One afternoon Marjorie sat by the fire reading. She was not specially interested in her book, but Kitty had gone to see Dorothy Adams, and King was off somewhere, so she had no one to play with.

Presently Sarah entered.

"There's somebody wants you on the telephone, Miss Marjorie," she said, and Midget jumped up, wondering who it could be.

"Hello," she said, as she took the receiver.

"Hello," said a pleasant voice; "is this Marjorie Maynard?"

"Yes; who is this?"

"This is Cinderella."

"Who!"

"Cinderella. My two stepsisters have gone to a ball, and my cruel stepmother has beaten me and starved me—"

"What are you talking about? Who is this, please?"

"Me. I'm Cinderella. And I'm so lonely and sad I thought perhaps you'd come over to see me."

A light began to dawn on Marjorie.

"Oh," she continued, "where do you live?"

"Across the street from your house."

"Then you're Delight Spencer."

"Yes, I am. Can't you come over and let's get acquainted?"

"Yes, I will. I'd like to. Shall I come now?"

"Yes, right away. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

Marjorie hung up the receiver and after a hasty brush at her curls, and a few pinches at her hair ribbons, she flung on hat and coat and flew across the street.

If only this new girl should be a desirable chum!

That opening about Cinderella sounded hopeful,—she must know how to play.

Well, at any rate, Midget would soon know now.

She rang the bell at Gladys's house, with a queer feeling, and as she went in, and saw the familiar rooms and furniture, and no Gladys, she almost started to run away again—

"Miss Delight wants you to come right up to her room, Miss," said the maid who admitted her, and Marjorie followed her upstairs, glad to find that at least the new girl didn't have Gladys's room for her own. The maid indicated the room, and stood aside for Marjorie to enter, but at the first glance Midget stood still on the threshold.

In the first place the room was transformed. It had been the Fultons' playroom, and furnished rather plainly; but now it was so full of all sorts of things, that it looked like a bazaar.

In a big armchair sat Delight. She had on a Japanese quilted kimona of light blue silk, and little blue Turkish slippers. Her hair was pure golden, and was just a tangle of fluffy curls topped by a huge blue bow.

But her face, Marjorie thought at once, was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. Big blue eyes, a soft pink and white complexion, and red lips smiling over little white teeth, made Delight look like the pictures on Marjorie's fairy calendar.

And yet, as Midget stood for a moment, looking at her, the pink faded from her cheeks, and she rose from her chair, and said, stiffly:

"Sit down, won't you? I'm glad you came."

Marjorie sat down, on the edge of a couch, and Delight sank back in her big chair.

She was so evidently overcome with a spasm of shyness that Midget was sorry for her, but somehow it made her feel shy, herself, and the two little girls sat there, looking at each other, without saying a word.

At last, overcoming her embarrassment, Marjorie said, "Was it you who telephoned?" A sudden wave of red flooded Delight's pale cheeks, and she answered:

"Yes, it was. I have a cold, and can't go out of my room,—and mother is out,—and—and I was awfully lonesome, so I played I was Cinderella. And then I just happened to think I'd telephone you—just for fun—"

"Have you a stepmother? Is she cruel to you?"

"Mercy, no! Mother is the dearest thing in the world, and she adores me,—spoils me, in fact. She's gone out now to get me some things to make valentines with. But I wish she was here. I thought it would be fun to see,—to see you alone,—but you're so different from what I thought you were."

"Different, how?" said Midget, forgetting her own shyness in her interest in this strange girl.

"Why, you're so—so big, and rosy,—and your eyes snap so."

"You're afraid of me!" exclaimed Midget, laughing merrily.

"I'm not when you laugh like that!" returned Delight, who was beginning to feel more at ease.

"Well, I was afraid of you, too, at first. You looked so—so, breakable, you know."

"Delicate?"

"Yes, fragile. Like those pretty spun sugar things."

"I am delicate. At least, mother says I am. I hate to romp or run, and
I'm afraid of people who do those things."

"Well, I'm not afraid of anybody who can play she's Cinderella over a telephone! I love to run and play out-of-doors, but I love to play 'pretend games' too."

"So do I. But I have to play them all by myself. Except sometimes mother plays with me."

"You can play with us. We all play pretend games. Kitty's best at it,—she's my sister. And King—Kingdon, my brother, is grand."

"Take off your things, won't you? I ought to have asked you before. I haven't any sense."

Marjorie jumped up and threw off her hat and coat, tossed them on the couch, and then plumped herself into another big chair near Delight's.

The children were indeed a contrast.

