"Now, what do you think of a girl like that?" Marjorie exclaimed, as she finished a description of Delight's behavior on the straw-ride.

"I think she's a little lady," said Mr. Maynard, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye, "and she was pretty well frightened by the noisy fun of the Rockwell young people."

"But, Father," said King, "we didn't do anything wrong, or even rude, but of course, you can't go on a straw-ride and sit as still as if you were in church, can you?"

"No," said Mrs. Maynard, taking up King's cause; "children are meant to be noisy, especially on a sleighing party. But I wouldn't worry about the little Spencer girl. If she continues to live here, she can't help doing as you young Romans do, after a time."

"Ho!" cried King. "Imagine Flossy Flouncy tumbling around like our
Midget. Hi, there, sister, you're it!"

King clapped Marjorie on the back and then ran around the dining-table, from which they had all just risen.

"Kit's it!" cried Marjorie, clapping Kitty in turn.

"Nope, I had my fingers crossed," said Kitty, exhibiting her twisted digits, and calmly walking out of the room, her arm through her father's.

"All right, I'll catch you, King," and Marjorie made a dive for him.

He was wary, and just as she nearly touched him, he stooped and slid under the table. After him went Midget, and of course, scrambled under just as King dodged up on the other side.

Out came Marjorie, flying after King, who raced up the front stairs and down the back ones, landing in the kitchen with a wild shriek of, "Hide me, Ellen, she's after me!"

"Arrah, ye bletherin' childher!" cried Ellen, "ye're enough to set a saint crhazy wid yer rally poosin'! In there wid ye, now!"

The good-natured Irishwoman pushed King in a small cupboard, and stood with her back against the door.

"What'll ye have, Miss Marjorie?" she said, as Midget rushed in half a minute later.

"Where's King?" asked Marjorie, breathless and panting.

"Masther King, is it? I expict he's sthudyin' his schoolbooks like the little gintleman he is. Shkip out, now, Miss Marjorie, dear, I must be doin' me work."

"All right, Ellen, go on and do it. Go on now, why don't you? Why don't you, Ellen? Do you have to stand against that door to keep it shut?"

"Yes, Miss, the,—the lock is broke, sure."

"Oh, is it? Well, you go on to your work, and I'll hold the door shut for a while."

"Och, I cuddent think of throublin' ye, Miss. Run on, now, happen yer mother is wantin' ye."

"Happen she isn't. Scoot, Ellen, and give me a chance at that door."

Unable to resist Midget's wheedling glance, the big Irishwoman moved away from the door, and Marjorie threw it open, and disclosed King, calmly sitting on a flour barrel.

As he was fairly caught, the game was over, and the two, with intertwined arms rejoined the family.

"Good race?" said Mr. Maynard, looking at the exhausted runners.

"Fine!" said Marjorie. "You see, Father, Delight has no brothers or sisters, so how could she be very racketty? She couldn't play tag with her mother or father, could she?"

"I think you'd play tag with the Pope of Rome, if you couldn't get any one else."

"That would be rather fun," said Midget, laughing, "only I s'pose his robes and things would trip him up. But I do believe he'd like it. I don't 'spect he has much fun, anyway. Does he?"

"Not of that sort, probably. But, Midget mine, there are other sorts of fun beside tearing up and down stairs like a wild Indian."

"Yes, and one sort is playing 'Authors'; come on, and have a game, will you, Father?"

"I'll give you half an hour," said Mr. Maynard, looking at his watch.
"That's all I can spare for my wild Indians this evening."

"Goody!" cried Midget, "half an hour is quite a lot. Come on, King and
Kit. Will you play, Mother?"

"Not now, I have some things I must attend to. I'll take Father's place when his half-hour is up."

So they settled down to "Authors," which was one of their favorite games, and of which they never tired. "Delight would like this," said Marjorie, as she took a trick; "she's fond of quiet games. Mother, may I go over to-morrow afternoon and make valentines with her?"

"Yes, if you like, dearie," replied Mrs. Maynard.

"May I go, too?" said Kitty.

"No, Kitty, I want you at home to-morrow. The seamstress will be cutting your new frock, and you must be here to try it on when she wants you."

