"The most glorious thing is going to happen, Marjorie," announced Elsie, as her cousin came into the drawing-room to breakfast one November morning, about two weeks after the writing of that long letter to Aunt Jessie.

"What is it?" inquired Marjorie, regarding Elsie's radiant face and sparkling eyes, with interest. Elsie was not, as a rule, a very enthusiastic young person.

"The most delightful invitation you ever heard of," Elsie explained with a glance at the letter her mother was reading. "It's from my cousin Percy Ward. You know he's a sophomore at Yale, and he wants Mamma and me to come to New Haven for the football game next Saturday. It's the big Yale-Harvard game, you know, and I've been simply crazy to go, but it's almost impossible to get tickets. It really was angelic of Percy to get two for us, and he wants us to come up on Friday afternoon so we can go to the dance that evening. He has engaged a room for us at the hotel."

"It must be wonderful to see a great match like that," declared Marjorie, with hearty appreciation of her cousin's good fortune. "I have seen pictures of the college games, and Father always reads the football news in the papers. He is a Harvard man himself, you know, and used to be on the team."

"I'm sorry you can't go with us," said Elsie, regretfully, "but of course Percy couldn't get more than two tickets. Perhaps you wouldn't enjoy it much, though. It can't be much fun unless you know a lot of the boys. Percy is such a dear; he is sure to introduce me to all his friends."

"I wish your father had not gone to Washington on that tiresome business just now," remarked Mrs. Carleton, laying down her nephew's letter, and looking a little worried. "I should have liked to consult him before answering Percy."

"Why, Mamma, you surely don't think he would object!" cried Elsie in dismay. "What possible reason could he have for not wanting us to go?"

"Oh, no reason whatever, of course, dear. I was only thinking of Marjorie. I am not sure that he would like the idea of her being left here alone while we are away."

"Oh, bother! Marjorie won't mind—will you, Marjorie? Besides, she needn't be alone; Hortense can sleep in my room, and it's only for one night."

"Please don't worry about me, Aunt Julia," said Marjorie, blushing. "I shall get on all right, I am sure, and it would be terrible to have you and Elsie miss the game on my account. I can have my meals up here while you are away, and go out with Hortense."

But Mrs. Carleton did not look quite satisfied.

"You are very sweet and unselfish, dear," she said, "but I wish Percy had bought another ticket; then we could have taken you with us. I cannot bear to disappoint Elsie, so I suppose I shall have to accept the invitation, though I dislike the idea of leaving you behind, especially at a time when your uncle is away, too."

So the matter was settled, and as soon as breakfast was over Mrs. Carleton sat down to write her note of acceptance, while the two girls started for school, accompanied as usual by Hortense. Elsie was in high spirits, and entertained her cousin with a vivid description of the delight and excitement of a college football match.

"Not that I have ever seen one myself," she explained. "Papa hates crowds, and has always said it was too difficult to get tickets, and last year Percy couldn't get any either, being only a freshman. Carol Hastings has been, though, and she told me she was never so excited in her life. The Bells are going this year, and have invited Winifred Hamilton and Gertie Rossiter to go with them. I can't see why they want to take Winifred; she is such a baby, and I don't believe a boy will notice her; but she and Lulu are such chums, one never seems able to go anywhere without the other."

"Beverly Randolph and his mother are going, too," said Marjorie, who was making a great effort to keep down the feeling of envious longing, and to show a real interest and sympathy in her cousin's anticipations. "He told me so yesterday. His uncle, Dr. Randolph, is going to take them in his automobile."

"Yes, I know; I heard him talking about it. I must be sure to tell him Mamma and I are going, so he will look us up. Oh, here come Bessie and Carol; I must tell them the good news."

Percy Ward's letter arrived on Wednesday morning, and on Friday afternoon soon after luncheon, Mrs. Carleton and Elsie departed for New Haven. Mr. Carleton had been called to Washington on business, and was not expected home before Saturday night. Aunt Julia was very kind, and kissed Marjorie with more affection than usual.

"I really hate to leave you," she said regretfully. "If it were not for the disappointment it would have been to Elsie, I would never have accepted. I hope you will not be very lonely."

"Oh, no, I won't," promised Marjorie cheerfully. She was really touched by her aunt's solicitude, and had almost, if not quite, succeeded in banishing the feelings of envy and disappointment. "I've got some hard lessons for Monday, and I want to have them all perfect, so I can write Mother that I haven't missed in any of my classes for a week. Then Hortense says she likes walking, so we can have some fine long tramps. To-morrow night will be here before I've begun to realize that you are away."

