"Do you know, Aunt Jessie, that to-morrow will be the first of May? It's nearly four months since you and Mother came to New York."

Miss Graham was leaning back in a comfortable arm-chair by an open window, through which the bright spring sunshine was pouring, flooding every corner of the pleasant hotel bedroom. She was still looking rather frail and delicate, but there was an expression of hope and joy in her face, that had never been there in the old days at the ranch. A crutch stood at her side, but there was no wheeled-chair to be seen. At Marjorie's words she looked round with a smile.

"Time has certainly flown," she said. "Have you had a pleasant ride?"

"It was glorious. Beverly and I had a splendid gallop. I hope you enjoyed your drive."

"Yes, it was lovely," said Miss Jessie, secretly thinking that Marjorie had grown very pretty lately. She looked so well in her perfectly fitting riding habit, with her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. "I wasn't at all tired when I came home either, which Dr. Randolph considers a distinct gain. He says I am one of his star patients. Have you finished your lessons for to-morrow?"

"Haven't any; it's Saturday, you know. I shall have plenty of time to study between now and Monday. I came to have a little chat with you before I dress. I'm going out this evening, you remember. It's the last meeting of the Club, and quite an important occasion. The Bells are sailing for Europe to-morrow, and Lulu is our president."

"I thought you wrote me that Elsie was elected president," said Miss Graham, who seldom forgot anything Marjorie told her.

"She was at first," said Marjorie, hoping her aunt would not notice her suddenly heightened color. She drew a low chair to Miss Jessie's side, and settled herself for a comfortable chat.

"Why did she give it up?" Miss Graham inquired, with interest.

"I—I don't exactly know. It was after I came back from Virginia and Barbara came home. She said she would rather not be president any more, and asked Lulu to take her place."

"I like Elsie," said Miss Jessie. "She is very clever, and has been rather spoiled in consequence, but there is much that is fine about her. She will make a noble woman, I am sure."

Marjorie looked pleased.

"Elsie likes you," she said, "and I don't think she is really fond of many people. She hasn't nearly as many friends as most of the girls at school have, but I love her dearly, and so does Babs."

"I had a letter from your father this afternoon," Miss Jessie said, after a little pause; "I am keeping it for you to read. He says things are looking up at the ranch, and he is hoping for a better season than last. He thinks he may possibly be able to come East for us himself next month. I do hope he can, for it would be such a treat for him."

"I suppose he is thankful to get Mother back," said Marjorie, "but, oh, how we do miss her, don't we, Aunt Jessie?"

"Yes, indeed, but it wouldn't have been fair to have kept her any longer when she was so anxious to get home to your father. After all, she had a good long rest, and your father declares she is looking ten years younger in consequence."

"What a wonderful winter it has been," said Marjorie, reflectively, resting her knee against her aunt's knee. "When I left home last October, how little any of us dreamed of all the strange, beautiful things that were going to happen. Those first weeks were pretty hard; I was a good deal more homesick than I let any of you know, but I knew everybody meant to be kind and I did try hard to make the best of things. Then came the Randolphs' invitation to spend the holidays in Virginia, and the wonderful discovery about Undine. And then—as if that wasn't happiness enough—Dr. Randolph saw you, and brought you and Mother back to New York with him. The operation was pretty dreadful, but ever since Dr. Randolph told us he was sure it had been a success, everything has been simply heavenly."

Miss Jessie said nothing, but softly stroked Marjorie's hair, and there was such a look of joy in her eyes, that the girl could not help being struck by it.

"Aunt Jessie," she said, laughing, "do you know, I never realized before how young you are. I used to think of you as quite a middle-aged lady, but I don't know how it is, you look different now somehow—almost like a girl."

"I was twenty-nine last week," said Miss Jessie, smiling; "I suppose twenty-nine may seem middle-aged to fifteen."

"But it doesn't," protested Marjorie; "not a bit; I think I must have been a goose ever to have thought such a thing. Beverly calls you a perfect trump, and he wouldn't say that about any one he considered middle-aged; it wouldn't be respectful."

"I am very much obliged to Beverly for his good opinion," said Miss Jessie, laughing and blushing in such a very girlish manner that her niece regarded her in growing astonishment.

