It was a stormy December afternoon, about ten days later, and Marjorie was alone in her room preparing her lessons for the next day. Elsie had gone shopping with her mother, and Hortense had been sent on an errand. Marjorie was aroused from the intricacies of a difficult mathematical problem by a ring at the bell, and on going to the door, found Beverly Randolph standing on the threshold.

It was the first time the two had been alone together since the evening of the Initiation, and in spite of herself, Marjorie felt her cheeks growing hot as she asked the visitor to come in. But Beverly had no intention of referring to unpleasant bygones.

"I'm so glad to find you at home," he said, with his pleasant smile and in the voice that always put people at their ease. "My mother sent me to ask if you would come and sit with her for a while this afternoon, provided you have nothing more important to do. She is laid up with a cold, and is feeling rather blue and forlorn."

"I should love to come," said Marjorie, her face brightening at the prospect. "I was afraid your mother might not be well when I didn't see her at luncheon. I hope she isn't really ill."

"Oh, no; nothing but a disagreeable cold, that has kept her in the house for the past two days. I'm glad you can come, for I'm sure it will cheer her up."

"All right," said Marjorie; "I'll come in just a minute. I must leave a note for Aunt Julia in case she should get home before I do."

Marjorie found Mrs. Randolph sitting in an arm-chair by the fire, looking rather pale and tired, but her greeting to the girl was just as kind and cheerful as usual, and Marjorie hoped that it was only in her imagination that she saw that sad, wistful expression in her kind friend's eyes.

"Now sit down and tell me about all you have been doing," said Mrs. Randolph, when the first greetings had been exchanged. "I love to hear about the things girls are interested in. My little Barbara used to tell me of all her good times as well as her troubles. I am so glad you have brought your work—what are you making?"

"A shawl for my aunt's Christmas present; one of the girls at school taught me the stitch, and I think it's going to be very pretty. I shall have to work hard, though, to finish it in time. Do you like the color?"

"Very much," said Mrs. Randolph. "I suppose this will be your first Christmas away from home?"

A shadow crossed Marjorie's bright face. "I try not to think of it," she said. "It's going to be pretty hard, but every one has been so kind, and Uncle Henry and Aunt Julia are doing so much for me, that it wouldn't be right to be unhappy. I think perhaps if I keep very busy I shall manage to get on all right. Aunt Jessie says that's a good way of making the best of things that can't be helped."

Mrs. Randolph said nothing, but the look she gave Marjorie was such an understanding one that the girl's heart warmed towards her more and more. The next half-hour slipped away very pleasantly. Mrs. Randolph was one of those rare people who have the power of drawing others out, and Marjorie chatted away to her of school and school-friends, and all the little unimportant happenings of her New York life, with almost as much freedom as she would have talked to her mother or aunt. Then Mrs. Randolph asked her if she liked reading aloud, and when Marjorie assured her that she had read a great deal to Aunt Jessie, she explained that, owing to a cold in her eyes, she had not been able to read herself for several days. Marjorie was delighted to be of real use, and they were soon deep in an interesting story. Marjorie read aloud very well, and it was an accomplishment of which she was rather proud.

At five o'clock Beverly, who had gone to his room to "cram," as he expressed it, returned, and his mother rang the bell for tea.

"Marjorie and I have had a delightful afternoon," she said; "she seems to be almost as fond of reading aloud as I am of listening. I am going to be very selfish and ask her to come again to-morrow, provided she can spare the time. The doctor doesn't want me to use my eyes much for several days."

"I shall just love to come," declared Marjorie eagerly, "and I can easily manage it. My lessons aren't very hard, and I always have a good deal of time to myself every day."

"Don't you and your cousin ever go off together in the afternoons?" Beverly inquired bluntly.

Marjorie blushed.

"Not very often," she admitted reluctantly. "You see, Elsie has so many more friends than I have, and they are always doing things together. I like the girls at school ever so much, and they are all very nice and kind to me, but of course they don't know me very well yet."

