Nina Rhoades

Marjorie awoke the next morning with a very heavy heart. Although Elsie's companionship had not proved quite all she had anticipated, still they had hitherto been perfectly good friends. Marjorie had looked upon her clever cousin with genuine admiration, and if in some things Elsie had disappointed her, she had explained the fact to herself by remembering how different life in New York was from life in Arizona.

"Elsie has so many friends," she had told herself over and over again; "of course I can't expect her to be as fond of me as I am of her."

But last night's discovery had been a cruel disappointment, and her cousin's parting words had hurt more than perhaps Elsie herself fully realized. She had lain awake a long time, hoping—almost expecting—that Elsie would come back to tell her she was sorry. She was so ready to forgive, herself, and even to make allowances, but no sound had come from the adjoining room, and she had fallen asleep at last, still hoping that morning might bring about the longed-for reconciliation.

It was still very early, but accustomed all her life to the early hours of the ranch, she had not yet learned to sleep as late as the other members of the family. She tossed about in bed for half an hour, vainly trying to go to sleep again, and then suddenly determined to get up.

"If I could only have a canter on Roland, or a good long tramp before breakfast," she thought, with a regretful sigh, "I know it would clear the cobwebs from my brain, and I should feel ever so much better. But since that is out of the question, I may as well answer Undine's letter. She will like a letter all to herself, and I shall have plenty of time to write before the others are up."

Accordingly, as soon as she was dressed, she sat down at her desk, and began a letter, which she was determined to make as bright and cheerful as possible.

"I was delighted to get your nice letter last week, but this is the very first spare moment I have had in which to answer it. It is still very early—only a little after six—and nobody else is up, but I can't get accustomed to the queer New York hours. Just think, nobody has breakfast much before half past eight, and instead of dinner at twelve or one, we don't dine till half past seven. I thought I should be dreadfully hungry when I first heard at what hour New York people dined, but really luncheon—which they have in the middle of the day—is almost the same as dinner. I have eaten so much since I came here that I am sure I must have gained pounds already.

"I wrote Father all about the football game, and what a wonderful day I had. Since then we have had Thanksgiving, and that was very pleasant too, though of course not as exciting as the football match and the motor ride. We all dined with Aunt Julia's sister, Mrs. Lamont. Mrs. Lamont's son, who is an artist, and very clever, drew funny sketches on all the dinner cards, and his sister made up the verses. I think my card was lovely; it had a picture of a girl riding a horse, and the verse underneath was:

"'Welcome, Western stranger
To our Thanksgiving board,
May you have a jolly time,
And not be very bored.'

"Miss Annie says she isn't a poet, and I don't suppose any of the verses were really very good, but they made everybody laugh. It was funny to have 'board' and 'bored' in the same verse, but Miss Lamont said she got hopelessly stuck when she had written the first two lines, and had to end up with 'bored,' because it was the only word she could think of to rhyme with 'the Thanksgiving board.' I sat next to Mr. Ward—Aunt Julia's other sister's husband—and he was very kind, and told funny stories all the time. After dinner we had charades, and played old-fashioned games, which were great fun.

"Lulu Bell, one of the girls at school, has gotten up a Club, which is to meet every Friday evening at the different girls' houses. We had the first meeting last night, and every girl had to write a poem in order to become a member. Some of the poems were very clever, and some very funny. One girl made 'close' rhyme with 'nose.' My poem was silly, but I am going to send it to Aunt Jessie, because she likes to keep all my foolish little things.

"I am so glad you are happy, and are growing so fond of Mother and Aunt Jessie. The more people I meet, the more convinced I am that they are the two of the very best in the world. I am glad, too, that you are trying not to worry about the things you can't remember. I have told the girls at school about you, and they all think you are the most wonderful person they have ever heard of. The lady who took me to the football game had a little girl who was killed in the San Francisco earthquake. Her brother told me about it, and it is a very sad story. He asked me not to mention you to his mother, because it always distresses her to hear anything about the earthquake. She is perfectly lovely, and so bright and jolly that it seems hard to realize she has had such a great sorrow, but her son says that is because she is so unselfish, and is always thinking of other people. Isn't it wonderful how many brave, unselfish people there are in the world?

"I have met a surgeon. He is the gentleman in whose car we went to New Haven last Saturday, and he is just as nice and kind as he can be. He is very clever too, and has performed some wonderful operations, but oh, Undine dear, I am afraid I shall never have the courage to speak to him about Aunt Jessie. Arizona is so far away, and it would be so terribly presumptuous to even suggest the possibility of a great surgeon's taking such a journey to see a person he didn't even know. Still, if it could only happen—I pray about it every day.