But despite her cheerful assurances, Marjorie's heart was not very light when she accompanied her aunt and cousin to the lift, and saw them start, Elsie's face wreathed in smiles, and even Aunt Julia looking as if she had not altogether outgrown her interest in a football game. She went slowly back to her own room, and taking up her Greek history, determined to forget present disappointment, and spend the next hour with the Greek heroes. But to make up one's mind to do a thing, and to carry out one's good intentions are two very different matters. Marjorie conscientiously tried to fix her thoughts on "The Siege of Troy," but the recollection of Elsie's radiant face kept obtruding itself between her eyes and the printed page, and at the end of half an hour she threw down her book in despair.

"There isn't any use," she said to herself, with a sigh; "I can't remember a single date. I'll ring for Hortense, and ask her to take me for a walk. Perhaps by the time we come back my wits will have left off wool-gathering, and I shall have a good long evening for studying and writing letters."

Hortense was quite ready for a walk, and really the afternoon was much less forlorn than Marjorie had anticipated. The French maid had taken a fancy to the little Western girl, who was always kind and friendly in her manner, and did not—as she told a friend—treat her as if she were "seulement une machine." Elsie never talked to Hortense during their walks, but this afternoon Marjorie was longing for companionship, and she and the maid chatted together like old friends. They were both young and far away from home, and perhaps that fact had a good deal to do towards drawing them together. Marjorie was always glad to talk of her life on the ranch, and Hortense told in her turn of the little French village, where she had spent her childhood, and of the widowed mother and little brothers and sisters, to whom she sent more than half of her earnings. She spoke in broken English, with here and there a French expression thrown in, but Marjorie had no difficulty in understanding, and her interest and sympathy for the plucky little French girl, who had left home and friends to earn her own living, grew rapidly.

They took a long walk, for Hortense was almost as fond of tramping as Marjorie herself, and it was almost dusk when they at last came in sight of the big hotel. Then Hortense suddenly remembered an errand she had to do for Mrs. Carleton, and Marjorie—who was not in the least tired—declared her intention of accompanying her.

"It is not far," the maid explained; "only to Sixth Avenue. We shall not be more than a quarter of an hour."

The errand accomplished they turned their steps in a homeward direction, and were about half way up Fifty-seventh Street, on their way to the Plaza, when Marjorie's attention was attracted by a horse and cart, which had come to a standstill only a few feet in front of them. The cart was loaded with boxes and packages, and the horse, which was a mere skeleton, and looked as if his working days had long been over, had evidently completely given out. The driver, a boy of sixteen or seventeen, had sprung down from his seat, and was endeavoring to discover the cause of the trouble.

"Oh, look, Hortense," cried Marjorie, her quick sympathies instantly aroused, "look at that poor horse. He isn't strong enough to drag that heavy wagon, with all those boxes in it. Oh, what a shame! That boy mustn't beat him so—he mustn't!" And before the horrified maid could interpose, impulsive Marjorie had sprung forward to remonstrate.

"Stop beating that horse," she commanded, with flashing eyes; "can't you see he isn't able to go any farther with that load? You ought to be ashamed to load a poor creature like that in such a way!"

The boy stared at her for a moment in stupid amazement; then an ugly look came into his face. He gave one quick glance up and down the street, to make sure there was no policeman in sight; and turned on Marjorie with rough fury.

"You leave me alone, will you? It ain't none of your biz what I do with this here horse." And before the indignant Marjorie could protest he had again laid the whip lash, sharply across the poor animal's back.

Then for one moment Marjorie forgot everything—forgot that she was in the streets of a big city—forgot all Aunt Julia's lectures and Elsie's warnings—and with one quick movement she seized the whip handle, trying with all her strength to drag it away from the boy. She was strong, but her antagonist was stronger, and the end of that momentary struggle was a sharp cry of pain from Marjorie, a muttered imprecation from the driver, and in another second he had sprung into his seat, and horse and wagon were clattering away down the street.

"Oh, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle," gasped Hortense, seizing Marjorie's arm, and fairly trembling with fright and horror; "how could you do such a terrible thing? A young lady to fight with a canaille! Oh, what will Madame say when she hears?"

