"You bet you are!" said King, appreciatively; "tell us what you had to eat in the rural district."

"Boiled beef," said Midget, smiling; "and gingerbread and turnips!"

"Not so awful worse," commented King.

"No? Well, s'pose you try it once! I like these croquettes and Saratoga potatoes a whole heap better!"

"Well, I 'spect I do, too. I say, Mops, I'm glad you didn't break your word to come out and play,--at least, not intentionally."

"No, I never break my word. But I guess if you thought you didn't have any father or mother or brother or sister, you'd forget all about going out to play, too."

"I haven't any brother," said King, looking very sad and forlorn.

"I'll be a brother to you," declared Cousin Jack, promptly; "you behaved like a man, last night, old fellow,--and I'm proud to claim you as a man and a brother."

"Pooh, I didn't do anything," said King, modestly.

"Yes, you did," said his mother. "You were fine, my son. And I never could have lived through to-day without you, either."

"Dear old Kingsy-wingsy!" said Midget, looking at him with shining eyes.

And then,--for it was their long-established custom,--she tweaked his Windsor scarf untied.

As this was a mark of deep affection, King only grinned at her and retied it, with an ease and grace born of long practice.

"Well, Mehitabel," said Cousin Jack, "I always said you were a child who could do the most unexpected things. Here you've been and turned this whole house upside down and had us all nearly crazy,--and here you are back again as smiling as a basket of chips. And yet you did nothing for which any one could blame you!"

"Indeed they _can't_ blame her!" spoke up Mrs. Maynard; "the child thought I was talking to Mrs. Corey, instead of reading my part in the play. Marjorie sha'n't be blamed a bit!"

"That's just what I said," repeated Cousin Jack, smiling at the mother's quick defense of her child; "why, if anybody told me I was a,--what do you call it?--a findling,--I'd run away, too!"

"Don't run away," said Cousin Ethel, laughing. "I'd have to run with you, or you'd get lost for keeps. And I'd rather stay here. But I think we must be starting for Bryant Bower, and leave this reunited family to get along for awhile without our tender care."

"But don't think we don't realize how much we are indebted to you," said Mr. Maynard, earnestly, for the two good friends in need had been friends indeed to the distracted parents.

"Well, you can have a set of resolutions engrossed and framed for us,"

said Cousin Jack, "or, better yet, you can give me a dollar bill, in full of all accounts. By the way, Mehitabel, it's lucky you came home from your little jaunt in time for your birthday. I incidentally learned that it will be here soon, and we're going to have a celebration that will take the roof right off this house!"

"All right, Cousin Jack; I'm ready for anything, now that I know I've got a father and mother."

"And a brother," supplemented King, "and _such_ a brother!" He rolled his eyes as if in ecstasy at the thought of his own perfections, and Marjorie lovingly pinched his arm.

"And a couple of sisters," added Cousin Ethel; "I like to speak up for the absent."

"Yes, and two dearest, darlingest cousins," said Marjorie, gleefully.

"Oh, I think I've got the loveliest bunch of people in the whole world!"

CHAPTER XII

A LETTER OF THANKS

"Mother," said Marjorie, the next day, "what is a bread-and-b.u.t.ter letter?"

"Why, dearie, that's a sort of a humorous term for a polite note of acknowledgment, such as one writes to a hostess after making a visit."

"Yes, that's what I thought. So I'm going to write one to Mrs. Geary."

"You may, if you like, my child; but, you know your father gave those old people money for their care of you."

"Yes, I know; but that's different. And I think they'd appreciate a letter."

"Very well, write one, if you like. Shall I help you?"

"No, thank you. King and I are going to do it together."

"What did you call it, Mops?" asked her brother, as she returned to the library, where he sat, awaiting her.

"A bread-and-b.u.t.ter letter; Mother says it's all right."

"Well, but you had other things to eat besides bread and b.u.t.ter."

"Yes, but that's just the name of it. Now, how would you begin it, King?"

"'Dear Mrs. Geary,' of course."

"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-b.u.t.ter 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 b.u.t.ter 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?"