Marjorie, large for her age, full of hearty, healthy life, and irrepressible gayety of spirit, bounced around like a big, good-natured rubber ball. Delight, small, slender, and not very strong, moved always gently and timidly.

Marjorie, too, was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and rosy-cheeked; while
Delight was of lovely blonde type, and her pale blue robe suited her, as
Midget's crimson cashmere set off her own vivid coloring.

The ice fairly broken, the little girls forgot their shyness, and acquaintance progressed rapidly.

"Have you always lived in New York?" asked Midget.

"Yes; but I'm so delicate mother thinks this place will be better for me.
Do you like it here?"

"Why, yes. But I've always lived here, you know. Are you going to school?"

"No; I never go to school. It makes me nervous. I always have a governess at home."

"Oh, how lovely! I'd give anything if I could study that way. Isn't it fun?"

"Oh, no; it's so lonely. I'd ever so much rather go to school and be in a class. But I always faint in a schoolroom."

"I don't faint,—I don't know how. I wish I did, I'd try it, and then
Miss Lawrence would have to send me home. Where are you in arithmetic?"

"Partial Payments; but I'm reviewing. Where are you?"

"Cube root, and I hate it."

"So do I. How do you like my room?"

"It's splendid. But I can't take it all in at once."

Marjorie jumped up and walked round the room, stopping to look at the aquarium, the blackboard, the gramophone, and many other modes of entertainment which had been collected to give Delight pleasure.

"Yes, I love my things. I have so many, and father is always bringing me new ones. That's to make up for my being an only child. I often beg mother to adopt a sister for me."

"I'll be your sister," said Midget, in a sudden heartfelt burst of sympathy for the lonely little girl.

"Oh, will you?" she said, wistfully; "and come and live with me?"

"No, not that," laughed Marjorie; "but we'll play we're sisters, and you can call my brother and sisters yours too."

"I'm glad I came to Rockwell," said Delight, with happy eyes; "I think you're splendid."

"And I think you're lovely. I hope we'll get along. Do you squabble?"

"I don't think so," replied Delight, doubtfully; "you see, I never had a chance."

"I don't believe you do. I hate it, myself; but lots of the girls think it's fun to get mad at each other, and stay mad a few weeks and then make up."

"How silly! You're not like that, are you?"

"No, I'm not. I had a friend who used to live in this very house, and we never have been mad at each other in our lives. That's why I didn't say I'd be your friend. It seems sort of—kind of—"

"Yes, I see," said Delight, gently. "You're awfully loyal, aren't you?
Well, I'd rather be your sister, anyway,—your play-sister."

"I'll be your step-sister," said Midget, remembering Cinderella. "Not the cross kind."

"No, the pleasant kind. All right, we'll be step-sisters, and will you come to see me often?"

"Yes, and you must come over to my house."

"I will, when mother'll let me. She hates to have me go anywhere."

"Do you know," said Midget, in a spirit of contrition, "I thought you were 'stuck-up.'"

Delight sighed a little. "Everybody thinks that," she said, "just because I don't go to school, and so I don't get acquainted much. But I'm not stuck-up."

"Indeed you're not, and I shall tell all the girls so. But after your cold gets well, you can go out doors to play, can't you?"

"I don't know. Mother never lets me go out much, except with her. Oh, here comes mother now!"

Mrs. Spencer came into the room and smiled pleasantly at Midget.

Delight introduced them, and Marjorie rose and curtseyed, then Mrs.
Spencer said:

"I'm glad you came, my dear child. I meant to ask you soon, as I want you and Delight to be great friends."

Mrs. Spencer was an attractive-looking lady and spoke cordially, but somehow Marjorie didn't fancy her.

There was no tangible reason, for she was charming and gracious, but Midget felt she was a nervous, fussy woman, and not calm and capable like her own dear mother.

"My mother is coming to call on you," said Marjorie to her hostess. "I heard her say so. She doesn't know I'm here, for she wasn't at home when I came, but I know she'll be pleased when I tell her."

"Did you come away without mother's permission? Naughty! Naughty!" said
Mrs. Spencer, playfully shaking her finger at Marjorie.

Midget's eyes opened wide. "Of course, I shouldn't have come," she said, "if I hadn't known she would be willing." She resented Mrs. Spencer's reproof, as that lady knew nothing of the circumstances, and besides, Marjorie was always allowed to do as she chose afternoons, within certain well-understood restrictions.

But Mrs. Spencer had brought several interesting-looking parcels, and all else was forgotten in the examination of their contents.

They proved to contain gold and silver paper, lace paper, small pictures, crÊpe paper, cards, ribbons, paste, and lots of other things.