"I must stop writing now, and study a little before breakfast. Be sure to write again very soon, and don't forget to give me every scrap of news about every one and everything. Kiss Roland's dear soft nose for me, and tell him not to forget his old mistress. Heaps of love and kisses for everybody, with a good share for yourself thrown in, from

"Your true friend,
"Marjorie Graham."

When Elsie entered the sitting-room, she found her uncle and cousin already at the breakfast table. Mrs. Carleton had a headache, and was breakfasting in bed. Mr. Carleton's morning greeting was as pleasant and affectionate as usual, but Elsie merely vouchsafed a slight nod, and a muttered "good-morning," and then kept her eyes steadily on her plate, as though to avoid any friendly overtures on Marjorie's part.

"What are you little girls going to do to-day?" Mr. Carleton inquired pleasantly, as he rose from the table.

"I'm going to dancing-school this morning," said Elsie, "and then to lunch with Carol."

Mr. Carlton glanced inquiringly at Marjorie.

"And you?" he asked kindly—"are you going to dancing-school, too?"

Marjorie hesitated, and her color rose. It had been suggested that she should accompany Elsie to the dancing class that morning, and that Aunt Julia should make arrangements about having her admitted as a regular pupil, but after what had happened last night she did not feel at all sure that Elsie would desire her society.

"I'm—I'm not quite sure," she faltered; "I think Aunt Julia may want me to go out with her."

Mr. Carleton looked a little troubled, and when he left the room he beckoned his daughter to follow him.

"Elsie dear," he said in a rather low voice, as he put on his overcoat in the entry, "I wish you would try to do something to give Marjorie a good time to-day. She is looking rather down-hearted this morning, and I'm afraid she may be a little homesick. Can't you arrange to take her out to luncheon with you?"

Elsie shrugged her shoulders.

"She hasn't been invited," she said, shortly. She did not think it necessary to add that Carol Hastings had proposed that Marjorie should make one of the party, but that she herself had opposed the plan, declaring that they would have a much pleasanter time by themselves.

Mr. Carleton frowned.

"I should think you knew Carol Hastings well enough to ask her if you might bring Marjorie with you," he said impatiently. "Remember, Elsie, what I have told you several times before; I won't have Marjorie neglected."

Now it was rather unfortunate that Mr. Carleton should have chosen just this particular time for reminding his daughter of her duty. As a rule, his words would have produced the desired effect, for Elsie stood considerably in awe of her father, but just at present she was very angry with Marjorie, and this admonition only made her angrier still.

"Marjorie is all right," she said, sulkily; "she manages to have a good time wherever she goes. If you knew as much about her as I do you wouldn't worry for fear she might be neglected."

Mr. Carleton did not look satisfied, but he had an appointment to keep, and there was no time for argument, so, after giving his daughter a good-bye kiss, and telling her to be an unselfish little girl, he hurried away, and had soon forgotten the incident in the interest of more important matters.

Elsie did not go back to the parlor, but went at once to her mother's room, where she remained for some time with the door closed. Marjorie, having finished her breakfast, wandered aimlessly over to the window, where she stood looking down at the crowds of people and vehicles in the street below. It was a lovely morning and, early as it was, the park seemed full of children. Some had already mounted their ponies, and others were on roller skates or bicycles. How Marjorie longed to join them, but going out alone was strictly forbidden. She was feeling very unhappy, and more homesick than at any time since coming to New York.

"I must get something to do or I shall make a goose of myself and begin to cry," she said desperately, and picking up the first book she found on the table, she plunged into it haphazard, and when Elsie returned she found her cousin to all appearances quite absorbed in "The Letters of Queen Victoria."

Elsie did not speak, but seating herself at the piano, began practicing exercises as if her life depended on it. Marjorie closed her book, and sat watching her cousin in silence for several minutes; then she spoke.

"Elsie."

"Well, what is it?" inquired Elsie, wheeling round on the piano stool.

"Aren't you going to be friends with me?"

"I certainly am not unless you intend to apologize for the outrageous things you said to me last night. I've been telling Mamma about it, and she is very angry."

Marjorie rose.

"I can't apologize, Elsie; you know I can't," she said, steadily, and without another word she turned and left the room.

When Mrs. Carleton entered her niece's room an hour later, she found Marjorie curled up in a little disconsolate heap on the bed, her face buried in the pillows. Aunt Julia was still in her morning wrapper, and was looking decidedly worried.

"Marjorie," she began in a rather fretful tone, as she closed the door, and sank wearily into the arm-chair, "I am very much distressed by what Elsie tells me. I have come to ask you what it all means."

