“Don’t you think it would be a splendid plan for Tania?” asked Madge eagerly. “Miss Jenny Ann and the girls are willing she should come to us. Tania is such a fascinating little person, with her dreams and her pretences, that she is the best kind of company. Besides, I am awfully sorry for her.”

Mrs. Curtis and Madge were seated in the latter’s bedroom indulging in one of their old-time confidential talks.

“Tania would be a great deal of care for you, Madge,” argued Mrs. Curtis. “She is worrying my maids almost distracted with her foolishness. Last night she wrapped herself in a sheet and frightened poor Norah almost to death by dancing in the moonlight. She explained to Norah that she was pretending that she was a moonflower swaying in the wind. I wonder where the child got such odd fancies and bits of information? She has never seen a moonflower in her life.” Mrs. Curtis laughed and frowned at the same time. “Poor little daughter of the tenements! She is indeed a problem.”

“Shall I tell you all I have been able to find out about Tania?” asked Madge. “Her history is quite like a story-book tale. I think her father and mother were actors, but the father died when Tania was only a little baby. That is why, I suppose, they called the child by such an absurd name as ‘Titania.’ I looked it up and it comes from Shakespeare’s play of ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ I think perhaps her mother was just a dancer, or had only a small part in the plays in which she appeared, for they never had any money. Tania has lived in a tenement always. The mother used to take care of her baby when she could, and then leave her to the neighbors. But the mother must have been unusual, too, for she taught Tania all sorts of poetry and music when Tania was only a tiny child. Indeed, Tania knows a great deal more about literature than I do now,” confessed Madge honestly. “It isn’t so strange, after all, that Tania pretends. Why, she and her mother used to play at pretending together. When they sat down to their dinner they used to rub their old lamp and play that it was Aladdin’s wonderful lamp, and that their poor table was spread with a wonderful feast, instead of just bread and cheese. They tried to make light of their poverty.”

Mrs. Curtis’s eyes were full of tears. She could understand better than Madge the scene the young girl pictured.

“Tania was eight years old when her mother died,” finished Madge pensively. “Since then poor Tania has had such a dreadful time, living with that wretched old Sal, who has made a regular slavey of her, and she just had to go on with her pretending in order to be able to bear her life at all.”

Madge and Mrs. Curtis were both silent for a moment. The bright June sunshine flooded the room, offering a sharp contrast to Tania’s sad little story.

“You see why I wish to take her on the houseboat,” pleaded Madge. “It seems so wonderful that we are going to Cape May and will be on the really seashore, near you and Tom, that each one of us feels the desire to do something for somebody just to show how happy we are. Miss Jenny Ann says we may take Tania, if you think it wouldn’t be unwise.”

“She ought to go to school, Madge,” argued Mrs. Curtis half-heartedly. “Tania does not know any of the things she should. Philip Holt, who does so much good work among the poor in Tania’s tenement district, says that the child is most unreliable and does not tell the truth.”

Madge wrinkled her nose with the familiar expression she wore when annoyed. Her investigations had proved Philip Holt a liar, but she refrained from saying so.

“You don’t like Philip, do you?” continued Mrs. Curtis. “It isn’t fair to have prejudices without reason. Mr. Holt is a fine young man and does splendid work among the poor. Madeleine and I have entrusted him with the most of the money we have given to charity. I am sorry that you girls don’t like him, because he is coming to visit me at Cape May this summer.”

Madge dutifully stifled her vague feeling of regret. “Of course, we will try to like him, if he is your friend,” she replied loyally. “It was only that we thought Mr. Holt had a terribly superior manner for such a young man, and looked too ‘goody-goody’! But you have not answered me yet about Tania. Do let us have Tania. I’ll teach her lots of things this summer, and it won’t be so hard for her when she goes to school in the fall. She is pretty good with me.”

“Very well,” consented Mrs. Curtis reluctantly, “for this summer only. The child will get you into difficulties, but I suppose they won’t be serious. What is Madge Morton going to do next fall? Is she going to college with Phil, or is she coming to be my daughter?”

Madge lowered her red-brown head. “I don’t know, dear,” she faltered. “You know I have said all along to Uncle and Aunt that, just as soon as I was grown up, I was going to start out to find my father. I shall be nineteen next winter. It surely is time for me to begin.”

“But, Madge, dear, you can’t find your father unless you know where to look for him. The world is a very large place! I am sorry”—Mrs. Curtis smoothed Madge’s soft hair tenderly—“but I agree with your uncle and aunt; your father must be dead. Were he alive he would surely have tried to find his little daughter long before this. Your uncle and aunt have never heard from or of him during all these years.”

“I don’t feel sure that he is dead,” returned Madge thoughtfully. “You see, my father disappeared after his court-martial in the Navy. He never dreamed that some day his superior officer would confess his own guilt and declare Father innocent. I can’t, I won’t, believe he is dead. Somewhere in this world he lives and some day I shall find him, I am sure of it. Phil, Lillian and Eleanor have all pledged themselves to my cause, too,” she added, smiling faintly.

“I’ll do all that I can to help you, Madge. Just have a good time this summer, and in the autumn, perhaps, there may be some information for you to work on. What is that dreadful noise? I never heard anything like it in my house before!” exclaimed Mrs. Curtis.

Madge sprang to her feet. There was the sound of a heavy fall in the next room, a scream, then a discreet knock on Madge’s door.

“Come!” commanded Mrs. Curtis.

The door opened and the butler appeared in the doorway, his solemn, red face redder and more solemn than usual.

“Please, it’s that child again,” he said. “While the young ladies was out in the automobile with Mr. Tom, she went in their room, emptied out one of their trunks and shut herself inside. She said she was ‘Hope’ and the trunk was ‘Pandory’s Box,’ or some such crazy foolishness. She meant to jump out when the young ladies came back, but Norah went into the room with some clean towels, and when the little one bobs her head out of that box, just like a black witch, poor Norah is scared out of her wits and drops on the floor all of a heap. If that child doesn’t go away from here soon, Ma’am, I don’t know how we can ever bear it.”

“That will do, Richards,” answered Mrs. Curtis coldly. But Madge could see that she was dreadfully vexed at Tania’s latest naughtiness.

The little captain gave Mrs. Curtis a penitent hug. “It is all my fault, dear. I should never have brought the little witch here,” she murmured. “I’ll go and make it all right with Norah and see that Tania does no more mischief—for a while, at least.”

Mrs. Curtis looked somewhat mollified, nevertheless, she was far from pleased, and Madge’s championship of little Tania was to cause the little captain more than one unhappy hour.