Marjorie's eyes sparkled as she saw the lovely things tumbled out on a low table which Mrs. Spencer drew up in front of the girls. "For valentines?" she exclaimed, as she realized the possibilities.

"Yes; will you help Delight to make them?"

"Indeed, I will, Mrs. Spencer; but not now. It's five o'clock, and I have to go home at five."

"Dear, dear, little girls that run away without mother's permission oughtn't to be so particular about going home on time."

Marjorie was puzzled. Mrs. Spencer didn't see the matter rightly, she was sure, and yet to explain it to her seemed like correcting a grown-up lady, which, of course, was impolite. So she only smiled, and said she must go home, but she would be glad to come again.

To her surprise, Delight began to cry,—not noisily,—but with quiet, steady weeping, that seemed to imply a determination to keep it up.

Marjorie looked her amazement, which was not lessened when Mrs. Spencer said, almost coldly:

"I should think she would cry, poor, dear sick child, when her little friend refuses to stay with her."

"But, Mrs. Spencer," said Midget, really distressed, now, "it is our rule always to go home at five o'clock, unless mother has said we could stay later. So I have to go."

"Very well, then, go on," said Mrs. Spencer, a little pettishly; but she helped Marjorie on with her coat, and patted her on the shoulder.

"You're a good little girl," she said, "and I suppose I'm selfish where
Delight is concerned. Will you come again to-morrow morning?"

"Oh, no, thank you; I have to go to school."

"Yes, I suppose you do. Well, come to-morrow afternoon."

"Yes, do," said Delight, staying her tears, as they seemed to do no good.

"I'll see about it," said Midget, a little bewildered by these emotional people. "I'd like to come."

She said her good-byes, and flew across the street to her own home.

She flung to the front door behind her, with what was almost a bang, and then throwing her coat and hat on the hall rack, she burst into the living-room, where Mrs. Maynard was sitting with Rosy Posy in her lap.

"Marjorie," her mother said, as she observed the impulsive child, "you are just a shade too noisy. Will you kindly go back to the hall, and try to enter this room in a manner more becoming to a lady and a Maynard?"

"I will, indeed, Mother. And you're quite right; I was awful racketty."

Marjorie returned to the hall, and then came in with graceful, mincing steps, purposely overdoing the scene. She paused in front of her mother dropped an elaborate curtsey, and holding out her hand daintily, said:

"Good-evening, Mrs. Maynard; are you at home?"

"I am, you silly child," said her mother, kissing her affectionately, "and overdone manners are much better than no manners at all."

"Yes'm; and what do you think, Mother? I've been over to see Delight
Spencer."

"You have? Why, I meant to take you when I go to call. How did you happen to go?"

So Marjorie told the story of the telephoning, adding: "And you know, Mother, you always used to let me go to Gladys's without asking you, so I went. Wasn't it all right?"

Marjorie looked so disturbed that Mrs. Maynard smiled, and said:

"Why, I suppose there's no harm done,—since the little girl asked you to come—"

Marjorie looked greatly relieved. "Well," she said, "Mrs. Spencer thought it was awful for me to go without asking you,—and then,—she wanted me to stay after five o'clock, and was madder 'n hops 'cause I didn't!"

"What a remarkable lady! But I can judge better if you tell me the whole story."

So Marjorie told all about the afternoon, and Mrs. Maynard was greatly interested.

"Not exactly stuck-up, is she, Midget?" said King, who had come in during the recital.

"No," owned up Marjorie. "I was mistaken about that; and I think I'd like her a lot, if she wasn't the crying kind. I do hate cry babies."

"Ho! You wept oceans when Glad went away."

"Yes," retorted Marjorie, unabashed, "but that's very different. I don't burst into weeps just because a next-door neighbor is going home!"

"'Deed you don't, old girl! You're a brick, and I was a meany to say what
I did. But perhaps Delight doesn't cry so much when she's well."

"She's never well. I mean she's delicate and frail and always having colds and things."

"Pooh, a nice sort of girl for you to play with! You're as hardy as an
Indian."

"I know it. We all are."

"She probably stays in the house too much," said Mrs. Maynard. "If you children can persuade her to go out of doors and romp with you, she'll soon get stronger."

"She says she hates to romp," observed Marjorie.

"Then I give her up!" cried King. "No stay-in-the-house girls for me. Say, what do you think, Mops! A straw-ride to-morrow afternoon! Mr. Adams is going to take a big sleigh-load of us! Isn't that gay!"

"Fine!" cried Marjorie, the delicate Delight quite forgotten for the moment, "tell me all about it!"