Marjorie raised a swollen, tear-stained face from the pillows.

"What has Elsie told you?" she inquired anxiously.

Mrs. Carleton pressed her hand to her forehead.

"O dear!" she sighed, "my head aches so this morning, and I do dislike all these quarrels and arguments. I did hope you and Elsie would get on together without quarreling."

"I don't want to quarrel," protested Marjorie; "what does Elsie say about me?"

"She says you have been very unkind and unjust to her. She won't tell me what it is all about. I tried to make her tell, but Elsie is so honorable; she hates tale-bearing. But I know you have hurt her pride, and made her very unhappy."

Marjorie was silent; what could she say? And after a moment her aunt went on in her fretful, complaining voice.

"I don't believe you have the least idea what a noble, splendid girl Elsie is. It was rather hard for her at first when she heard you were coming to spend the winter, for of course it couldn't help making some difference. She has never had to share anything with any one else before. But she was so sweet and unselfish about it, and I did hope things might go on as they had begun. But now you have begun to quarrel, and I suppose there will be nothing but trouble and unpleasantness all winter."

"She was so sweet and unselfish about it!" How those words hurt Marjorie, and all the time she had been thinking that Elsie had looked forward to meeting her almost, if not quite as much, as she had looked forward to knowing the cousin who was "the next best thing to a sister." It was only by a mighty effort that she managed to choke back the flood of scalding tears, which threatened to overwhelm her.

"I'm very sorry, Aunt Julia," she said tremulously; "I didn't mean to quarrel with Elsie. If she had told you what it was about perhaps you would have understood."

"Well, she wouldn't tell," said Mrs. Carleton, crossly, "so there is no use in talking about that. All I want to say to you is that I am very much annoyed, and sincerely hope nothing so unpleasant will happen again. Elsie has gone to dancing-school, and Hortense has gone with her, as my head was so bad. Now I am going back to my room to lie down for a while; perhaps I may be better by luncheon time."

That was the most unhappy day Marjorie had ever spent in her life. It seemed to her as if the morning would never end, and when her aunt appeared at luncheon she still wore an air of injured dignity, and entertained Marjorie during the meal, with a long account of Elsie's many accomplishments, a subject of which her niece was becoming heartily tired, although she would scarcely have admitted the fact even to herself. Soon after luncheon Mr. Carleton telephoned to say that he would come uptown in time to drive with his wife, and Aunt Julia proposed that Marjorie should go for a walk with Hortense. The girl's own head was aching by this time, and she was glad of a brisk walk in the keen, frosty air, but she was so unusually silent and preoccupied, that the maid asked her anxiously if she "had the homesickness."

"Yes," said Marjorie, with a catch in her voice, "I've got it badly to-day."

"Ah, I understand," murmured Hortense, softly, "Mademoiselle is like me—I, too, often have the homesickness."

Elsie did not reach home till after five, as Carol's mother had taken the two girls to the theater, and even then she took no notice of Marjorie, but went at once to her mother's room, where Marjorie heard her giving a long and animated account of the play she had seen.

"By the way," remarked Mr. Carleton at dinner that evening, "I forgot to ask about the Club—how did the poems turn out?"

There was a moment's embarrassed silence, and Marjorie's heart began to beat very fast; then Elsie spoke.

"They were all very silly," she said, indifferently. "I told Lulu it was nonsense having all the girls write poems."

"Whose poem was the best?" Mr. Carleton asked.

"They made me president of the Club," said Elsie, her eyes bent on her plate; "my poem got the most votes."

"I was sure it would," murmured Mrs. Carleton, with an adoring glance at her clever daughter. "Why didn't you tell us about it before, darling—you knew how interested we would be?"

"Let me see the poem," said Mr. Carleton, good-naturedly; "I should like to judge its merits for myself."

"I can't; I've torn it up." Elsie tried to speak in a tone of complete indifference, but her cheeks were crimson, and her father watched her curiously.

"My darling child, how very foolish!" remonstrated Mrs. Carleton. "You know your father and I always want to see everything you write. Why in the world did you tear it up?"

"Oh, it wasn't any good," said Elsie, with an uneasy glance at Marjorie; "some of the girls thought Lulu's poem was better."

"I don't believe it was, though," Mrs. Carleton maintained with conviction. "Wasn't Elsie's poem much the best, Marjorie?"

It was a dreadful moment for poor Marjorie. She had never told a lie in her life, and yet how could she offend her uncle and aunt, who were doing so much for her, and who both adored Elsie? She cast an appealing glance at her cousin, and remained silent.

