clasped her daughter close and soothed the poor, quivering child.

"_Are_ you my mother?" wailed Marjorie, in agonized tones; "_are_ you?"

"Yes, my child, _yes_!" and there was no doubting that mother-voice.

"Then why,--_why_ did you tell Mrs. Corey I was a findling?"

"Tell Mrs. Corey _what_?"

"Why, when I was practising, you were talking to her, and I heard you tell her that you took me from an asylum when I was a baby,--and that I didn't really belong to you and Father?"

"Oh, Marjorie! Oh, my baby!" and dropping into the nearest armchair, with Marjorie in her lap, Mrs. Maynard laughed and cried together.

"Oh, Ed," she exclaimed, looking at her husband, "it's those theatricals! Listen, Marjorie, darling. Our Dramatic Club is going to give a play called 'The Stepmother,' and Mrs. Corey and I were learning our parts. That's what you heard!"

"Truly, mother?"

"Truly, of course, you little goosie-girl! And so you ran away?"

"Yes; I couldn't stay here if I wasn't your little girl,--and Father's,--and King's sister,--and all. And you said I was different from your own children and,----"

"There, there, darling, it's all right now. And we'll hear the rest of your story to-morrow. Now, we're going to have some supper, and then tuck you in your own little bed where you belong. Have you had your supper?"

"No,--but I set the table," and Marjorie began to smile at the recollection of the Geary kitchen. "You see, Mother, I've been maid-of-all-work."

"And now you've come back to be maid-of-all-play, as usual," broke in Cousin Jack, who didn't want the conversation to take a serious turn, for all present were under stress of suppressed emotion.

"I say, Mops, you ought to have known better," was King's brotherly comment, but he pulled off her black hair-ribbons in the old, comforting way, and Midget grinned at him.

"Let's dispense with these trappings of woe," said Cousin Jack, dropping the black ribbons in a convenient waste-basket.

So Midget went out to supper without any ribbons, her mop of curls tumbling all over her head and hanging down her shoulders.

"My, but I'm hungry!" she said, as she saw once again her own home table, with its pretty appointments and appetizing food.