"I believe it's the thought of being well and strong again that has made all the difference," she said. "Oh, Aunt Jessie darling, think of it, you'll never have to sit in that dreadful wheeled-chair again! What walks and rides we'll have together. Are you sure Dr. Randolph will let you go back to the ranch in June?"

"He says I shall be quite strong enough for the journey by that time," Miss Graham answered, but she did not meet Marjorie's direct gaze as she spoke. "I feel that I ought not to trespass on the Randolphs' hospitality any longer than is necessary. Think of what they have done for me, Marjorie. First all those weeks at the hospital, and then insisting on my coming here, and all of it just because we were kind to Undine."

"I don't think that is the only reason," said Marjorie, eagerly. "That was the beginning of it, of course, but now they all love you for yourself. Babs says her mother loves you dearly, and she and Beverly were both so pleased because you said they might call you 'Aunt Jessie.' As for the doctor, I'm sure he likes you ever so much."

"There's some one at the door; go and see who it is, Marjorie."

Marjorie rose obediently, wondering what could have possibly caused her aunt's sudden embarrassment, and when she returned she was followed by Barbara, who had also dropped in for a little chat, Miss Jessie's room being a favorite rendezvous with all the young people.

"Well, and what have you been doing this afternoon?" Miss Graham asked pleasantly, as Barbara settled herself for a comfortable half-hour.

"I went for a walk with Elsie and Hortense. We had a nice time, but I don't think Elsie felt very well, she was so quiet. I asked her if her head ached, and she said no, but I'm afraid it did."

"I don't think Elsie has seemed quite like herself for several days," said Miss Jessie, a little anxiously. "Perhaps she is studying too hard; her mother tells me she is so very ambitious."

Neither of the girls had any explanation to suggest, and they all chatted on pleasantly on various subjects until it was time to go away and dress for dinner. Barbara was also going to the Club that evening, having been admitted as a guest of honor some months before. Indeed, she was quite the heroine of the hour, for the romantic story had quickly spread from friends and acquaintances to strangers, and she had even been written about in several newspapers, a circumstance which had filled the breasts of some other girls with envy. For several weeks there was not a girl in the city so much talked about as Barbara Randolph, the child who had been mourned as dead by her family for nearly three years, and then reappeared under conditions sufficiently interesting and romantic to fill the pages of a thrilling story-book. The Randolphs disliked the publicity, but Barbara was pursued by reporters and photographers until Beverly lost his temper, and positively refused to allow any member of the family to grant another interview.

"How does it feel to know that everybody in New York is talking about you, and all the papers asking for your picture?" Elsie had asked one day, to which Barbara had answered, with a laugh:

"I don't know that I have any particular feelings about it. I am too happy at being at home again with Mother and Beverly to care for anything else in the world."

Elsie was nowhere to be seen when Marjorie returned to her uncle's apartment, and the cousins did not meet till they were both dressed for the evening, and had joined Mr. and Mrs. Carleton in the drawing-room. Then Mrs. Carleton's first words were an anxious question.

"Are you sure you are feeling quite well this evening, Elsie darling? You are very pale."

"Of course I'm all right," said Elsie, crossly. "I do wish you wouldn't fuss so much about me, Mamma."

Mrs. Carleton sighed.

"I am sure I don't intend to fuss," she said, plaintively, "but how can I help worrying when I see you looking so badly, especially when you will insist on studying so hard?"

"Nonsense," said Mr. Carleton, looking up from his evening paper, with a frown. "I have looked over Elsie's lessons, and there is nothing wrong there. She isn't studying any harder than a healthy girl of her age should. What's the matter, Elsie—don't you feel quite up to the mark?"

He spoke kindly, but his tone was a trifle impatient, and before Elsie could reply, her mother began again.

"She won't tell you; she insists there is nothing the matter, but she has not looked like herself for days. If she isn't better to-morrow I shall have the doctor see her, and give her a tonic."

Mr. Carleton threw down his newspaper.

"My dear Julia," he said, "I believe you consider a tonic a cure for every evil in the world. The girls are ready, so let us go down to dinner, and see if Elsie doesn't make up for her loss of appetite at luncheon."