"He is a wicked, cruel boy," panted Marjorie; "he ought to be arrested. He is killing that poor old horse."

"Yes, I know, he is cruel, a beast, but young ladies must not interfere with such things. You might have been hurt. Let us go home quickly; I am near to faint. Thank Heaven no one saw. Madame would never forgive such a disgrace."

"But some one ought to interfere," protested Marjorie, her wrath beginning to cool, "and there wasn't anybody else to do it. I would have taken that whip away from him if I could, but he was so strong, and he has hurt my wrist."

"Hurt your wrist! Let me see. Ah, but it is red. How could you have held on so tight? Come home quickly, and we will bathe it with arnica. How fortunate that Madame and Mademoiselle Elsie are away! Ah, here comes the young gentleman, Mademoiselle Elsie's friend from the hotel; he must not know that anything is wrong."

But Marjorie had no intention of keeping her indignation to herself, and she turned to greet Beverly Randolph with eyes that flashed and cheeks that tingled.

"Oh, Mr. Randolph," she exclaimed, as the young man smilingly took off his hat, and paused beside her, "the most dreadful thing has happened. A cruel, wicked boy has been ill-treating a poor old horse. The poor creature had a terribly heavy load, and when he refused to go any further, the boy beat him, and—"

"Where is he?" inquired Beverly, his own eyes beginning to flash. "I'll report the case to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals."

"He has gone," said Marjorie, regretfully. "He gave the horse a dreadful cut with the whip, and it was so frightened it started, and then he jumped into the wagon and went off. I tried to get the whip away from him, but he was terribly strong, and he hurt my wrist so much I had to let go."

Beverly Randolph's face was a mixture of astonishment, amusement and horror.

"You don't mean that you tackled the fellow yourself?" he demanded incredulously.

Marjorie nodded. Now that the excitement was over she was beginning to feel a little startled at what she had done.

"I had to," she said humbly; "there wasn't any one else to do it. Hortense thinks it was very unladylike, but I don't see what else I could have done. I couldn't just stand by and do nothing while that poor horse was being ill-treated."

"No, I don't suppose you could," said Beverly, smiling. "I don't think I would do it again, though; you might get hurt. Hello! what's the matter?—don't you feel well?"

For Marjorie had suddenly grown very pale, and leaned against the lamp-post.

"It's—it's my wrist," she faltered; "it hurts dreadfully, and—and I think I feel a little faint."

Without a moment's hesitation Beverly drew the girl's arm through his.

"Come along," he said, peremptorily, and without another word he conducted the wounded soldier back to the hotel. Marjorie, too, was silent; the pain in her wrist was very bad, and she had to bite her lips hard to keep back the rising tears. Hortense, still covered with shame and confusion, followed close behind. At the door of the lift Beverly paused.

"Is your aunt at home?" he inquired.

"No," said Marjorie, unsteadily; "she and Elsie have gone to New Haven for the football game."

"To be sure they have; I had forgotten. Your cousin told me they were going this afternoon. Well, I think I will take you to our apartment. My mother is used to sprains and bruises, and will know what to do for your wrist."

Marjorie protested that she could not think of disturbing Mrs. Randolph, but Beverly, who appeared to be accustomed to having his own way, remained firm, and in the end his companion was forced to yield, much to the distress and horror of Hortense, who considered that the story was already known to more persons than Mrs. Carleton would approve.

Mrs. Randolph and her brother-in-law were having tea in the former's pretty sitting-room, when the door was unceremoniously flung open, and Beverly appeared on the threshold, leading in a trembling, white-faced girl, who immediately collapsed into the nearest chair, and looked as if she were about to faint.

"It's Miss Marjorie Graham, Mother," Beverly explained, "and she has hurt her wrist. Her aunt is away, so I brought her in here. Oh, here's Uncle George; what luck! This is my uncle Dr. Randolph, Miss Marjorie; he is a surgeon, you know, and he'll fix you up in no time."

"To be sure I will if I can," said a pleasant voice, not unlike Beverly's. "Let me see what the trouble is. Ah, this is the hand, isn't it?" And Marjorie felt her wrist taken in firm, kind fingers. She winced at the touch, but the doctor's next words were reassuring.

"I see; only a slight sprain, nothing serious. Have you some arnica, Barbara, and some linen that I can use for a bandage?"

"How did it happen, dear?" Mrs. Randolph inquired sympathetically, as Marjorie leaned back in her chair, with a sigh of intense relief, and the doctor applied a cooling lotion to her aching wrist.