"Oh, you needn't ask Marjorie," remarked Elsie, with a disagreeable laugh; "she doesn't like my poem. She only got five votes herself, so I suppose it's rather hard for her to judge of other people's poetry."

Mr. Carleton frowned, and Mrs. Carleton looked distressed, but no more was said on the subject, for which Marjorie felt sincerely thankful.

The next day was Sunday, and the most unhappy, homesick day Marjorie had spent in New York. Her uncle was the only member of the family who continued to treat her as usual. Elsie scarcely spoke to her, and Aunt Julia, though evidently making an effort to be kind, showed so plainly by her manner that she was both hurt and displeased, that poor Marjorie's heart grew heavier and heavier. They all went to church in the morning, and in the afternoon Elsie went for a drive with her mother, and Mr. Carleton retired to his own room to read and write letters. Marjorie began her usual home letter, but had not written half a page when she broke down, and spent the next half hour in having a good cry, which was perhaps the most satisfactory thing she could have done under the circumstances.

She had just dried her eyes, and having made a brave resolution not to be so foolish again, was sitting down with the intention of going on with her letter, when she heard her uncle's voice calling her from the sitting-room.

"Come here, Marjorie," said Mr. Carleton, kindly, as his niece appeared in answer to his summons. "Sit down and let us have a little talk before the others come home."

Marjorie complied. She hoped devoutly that her uncle would not notice that she had been crying, but perhaps Uncle Henry's eyes were sharper than his family always suspected.

"Marjorie," he said abruptly, "I want you to tell me what this trouble is between you and Elsie."

Marjorie gave a little gasp, and her cheeks grew pink.

"I—I'm afraid I can't tell you, Uncle Henry," she faltered; "you had better ask Elsie."

"I have asked her, and so has your aunt, but she refused to tell us anything except that you have quarreled about something, and that you have treated her rather unkindly."

Marjorie's eyes flashed indignantly, and she bit her lips to keep back the angry words.

"Now I happen to know a good deal about these little quarrels of Elsie's," Mr. Carleton went on quietly. "She is a good girl, and a clever one, too, but she has her faults and I have no reason to suppose that you are any more to blame than she in this case. All I want is a clear account of what happened, and then I can settle this tempest in a teapot, which I can see has been making you both unhappy for the past two days."

By this time Marjorie had succeeded in controlling her temper, and her voice was quite clear and steady as she answered—

"I am very sorry, Uncle Henry, but if Elsie hasn't told you what the trouble is, I am afraid I can't tell either. Please don't be angry, or think me disrespectful, but I can't tell; it wouldn't be fair."

Mr. Carleton was evidently displeased.

"Very well," he said, turning away coldly, and taking up a book, "I have no more to say on the matter. I am sorry, for I hoped you would have sufficient confidence in your aunt and me to trust us, and confide in us. I do not wish to force you to tell us anything against your will, but you must remember that your mother has placed you under our care."

The tears rushed to Marjorie's eyes.

"Oh, Uncle Henry!" she began, then checked herself abruptly, and, with a half suppressed sob, turned and fled back to her own room.

It was more than an hour later when Elsie presented herself at her cousin's door.

"May I come in, Marjorie?" she inquired in a rather conciliatory tone.

Marjorie looked up from the letter she was writing; her face brightening with sudden hope.

"Of course you may," she said, heartily.

"Oh, Elsie, do let us make up; I can't stand not being friends with people I love."

Elsie advanced slowly into the room and closed the door.

"Papa has been talking to me," she said, "and I have promised him to forgive you for what you said to me the other night. You—you didn't tell him anything, did you?"

"No," said Marjorie indignantly, "of course I didn't. He asked me, but I wouldn't tell. I'm afraid I made him angry."

Elsie looked much relieved.

"That's all right," she said, speaking more pleasantly than she had done since the meeting of the Poetry Club. "We won't say any more about it. I've torn up that silly poem, and nobody is going to remember it. If Beverly Randolph should ever say anything to you, you can tell him it was just a joke. Now come into my room, and I'll tell you all about the good time Carol and I had yesterday."

But although Marjorie accepted the olive branch, and she and Elsie were apparently as good friends as ever that evening, her confidence in her cousin had been cruelly shaken, and she told herself sadly that she could never feel quite the same towards Elsie again. Still, it was a great comfort to be on good terms once more, and to see the worried expression disappear from Aunt Julia's face, even though she could not help feeling a slight shock on hearing her aunt remark in a low tone to her uncle at the dinner table:

"Isn't Elsie sweet? I really think she has the most lovable, forgiving disposition I have ever known."