But Elsie did not make up for her lack of appetite at luncheon. She toyed with her food, and her color changed so often, from white to red, and back to white again, that by the time dinner was over even her father began to look at her curiously. But when Mrs. Carleton suggested that she should not go to Gertie Rossiter's, where the Club was to be held that evening, she protested that she was perfectly well, and was so decided in her determination to go, that, as usual, she had her way.

The meeting was at eight, and Marjorie and Elsie were obliged to hurry away from the dinner table to join the two Randolphs, as the four were to go together in the Carletons' carriage.

"Uncle George says we might have had his car as well as not," remarked Barbara, as they took their seats in the carriage. "He has come to spend the evening with Mother and Aunt Jessie, and won't need it."

"Your uncle is very generous with his car," said Marjorie, innocently. "He lent it to your mother and Aunt Jessie this afternoon, you know, and Aunt Jessie said they had a beautiful ride."

"Oh, Uncle George would do anything in the world for Aunt Jessie," remarked Barbara, at which her brother smiled a rather mischievous smile, but said nothing.

There was an unusually large gathering of the Club that evening, in honor of the president, who, with her family, was to sail for Europe the following day. As it was a gala occasion, no sewing was to be done, and the boys were invited to come with the girls, and devote the evening to dancing and games.

"I'm afraid our sewing really hasn't amounted to very much," Winifred Hamilton remarked ruefully. "Mother says she's afraid the Blind Babies would be badly off if they had to depend upon us for clothes, but we've had an awfully jolly winter, and I'm sorry it's over, aren't you, Mr. Randolph?"

"Well, summer is pretty jolly, too, you know," answered Beverly, smiling. "I sha'n't be sorry to have vacation begin. We are going abroad as soon as college closes."

"How nice," said Winifred, looking interested; "perhaps you'll meet the Bells. They expect to stay over till October. I really don't know how I shall manage to get on so long without Lulu."

"Why don't you go, too?" Beverly asked, good-naturedly.

"I should love to, but I couldn't leave Mother. Dr. Bell offered to take me, and Father and Mother said I might go if I liked, but I couldn't make up my mind to leave them. Perhaps some day we shall go ourselves," finished Winifred, trying to look hopeful.

"I'll let you into a little secret if you'll promise not to tell," said Beverly, who had a genuine liking for Winifred, despite the fact that she was "young for her age." "My mother is very anxious to have Marjorie go with us, provided her parents will consent. Miss Graham thinks they will, and Mother has written to ask them before speaking to Marjorie herself. Mind you don't tell, for it's a great secret. Even Babs doesn't know, for she and Marjorie are such chums she would be sure to let something out. Hello! what's up? Lulu is going to make a speech."

There was a sudden hush as Lulu, with Elsie at her side, stepped forward, and rapped sharply on the table, to call the club to order.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began in what the girls called "her presidential tone," "I didn't expect to have any regular meeting this evening, but Miss Elsie Carleton has an announcement to make, and has asked me to tell you she would like to speak. As you all know Miss Carleton was your president until she resigned in favor of another, I am sure you will all be pleased to hear what she has to say. Go ahead, Elsie; everybody's listening."

All eyes were turned in surprise upon Elsie, as she stood before them, very pale, but with a look of settled determination on her face. Twice she tried to speak, and stopped, and they could all see that she was very nervous. Then the words came, very low, but sufficiently audible to reach every ear in the room.

"Girls," she began, looking straight before her, and clasping and unclasping her hands as she spoke, "girls and boys, too, for I want you all to hear. I have a confession to make. It's about something that happened at the first meeting of this Club—the night we were all initiated. That poem I wrote—some of you thought it was the best, and you made me president—it—it wasn't original; I learned it when I was a little girl, but I thought nobody would recognize it. I didn't mean to cheat at first, but I couldn't make up anything that I thought was good enough, and I hated to have the other poems better than mine. I haven't anything more to say except that I've been ashamed of myself ever since, and I can't have you go on thinking me cleverer than I am, any longer." And then, without waiting to note the effect of her startling announcement, Elsie turned and fled.

Marjorie and Barbara found her upstairs in the dressing-room, crying as if her heart would break. Neither of them said a word, but Marjorie put her arms round her cousin's neck and hugged her.

"What are they saying about me?" whispered Elsie, burying her face on Marjorie's shoulder. "Do they all despise me?"