"All right, Mother. May I ask Dorothy here, then?"

"Yes, if you like. But you must stay in the house."

"Yes'm, we will."

The Maynards were obedient children, and though sometimes disappointed, never demurred at their parents' decrees. They had long ago learned that such demurring would do no good, and that to obey pleasantly made things pleasanter all round.

After luncheon the next day, Marjorie got ready to go to spend the afternoon with Delight.

She wore her new plaid dress trimmed with black velvet and gilt buttons, and as red was the prevailing color in the plaid, her dark curls were tied up with a big red bow.

Very pretty she looked as she came for her mother's inspection.

"Am I all right, Mother?"

"Yes, Midget mine; you look as spick and span as a nice little Queen of Sheba. Now don't slide down the banisters, or do anything hoydenish. Try to behave more as Delight does."

"Oh, I'm bound to be good over there. And making valentines is nice, quiet work. May I stay till six, Mother?"

"No, come home at half-past five. That's late enough for little Queens of
Sheba to stay away from their mothers."

"All right, I'll skip at five-thirty. Good-bye, Mothery dearie."

With a kiss and a squeeze Marjorie was off, and Mrs. Maynard watched her from the window, until she disappeared through the Spencers' doorway.

"I'm so glad to see you!" said Delight, as Marjorie came dancing into her room. "Everything's all ready. You sit over there."

So Midget sat down opposite her friend at a long, low table, on which were all the valentine materials laid out in readiness.

"What beautiful things," cried Midget; "but I don't know how to make valentines."

"I'll show you. It's awfully easy, and lots of fun."

It was easy for Delight. Her deft little fingers pinched up bits of tissue paper into charming little rosebuds or forget-me-nots, and her dainty taste chose lovely color combinations.

Marjorie's quick wits soon caught the idea, and though not quite so nimble-fingered as Delight, she soon showed an inventive originality that devised novel ideas.

Sometimes they only took the round or square lace papers, and mounted them on cards, and added little scrap pictures of doves or cupids or flowers.

Then some of them were quite different. Delight cut a heart-shaped piece of cardboard, and round the edge dabbled an irregular border of gold paint. The inside she tinted pink all over, and on it wrote a loving little verse in gilt letters.

This, though simple, was such a pretty card, that Marjorie made one like it, adding a garland of roses across it, which made it prettier still.

Then they made pretty ones of three panel cards. To do this they took an oblong card, and cut it half through with a penknife in such a way that it divided the card into three parts, the outside two shutting over the middle one like window blinds over a window.

The card would stand up like a screen, and they decorated each panel with posies and verses.

"What are you going to do with all these valentines?" asked Midget, as they were busily working away at them.

"Half are yours," said Delight, "and half are mine. We can each send them wherever we please. Of course I'll send most of mine to friends in New York; I haven't any friends here."

"Indeed you have!" cried Midget. "Don't be silly. You've three Maynard friends, to begin with; and all the boys and girls are your friends, only you don't know them yet. I'll tell you what to do. You send valentines to all the Rockwell children,—I mean all our crowd, and they'll just love 'em. Will you?"

"Why, yes, if you think I can when I don't know them very well. I can easily make enough for them and my New York set too."

"Yes, do; I'll help you, if I get mine done first. And anyway, it's 'most two weeks before Valentine's day."

"Oh, there's plenty of time. Look, isn't this a pretty one?"

Delight held up a card on which she had painted with her water colors a clouded blue sky effect. And on it, in a regular flight, she had pasted tiny birds that she found among the scrap pictures.

"Lovely!" said Midget; "you ought to have a verse about birds on it."

"I don't know any verse about birds, do you?"

"No; let's make one up."

"Yes, we could do that. It ought to go some-thing like this: 'The swallows tell that Spring is here, so flies my heart to you, my dear.'"

"Yes, that's nice and valentiny,—but it isn't Spring in February."

"No, but that's poetic. Valentines have to be love-poems, and Spring is 'most always in a love-poem."

"Yes, I s'pose it is. I'd like to do some funny ones. I'm not much good at sentimental poetry. I guess I'll do one for King. Here's a picture of a bird carrying a ring in its beak. Ring rhymes with King, you know."