"How did the last meeting of the Club come off?" Beverly asked. "I was sorry I couldn't go, but I had another engagement."

Marjorie was conscious of a sensation of embarrassment at this mention of the Club, for she had not forgotten the secret that she and Beverly shared together, but she tried to answer quite naturally.

"Oh, it was very pleasant. The girls have decided to sew for the little blind children at the 'Home For Blind Babies.' We sewed for three quarters of an hour, and then Carol said we might as well stop, and begin to get ready for the boys. They weren't invited till nine, but some of the girls seemed to think it would take some time to get ready for them, though there really wasn't anything in particular to do. I hope they'll sew a little longer next time, for if they don't I'm afraid the Club won't accomplish very much."

Mrs. Randolph and Beverly both laughed, and then Beverly sauntered over to the piano, and began to drum.

"Sing something, dear," said his mother. "Are you fond of music, Marjorie?"

"I think I should be if I had a chance of hearing much," said Marjorie, smiling, "but until I came to New York I had scarcely ever heard any music except the boys singing on the ranch. Mother used to play a little when she was a girl, but we haven't any piano. I love to hear Elsie play."

"Well, I think you will like to hear Beverly sing; you know he is on the college Glee Club. Sing that pretty Irish ballad, 'She Is Far From the Land,' Beverly; I am sure Marjorie will like that."

Beverly laughingly protested that he had no voice whatever, and was sure Marjorie would want to run away the moment he began to sing, but good-naturedly yielded to his mother's request, and after striking a few preliminary chords, began in a clear tenor voice—

Marjorie—who had a real love for music—was much impressed, and at the close of the ballad, begged so earnestly for more, that Beverly could not help being flattered, and his mother beamed with pleasure.

Beverly sang several more ballads, and one or two college songs, and then, after strumming idly on the piano for a moment, as if uncertain what to sing next, he suddenly broke into an air Marjorie knew.

Marjorie turned with a start, arrested by the sound of a low, half-suppressed sob. Mrs. Randolph had covered her face with her hands, and was crying softly. At the same moment Beverly also turned, and, with an exclamation of dismay, hastily sprang to his feet, and hurried to his mother's side.

"Oh, Mother dear, I'm so sorry!" cried the boy, dropping on his knees, and trying to draw Mrs. Randolph's hands down from her face. "I never thought; it was very careless. Oh, Mother darling, please don't cry—please forgive me!"

At the sound of her son's voice, Mrs. Randolph looked up, and tried to smile through her tears.

"Never mind, dear," she said, gently, "it was very foolish of me, but that song—you know how fond she was of it."

"Yes, Mother, I know; I was a brute to have forgotten." And Beverly put his strong young arms tenderly round his mother. Mrs. Randolph laid her head on his shoulder for a moment, as if she found comfort in the touch, and then she roused herself with an effort, dried her eyes, and turned to Marjorie.

"You must excuse me for being so foolish, dear," she said, "but that was my little Barbara's favorite song; she was always asking Beverly to sing it. I don't think I have heard it since—since she went away."

There were tears of sympathy in Marjorie's eyes, and although she said nothing, the look she gave her friend touched Mrs. Randolph, and perhaps comforted her more than any words would have done.

Beverly did not sing again, but quietly closed the piano, and for the rest of the afternoon his merry boyish face was unusually grave.

"You have given me a great deal of pleasure," Mrs. Randolph said, when Marjorie at last rose to go. "I hope you will come again to-morrow. It is very tiresome to have to stay in the house all day, especially when one hasn't the solace of reading."

Marjorie said she would surely come again, and then she hurried back to their own apartment, where she found her aunt and cousin, who had come in some time before.

Mrs. Carleton had read Marjorie's note, and had no objection to the girl's spending as much time with the invalid as she liked.

"Was Beverly at home?" Elsie inquired, anxiously, following her cousin to her room.

"He was there some of the time," said Marjorie; "he had lessons to do at first, but he came in for tea. Mrs. Randolph asked him to sing—he has a beautiful voice."