"Not a bit of it," declared Marjorie, reassuringly. "They're all saying how plucky it was of you to confess. Lulu says she never liked you so much before in her life. As for me, I'm so proud of you I don't know what to do. Oh, Elsie darling, I'm so glad you did it!"

"It was you who made me do it," sobbed Elsie, clinging to her cousin. "You were so splendid about it all. You knew, and yet you never told any one, not even Papa when he was provoked with you, because you wouldn't explain what the trouble between us was. Your brother knew too, Babs, and he has never said a word, but I know how he has despised me. I've despised myself too—oh, how I have despised myself! I've been selfish and conceited all my life, and I didn't care much, but one can't help feeling mean and ashamed beside girls like you, and brave, wonderful women like Aunt Jessie. I don't believe I've got one real friend in the world."

"You've got lots," protested Marjorie and Barbara both together. "Just come downstairs and see if you haven't."

It was a very quiet, subdued Elsie who reËntered the drawing-room, escorted by her two staunch friends, but the welcome she received was such that, before the evening was over, she found herself able to smile, and take a passing interest in life once more. Elsie had many faults, but she was not a bad girl, and she had learned a lesson that would last her all her life. One of the first to approach her and hold out his hand, was Beverly Randolph.

"You're a trump, Elsie," he said, in his blunt, boyish way. "It takes a lot of pluck to get up and say a thing like that. Let's shake hands and be friends." And at that moment Elsie was happier than she had been in months.

"I think I'll just stop a minute to say good-night to Aunt Jessie," remarked Marjorie, as they were going up to their apartment in the lift. "I don't believe she has gone to bed yet if Dr. Randolph is spending the evening. Tell Aunt Julia I'll be right up, Elsie."

So Marjorie stepped out of the lift with the Randolphs, while Elsie went up another floor to her own apartment. Mrs. Randolph had insisted that Miss Graham should be her guest on leaving the hospital, and one of the most comfortable rooms in the apartment had been assigned to her.

It was Mrs. Randolph herself who opened the door for the young people; she was smiling, and looked as if she were pleased about something.

"Has Aunt Jessie gone to bed?" Marjorie asked.

"No, dear, she is in the parlor with Uncle George, and I think she wants to see you."

Barbara hurried her mother off to her room, to tell of the events of the evening, and Beverly followed, at a mysterious signal from Mrs. Randolph, so Marjorie was the only one to enter the cozy little parlor, where she found her aunt and the doctor sitting on the sofa side by side.

"I just came in for a minute to say good-night," she began. "I've had a lovely evening, and—and—" here Marjorie paused abruptly, struck by something unusual in the faces of her two listeners.

"Is—is anything the matter?" she inquired anxiously.

"Do we look as if there were?" inquired the doctor, and he smiled such a radiant smile that Marjorie's sudden anxiety melted into thin air.

"No, not exactly, but Aunt Jessie looks so—so different. Oh, Aunt Jessie darling, I know something has happened—is it good news?"

"The very best news in the world for me," said the doctor, laughing, while Aunt Jessie drew her niece into her arms, and hid her smiling, blushing face on Marjorie's shoulder. "Your aunt has promised to give me something that I want more than anything else. Marjorie, do you think you would like to have me for an uncle?"

"And that was just the crowning happiness of all," said Marjorie, when she and Elsie were talking things over half an hour later. "I thought I was just as happy as any girl could be before, but when I saw that look on Aunt Jessie's face, and thought of all she had suffered, and how brave she had been, it seemed as if my heart would burst with gladness. It's just the most beautiful ending to a beautiful winter."

"I wish I had done more to make the first part of the winter happy," said Elsie, with a remorseful sigh. "I don't see why you didn't hate me, Marjorie; I'm sure I deserved it."

"Why, I couldn't," said Marjorie, simply, "you were my own cousin, you know."

Elsie went up to her cousin, and put her arms round her. That was such an unusual proceeding from cold, undemonstrative Elsie that Marjorie was speechless with astonishment.

"I believe you are the best girl in the world, Marjorie," she said, unsteadily. "I'm not worthy of your friendship, but if you will really love me, and forgive me for all the mean, hateful things I've done, I will try to deserve it—I will indeed."