"Yes, I wish so, too; but of course we couldn't be in the same. But Father's coming at six to take us all to supper in the restaurant booth.

Perhaps we can get together then."

"Yes, I hope we can. I'll ask Mother about it."

The girls parted at Gladys' gate, and Marjorie went on home to luncheon.

"It's perfectly lovely, Mother!" she cried, as she entered the house. "I never saw such a beautiful fair."

"That's good, girlie; and now you must eat your luncheon and then lie down for a little rest before you go this afternoon."

"Oh, Mother Maynard! Why, I'm not a bit tired. You must think I'm an old lady."

Mrs. Maynard smiled at the bright face and dancing eyes, which certainly showed no trace of weariness.

But after luncheon she said: "Now, Midget, you must go to your room, and lie down for half an hour. Close your eyes, and rest even if you do not sleep."

Midget drew a long sigh, and walked slowly off to obey. She lay down on her own little white bed, but though she managed to close her eyes for nearly half a minute, they then flew wide open.

"Mother!" she called out. "I can't keep my eyes shut, unless I pin them.

Shall I do that?"

"Don't be foolish, Marjorie," called back Mrs. Maynard, from her own room. "Go to sleep."

"But, Mother, I can't go to sleep. I'm as wide-awake as a--a weasel.

Mother, what time are you going to the fair?"

"At four o'clock. Now, be quiet, Marjorie, and don't ask any more questions."

"No'm. But, Mother, mayn't I get up now? I've been here nearly six or seven hours."

"It isn't six or seven minutes, yet. You must stay there half an hour, so you may as well make your mind up to it."

"Yes'm; I've made up my mind. But I think this clock has stopped. It hasn't moved but a teenty, taunty speck in all these hours. What time is it by your clock, Mother?"

"Marjorie! You'll drive me distracted! Will you be still?"

"Yes'm, if you'll let me come in your room. May I, Mother? I'll just lie still on your couch, and I won't speak. I'll just look at you. You know you're so pretty, Mother."

Mrs. Maynard stifled a laugh.

"Come on, then," she called. "I simply can't yell like this any longer."

"I should think not," said Marjorie, as she appeared in her mother's doorway. "My throat's exhausted, too."

"Now, remember," said Mrs. Maynard, "you said you'd be quiet in here.

Lie down on the couch, and put the afghan over you, and go to sleep."

"I'll lie down on the couch,--so," said Marjorie, suiting the action to the word; "and I'll put the afghan over me,--so; but I can't go to sleep--because I can't."

"Well, shut your eyes, and try to go to sleep; and, at any rate, stop talking."

"Yes'm; I'll try." Marjorie squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and in a moment she began to talk in a droning voice. "I'm asleep now, Mother, thank you. I'm having a lovely nap. I'm just talking in my sleep, you know. n.o.body can help that, can they?"

"No; but they can't expect to be answered. So, talk in your sleep if you choose, but keep your eyes shut."

"Oh, dear, that's the hardest part! Oh, Mother, I've such a good idea!

Mayn't I begin to dress while I'm asleep? Just put on my slippers and stockings, you know. It would be such a help toward dressing to have that done. May I,--Mother? Mother, may I?"

"Marjorie, you are incorrigible! Get up, do, and go for your bath, now.

And if you're ready too early, you'll have to sit still and not move until it's time to go."

"Oh, Mother, what a dear, sweet mother you are!"

With a bound, Marjorie was off of the couch and tumbling into her mother's arms.

Mrs. Maynard well understood the impatient young nature, and said no more about a nap.

But at last the time came for Marjorie to start, and very sweet and dainty she looked in her mauve and white costume. She had never worn that color before, as it isn't usually considered appropriate for little girls, but it proved becoming, and her dancing eyes and rosy cheeks brightened up an effect otherwise too demure for a twelve-year-old child.

Gladys was waiting at her own gate, and off they went to the hall.

Of course, the customers hadn't yet arrived, but soon after Marjorie had taken her place inside the booth, the people began to flock to the fair.

Miss Merington looked lovely in a violet crepe-de-chine gown, which just suited her exquisite complexion and golden hair.

She greeted Marjorie as a companion and fellow-worker, and Midge resolved to do her best to please the lovely lady. Somehow there seemed to be a great deal to do. As the afternoon wore on the M booth had a great many customers, and Miss Merington was kept so busy that Marjorie had to be on the alert to a.s.sist her. She made change; she answered the customers' questions; and sometimes she had to go to the department of supplies for wrapping paper, string, and such things. She was very happy, for Marjorie dearly loved a bustle of excitement, and the Bazaar was a gay place.

After a time old Mr. Abercrombie came to the M booth. Marjorie hadn't forgotten the day they rode behind his sleigh, and she wondered if he would buy anything from her.

He looked at her quizzically through his big gla.s.ses, and said:

"Well, well, little girl, and what have you for sale? Old gentlemen like myself are fond of sweet things, you know. Have you any sweet cakes?"

"Yes, sir," said Marjorie, and as Miss Merington was occupied with other customers she felt justified in trying to make a sale herself.

"Yes, sir; we have these very nice cocoanut macaroons."

"Ah, yes; and how do you know they're nice? You must never make a statement unless you're sure."

"Oh, but I am sure," said Marjorie, very earnestly. "Ellen, our cook, made them, and she's a very superior cook. I know she is, because my mother says so. And, besides, I know these are good because I've had some of them myself."

"You've proved your case," said the old gentleman. "But now I'll catch you! I'll buy your whole stock of macaroons if----"

"If what, sir?" said Marjorie, breathlessly, for his suggestion meant a large sale, indeed.

"If you can spell macaroons," was the unexpected reply.

"Oh!" Marjorie gave a little gasp of dismay, for she had never had the word in her spelling lessons, and she didn't remember ever seeing it in print.