"You certainly have a way of getting what you want," remarked Elsie in a rather dissatisfied tone; "I wonder how you manage."

"Manage what?" demanded Marjorie in amazement; "what in the world do you mean, Elsie?"

Elsie shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, I guess you know," she said, sarcastically, and walked out of the room, leaving Marjorie very much puzzled, and more than a little uncomfortable.

Mrs. Randolph did not recover from her cold as quickly as she had hoped, and she was confined to the house for nearly a week. Her eyes, too, continued troublesome, and reading and sewing were strictly forbidden. So it came to be quite a natural thing that Marjorie should spend an hour every afternoon in the Randolphs' apartment, and the girl grew to look forward to those hours as the pleasantest of the whole day.

"You remind me more of my little Barbara every day," Mrs. Randolph said to her once, and Marjorie felt that she had received a great compliment. She was growing to feel a deep interest in this Barbara, whose tragic death had cast such a shadow of sorrow over her mother's life, but she had too much tact, and was too kind-hearted, to show undue curiosity on a painful subject, and so, though there were many questions she would have liked to ask about this unknown Barbara, she refrained from asking one, and was fain to content herself with the stray bits of information that Mrs. Randolph or Beverly occasionally let fall.

When Mrs. Randolph was well again Marjorie greatly missed the daily chat, and pleasant hour of reading aloud. The drives with Aunt Julia, shut up in the brougham, with only one window open, proved a most unsatisfactory substitute, but her aunt was very kind, and showed so much real interest in the Christmas box she was preparing for her dear ones at home that Marjorie reproached herself bitterly for not finding Aunt Julia's society as agreeable as Mrs. Randolph's. But Christmas was drawing near, and there were times when Marjorie fought desperately against the homesickness, which seemed almost greater than she could bear.

To add to everything else, she caught a feverish cold, and Mrs. Carleton, who was always nervous about illness, insisted on her remaining in the house; a state of affairs hitherto unknown to healthy Marjorie, who had never in her life spent a day in bed.

It was on the second afternoon of headache and sore throat that Mrs. Randolph came to the rescue. Marjorie had come to the end of her resources. She had read till her eyes ached, and sewed on Christmas presents until she felt that she couldn't take another stitch. The longing for fresh air and exercise was almost beyond her endurance, and yet she dared not even open a window, for fear of incurring her aunt's displeasure. Mrs. Carleton and Elsie were out, but Hortense had been left in charge, with strict injunctions to see that Mademoiselle Marjorie kept out of draughts, and took her medicine regularly. Marjorie was just wondering in her desperation whether a walk up and down the steam-heated hotel corridor would be regarded in the light of an imprudence, when there was a ring at the bell, and Hortense announced Mrs. Randolph.

"I have only just heard you were ill," the visitor said kindly, taking Marjorie's hand in hers, and looking with sympathetic interest into the pale, woe-begone face. "Your aunt told Beverly at luncheon that you had a bad cold. You should have let me know sooner; I can't have my kind little friend laid up without trying to return some of her goodness to me."

"It wasn't goodness at all," said Marjorie, flushing with pleasure; "it was just having a lovely time. I was thinking only yesterday, what a very selfish girl I must be, for I couldn't help being sorry you didn't need me any more, it's so pleasant to be needed."

Marjorie's voice trembled a little, for she was feeling rather weak and forlorn, and Mrs. Randolph drew her down beside her on the sofa.

"I think I always need you, dear," she said. "I have missed your visits very much, and reading to myself doesn't seem half as pleasant as having a nice little girl read aloud to me. Still, I am glad to have the use of my eyes again, especially as we are going away next week."

"Going away!" repeated Marjorie, and her face expressed so much dismay that Mrs. Randolph could not help smiling.

"We are not going for good," she explained, "but Beverly's vacation begins next Wednesday, and he is anxious to spend Christmas at our Virginia home. We shall only be away about ten days."

Marjorie looked much relieved.

"I was afraid you meant you were going to Europe, or somewhere far away," she said, "and that I shouldn't see you any more. I don't know what I should do without you."

