she ventured.

"No; it has nothing to do with John. I expect to be out of town."

"At Lily's?"

"No; I won't be visiting anybody."

"Oh, well," said Ruth, sulkily, "if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. I don't care."

"I can't very well tell you, Ruth," replied Marjorie; "and besides, you wouldn't be interested."

"Then when can you come?"

"Tuesday or Wednesday, whichever you like."

The girls finally agreed upon Wednesday, and separated with the promise to visit each other before then. But Ruth resented Marjorie's secrecy and tried to imagine what her important engagement could possibly be.

Christmas, and the next four days pa.s.sed happily and quickly, and almost before she realized it, Friday had come, bringing to Marjorie her chance for adventure.

Wrapped snugly in her mother's fur coat, and with the big robe tucked in around her, she sat on the front seat of the machine that cold, clear morning of the end of December. She was very happy; she felt, indeed, that she was doing something worth while, and the prospect of a nice long ride with Miss Phillips added not a little to her pleasure.

After they had driven about fifteen miles they met the Scout Captain, and then continued on their way. Ten miles before they reached their destination they stopped at a hotel for dinner.

"Suppose they don't live there any longer," remarked Marjorie. "All our trip for nothing!"

"No, for we could probably get some information from Mrs. Brubaker,"

replied Miss Phillips. "But I don't think they'd move."

"It isn't likely," a.s.sented Marjorie.

It was two o'clock when they arrived at the Brubaker farm. The front door opened, and Mrs. Brubaker appeared.

"Well, of all things!" she exclaimed, recognizing Miss Phillips and Marjorie in the car. "This surely is a surprise!"

When they were all comfortably seated before the open fire, Mr.

Wilkinson explained their mission, and the good woman seemed amazed at their news.

"We had no idea Frieda wasn't still at school. Her mother never said a word. Oh, I'm so sorry!"

They talked a little while, and then leaving her father with Mr.

Brubaker, Marjorie and her Captain proceeded toward the tenant house where the Hammers lived.

Mrs. Hammer did not recognize them at first. Then Miss Phillips explained.

"We want to know if you have any news of Frieda, Mrs. Hammer," she said, very politely.

"Come in," invited the older woman, holding open the door a little wider.

"We haven't heard a word since she ran away," continued Miss Phillips, as soon as they were inside, "except that a friend of mine saw a girl answering her description in New York."

"That's where she is, I reckon," a.s.sented Mrs. Hammer, "but that's all I know. From her onct in a while I get a letter, and can write to her care of--what d'ye call it?--general delivery. But I can't write very good."

"Oh, may we see the letters?" asked Marjorie, eagerly.

"Yes--I don't mind. You people sure treated her white. I don't know what's got into her."

The woman crossed the room, which was untidy and dirty, and pulled out a drawer in the table. There, among heterogeneous trash, Marjorie noticed several letters. Mrs. Hammer tossed them into Miss Phillips's lap.

"You can read them all," she said, "while I go look to the baby."

Miss Phillips noticed Marjorie's excitement, and politely handed her the letters--there were three of them,--which the girl opened with trembling fingers. Apparently, all of them were short.

"This must be the first," she said, and read aloud,

"DEAR MA,

"I ran away in that girl's bot becaus a girl insulted me. I brot my clothes and a pencil and I stayed at an empty hous to-night.

"FRIEDA."

Marjorie put the paper back into the envelope with a sigh.

"That doesn't tell us a whole lot, does it?" she observed. "Except that we know now for sure that the girl that old woman described at the empty house was Frieda."

"But what does she mean about a girl insulting her?" asked Miss Phillips, in a puzzled tone.

Marjorie frowned; she had no desire to tell tales about Ruth.

Accordingly, she related the story, but withheld the name of the girl concerned.

"Frieda certainly must be skillful as a boatsman," remarked Miss Phillips, "to be able to come that far."

"Yes," said Marjorie, opening the letter with the second earliest postmark. Then, "Oh, listen to this:

"I got to Trenton but befor I crossed the river I sold the bot for $20. I'm going to New York for to get work.

"FRIEDA."

"Trenton!" repeated Miss Phillips. "Marjorie, we might be able to locate your canoe if we search all the boat-houses and the river-front there, and on the opposite side of the Delaware!"

"That's an idea!" cried Marjorie. "I'll ask papa----"

But she was too anxious to read the third and last letter to finish her sentence. Hastily she pulled it from the envelope.

"DEAR MA,

"I'm in New York now and you can rite me care Gen. Del. My money is most gone. I got a waitres job.

"FRIEDA."