"Oh, Father! it's this horrid old spelling lesson. I just _can't_ learn it, and that all there is about it!"

"Can't learn to spell? Bring me your book, and let me have a look at it."

Very willingly Marjorie flew to her father's side, and, big girl though she was, perched herself on his knee while she showed him the page.

"Just look! There's 'deleble' spelled with an e, and 'indelible' with an i! Why can't they spell them alike?"

"I think myself they might as well have done so," said Mr. Maynard, "but, since they didn't, we'll have to learn them as they are. Where is your lesson?"

"All that page. And they're fearfully hard words. And words I'll never use anyway. Why would I want to use 'hara.s.sed' and 'daguerreotype' and 'macaroni' and such words as those?"

Mr. Maynard smiled at the troubled little face.

"You may not want to use them, dearie, but it is part of your education to learn to spell them. Come, now, I'll help you, and we'll soon put them through. Let's pick out the very hardest one first."

"All right; 'daguerreotype' is the hardest."

"Oh, pshaw, no! That's one of the very easiest. Just remember that it was a Frenchman named Daguerre who invented the process; then you only have to add 'o' and 'type,' and there you are!"

"Why, that _is_ easy! I'll never forget that. 'Macaroni' is a hard one, though."

"Why?"

"Oh, because I always put two c's or two r's or two n's in it."

"Ho, that makes it easy, then. Just remember that there isn't a double letter in it, and then spell it just as it sounds. Why, macaroni is so long and thin that there isn't room for a double letter in it."

"Oh, Father, you make it so easy. Of course I'll remember that, now."

Down the long list they went, and Mr. Maynard, with some little quip or quibble, made each word of special interest, and so fixed it in Marjorie's memory. At the end of a half-hour she was perfect in the lesson, and had thoroughly enjoyed the learning of it.

"I wish you'd help me every night," she said, wistfully. "All this week, anyway. For there's to be a spelling-match on Friday, between our cla.s.s and Miss Bates' cla.s.s, and we want to win. But I'm such a bad speller, n.o.body wants to choose me on their side."

"They don't, don't they? Well, I rather think we'll change all that. You and I will attack Mr. Speller every evening, and see if we can't vanquish him."

"I think we can," said Marjorie, her eyes sparkling. "For it's only some few of those catchy words that I can't seem to learn. But after you help me they all seem easy."

So every night that week Midge and her father had a spelling-cla.s.s of their own, and fine work was accomplished.

The spelling-match was to be on Friday, and Thursday night they were to have a grand review of all the lessons. Marjorie brought home her schoolbooks on Thursday, and left them in the house while she went out to play. But when she came in to get ready for dinner, her mother was dressing to go out.

"Where are you going, Mother?" said Marjorie, looking admiringly at her mother's pretty gown.

"We're going to Mrs. Martin's to dinner, dearie. She invited us over the telephone this morning. There's a very nice dinner prepared for you children, and you must have a good time by yourselves, and not be lonesome. Go to bed promptly at nine o'clock, as we shall be out late."

"Is father going, too?" cried Marjorie, aghast.

"Yes, of course. You may fasten my glove, Midget, dear."

"But I want father to help me with my spelling."

"I thought about that, Mops," said her father, coming into the room.

"And I'm sorry I have to be away to-night. But I'll tell you what we'll do. When is this great spelling-match,--to-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow afternoon."

"Well, you study by yourself this evening, and learn all you can. Then skip to bed a bit earlier than usual, and then hop up early to-morrow morning. You and I will have an early breakfast, at about seven o'clock.

Then from half-past seven to half-past eight I'll drill you in that old speller till you can spell the cover right off it."

"All right," said Marjorie. "It's really just as well for me to study alone to-night, and then you can help me a lot to-morrow morning. But won't it make you too late going to business?"

"No, I'll take a half-hour off for your benefit. If I leave here by half-past eight that will do nicely, and that's about the time you want to go to school."

So the matter was settled, and Mr. and Mrs. Maynard drove away, leaving the three children to dine by themselves. The meal was a merry one, for when thus left to themselves the children always "pretended."

"I'm a princess," said Marjorie, as she seated herself in her mother's place. "These dishes are all gold, and I'm eating birds of paradise with nectarine sauce."

Even as she spoke, Sarah brought her a plate of soup, and Midge proceeded to eat it with an exaggerated air of grandeur, which she thought befitted a princess.

"I'm not a prince," said Kingdon. "I'm an Indian chief, and I'm eating wild boar steak, which I shot with my own trusty bow and arrows."

"I'm a queen in disguise," said Kitty. "I'm hiding from my pursuers, so I go around in plain, dark garbs, and no one knows I'm a queen."

"How do we all happen to be dining at one table?" asked Marjorie.

"It's a public restaurant," said King. "We all came separately, and just chanced to sit at the same table. May I ask your name, Madam?"

"I'm the Princess Seraphina," said Marjorie, graciously. "My home is in the sunny climes of Italy, and I'm travelling about to see the world.

And you, n.o.ble sir, what is your name?"

"I am Chief Opodeldoc, of the Bushwhack Tribe. My tomahawk is in my belt, and whoever offends me will add his scalp to my collection!"

"Oh, sir," said Kitty, trembling; "I pray you be not so fierce of manner! I am most mortal timid."

Kitty had a fine dramatic sense, and always threw herself into her part with her whole soul. The others would sometimes drop back into their every-day speech, but Kitty was always consistent in her a.s.sumed character.

"Is it so, fair Lady?" said King, looking valiant. "Have no fear of me.

Should aught betide I will champion thy cause to the limit."

"And mine?" said Marjorie. "Can you champion us both, Sir Opodeldoc?"

"Aye, that can I. But I trust this is a peaceful hostelry. I see no sign of warfare."

"Nay, nay, but war may break out apace. Might I enquire your name, fair lady?"

"Hist!" said Kitty, her finger on her lip, and looking cautiously about, "I am, of a truth, the Queen of--of Macedonia. But disguised as a poor waif, I seek a hiding-place from my tormentors."

"Why do they torment you?"