"And I should miss you very much, too," said Mrs. Randolph, "but nothing so unpleasant is going to happen, I hope. What are your plans for the holidays?"

"Oh, nothing in particular. Elsie and I are invited to several parties, and Aunt Julia's sister, Mrs. Ward, is having a tree on Christmas night. I can't help wishing the holidays were over. It will be my first Christmas away from home, you know."

"I suppose your family will miss you as much as you miss them," Mrs. Randolph said, sympathetically.

"Yes, I know they will, and that is one of the hardest things to bear. I had a letter from Undine to-day, and she says they are all very sad, though they are trying hard to be brave and cheerful."

"Who is Undine?"

"Oh, haven't I told you about her? She's a girl who lives at the ranch, and we call her Undine, but it isn't her real name."

Mrs. Randolph looked interested.

"What is her real name?" she asked, anxious to cheer Marjorie by talking of home and friends.

Marjorie opened her lips to explain, but suddenly remembered something Beverly had told her. It would be scarcely possible to tell Undine's story without mentioning the fatal subject of the earthquake, so she only said:

"We don't know her real name, but the people she lived with before she came to the ranch called her Sally. She didn't like Sally, and asked us to call her something else, and I suggested Undine."

Mrs. Randolph laughed. "A rather romantic name for a flesh and blood girl," she said; "how old is your Undine?"

"About fifteen, we think, but we are not sure, and she doesn't know herself. Lulu Bell says you have a beautiful home in Virginia. I suppose you will be glad to go there for the holidays."

"Yes, we all love it very much. It is a dear old place; my husband's family have lived there for generations, and my old home, where I lived before I married, is only a couple of miles away."

"I have always thought Virginia must be a very interesting place," said Marjorie. "I have read ever so many books about the early settlers in Jamestown. Have you read 'To Have and to Hold,' and 'White Aprons'?"

"Yes, I have read both. Our home is on the James River, not far from Jamestown—would you like to see it?"

"I should love it," said Marjorie, heartily. "I don't suppose I ever shall though," she added, with a sigh.

"I don't see why not," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling. "How would you like to go home with us for the holidays?"

Marjorie was speechless. For the first moment she could scarcely believe that her friend was in earnest.

"I came this afternoon on purpose to propose it," Mrs. Randolph went on, convinced by the girl's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes that there was no doubt about her wanting to accept the invitation. "Beverly and I were speaking of it last evening. We shall be alone except for Dr. Randolph, who is going with us, but we have some pleasant young people in the neighborhood, and there is generally a good deal going on at Christmas. I think you would have a pleasant time."

"It would be the next best thing to going home," declared Marjorie, "but, oh, dear Mrs. Randolph, are you sure you really want me?"

"Quite sure," said Mrs. Randolph, kissing her. "It will make us all very happy to have our nice little friend with us."

"If only Aunt Julia will let me go," said Marjorie, with a vivid recollection of her aunt's rebuke on the evening after the football game.

But, contrary to Marjorie's expectations, Mrs. Carleton made no objection to the plan, beyond hoping that the Randolphs would not find her niece too much care. Neither did Elsie make any of the unpleasant remarks her cousin expected. Since the first meeting of the Poetry Club, Beverly and she had not had much to say to each other. Beverly was always polite, but Elsie could never feel quite comfortable in his society, and the knowledge that he was not to share in any of the holiday gayeties was something of a relief. She and Marjorie were apparently very good friends, but there was a look in Marjorie's eyes sometimes when they rested on her cousin, which Elsie did not like. So when Mrs. Carleton consulted her daughter on the subject of Marjorie's going to Virginia with the Randolph's, Elsie said good-naturedly:

"Oh, let her go, Mamma; she'll have a much better time than she would here. It would be such a bother to have to take her everywhere, and see she had partners at the dances, and all that. Papa would be sure to ask questions and make a fuss if she didn't have a good time."

So the invitation was accepted, and Marjorie wrote a long, joyful letter to her mother, and went to bed that night, feeling happier than she had done since coming to New York.