Marjorie's cheeks were crimson again, but not for a moment did she hesitate about telling the truth. Beverly had gone off to his own room, having left his charge in safe hands.

"I am afraid it was my own fault," she said, honestly. "I saw a boy ill-treating a poor old horse, and tried to stop him by getting the whip away from him, but he was much stronger than I, and in the struggle I suppose he must have twisted my wrist. I am afraid your son and my aunt's maid both think I was very unladylike."

Mrs. Randolph and the doctor exchanged amused glances, and the latter said kindly:

"I wish more people were moved by the same spirit, though I don't know that I should advise young girls to attack rough drivers. I imagine you have not been very long in New York or you would be accustomed to such sights."

"No," said Marjorie, much relieved. "I have only been in New York three weeks. My home is on a ranch in Arizona, but I have been accustomed to horses all my life. I think my father would almost kill any boy who dared to treat one of ours like that."

"I daresay he would. Your father raises horses, I suppose?"

"Yes, and cattle, too. I have lived on the ranch ever since I was two years old, and New York seems very strange in some ways."

"It must," said Dr. Randolph gravely, but his eyes twinkled, and Marjorie felt sure he was trying not to laugh. "There, I think the wrist will do nicely now. You can wet this bandage again in an hour, and if I am not mistaken the pain will be gone by that time. I must be going now, Barbara; I have two patients to see before dinner. I'll call for you and Beverly in the car at nine to-morrow morning; that will give us plenty of time to make New Haven before lunch." And with a hurried leave-taking the doctor departed, leaving Mrs. Randolph and Marjorie alone together.

The next half-hour was a very pleasant one. Mrs. Randolph would not allow the girl to go back to her own apartment until the pain in her wrist had subsided, and she made her lie on the sofa, and petted her in a way that recalled Mother and Aunt Jessie so strongly that Marjorie had some difficulty in keeping back the homesick tears. Almost before she knew it, she was chatting away to this new acquaintance as if they had been old friends.

"I hope I shall get accustomed to New York ways soon," she said humbly. "I am afraid I make a great many mistakes, and they distress my aunt and cousin very much. You see, it is all so different on the ranch. I suppose your son told you how I spoke to him that morning in the park, and asked him to take me home. It seemed quite a natural thing to do, because I knew he lived in this hotel, but Aunt Julia was dreadfully shocked."

Mrs. Randolph laughed.

"Beverly was not at all shocked," she said. "He and I have rather old-fashioned ideas about some things; we like little girls to be natural."

"I am so glad you think me a little girl still," said Marjorie in a sudden burst of confidence. "All the girls here seem so grown-up, and I don't want to grow up just yet; I am only fourteen."

"My little girl would have been just about your age if she had lived," said Mrs. Randolph, with a rather sad smile. "I am sure I should not have begun to think of her as grown-up yet."

Marjorie was interested. She would have liked to ask Mrs. Randolph about her little girl, but feared the subject might be a painful one, and just that moment Beverly came back, and the conversation turned on other matters. In a little while Marjorie rose to go.

"You have been very kind to me," she said to Mrs. Randolph. "My wrist feels ever so much better already. I do hope I haven't been a bother."

"Not a bit of it," Mrs. Randolph declared, laughing. "On the contrary, I have enjoyed your call very much, and I hope you will come often, for I am very fond of little girls. By the way, what are you going to do to-morrow?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Marjorie; "walk and read and study, I suppose. Aunt Julia said I might drive in the afternoon, but the horses go so slowly I always feel as though I should like to get out of the carriage and run. Galloping over the prairie is much more fun."

Mrs. Randolph and her son both laughed, and Beverly remarked rather indignantly:

"It's a shame you couldn't have gone to the game with the others."

"Oh, that wasn't Aunt Julia's fault," said Marjorie, loyally. "Her nephew only sent two tickets, and Elsie says it's almost impossible to get extra ones. They were very kind about it, and Aunt Julia hated to leave me behind."

Beverly and his mother exchanged a significant glance, and then Beverly offered to accompany the visitor as far as her own apartment for the purpose of carrying the arnica bottle, which Mrs. Randolph insisted she should keep in case of necessity. Marjorie protested, but Beverly was firm, and the two young people left the room together, after Mrs. Randolph had kissed the girl, and told her she must come again very soon.