"Oh, yes, make one of those limerick things: 'There was a young fellow named King,—'"

"That's the kind I mean. Write that down while I paste. Then write: 'Who sent to his lady a ring.' Now what next?"

"Something like this: 'He said, "Sweet Valentine, I pray you be mine."
And she answered him, "No such a thing!"'"

"Oh, that's a good one. Do send that to your brother. But it hasn't much sense to it."

"No, they never have. Now, I'll make one for Kit: 'There was a dear girlie named Kit, who was having a horrible fit.'"

"That isn't a bit valentiny."

"No, I know it. This is a funny one. We'll make her another pretty one. 'When they said, "Are you better?" she wrote them a letter in which she replied, "Not a bit!"'"

"I think that's sort of silly," said Delight, looking at the rhymes she had written at Midget's dictation.

"Yes, I know it is," returned Marjorie, cheerfully. "It's nonsense, and that's 'most always silly. But Kit loves it, and so do I. We make up awful silly rhymes sometimes. You don't know Kitty very well yet, do you? She's only ten, but she plays pretend games lovely. Better'n I do. She has such gorgeous language. I don't know where she gets it."

"It comes," said Delight, with a far-away look in her eyes. "I have it too. You can't remember that you've ever heard it anywhere; the words just come of themselves."

"But you must have heard them, or read them," said practical Midget.

"Yes, I suppose so. But it doesn't seem like memory. It's just as if you had always known them. Sometimes I pretend all to myself. And I'm a princess."

"I knew you would be! Kit said so too. She likes to be a princess. But I like to be a queen. You might as well be, you know, when you're just pretending."

"Yes, you'd be a splendid queen. You're so big and strong. But I like to be a princess, and 'most always I'm captive, in a tower, waiting for somebody to rescue me."

"Come on, let's play it now," said Marjorie, jumping up. "I'm tired of pasting things, and we can finish these some other day. You be a captive princess, and I'll be a brave knight coming to rescue you."

But just then Mrs. Spencer appeared, carrying a tray on which were glasses of milk, crackers, and dear little cakes, and the two girls concluded they would postpone their princess play till a little later.

"I'm so bothered," said Mrs. Spencer, in her tired, plaintive voice, as she sat down with the children; "I cannot get good servants to stay with me here. I had no trouble in the city at all. Does your mother have good servants, Marjorie?"

"Yes, Mrs. Spencer, I think so. They're the ones we've always had."

"Well, mine wouldn't come with me from the city, so I had to get some here. And the cook has a small child, and to-day he's ill,—really quite ill,—and the waitress is helping the cook, and so I had to bring up this tray myself."

"Can't I help you in some way, Mrs. Spencer?" asked Marjorie, impulsively. It was her nature to be helpful, though it would never have occurred to Delight to make such an offer.

"No, dear child; there's nothing you could do. But the doctor is down there now, to see the little one, and I fear if the child is very ill, cook will have to leave, and what to do then, I don't know."

"Perhaps the child is only a little sick," said Midge, who wanted to be comforting, but did not know quite what to say to comfort a grown-up lady.

"We'll soon know, after the doctor makes his decision," said Mrs.
Spencer. "Oh, that's Maggie crying. I'm afraid it's a bad case."

Sure enough, sounds of loud sobbing could be heard from the direction of the kitchen, and Mrs. Spencer hurried away to learn what had happened.

"It must be awful," said Marjorie, "to be a cook and have your little boy ill, and no time to attend to him, because you have to cook for other people."

Delight stared at her.

"I think the awful part," she said, "is to have your cook's baby get ill, so she can't cook your dinner."

"Delight, that is selfish, and I don't think you ought to talk so."

"I don't think it's selfish to want the services of your own servants. That's what you have them for,—to cook and work for you. They oughtn't to let their little boys get sick."

"I don't suppose they do it on purpose," said Midge, half laughing and half serious; "but I'm sorry for your cook anyway."

"I'm sorry for us! But, gracious, Marjorie, hear her cry! The little boy must be awfully sick!"

"Yes, indeed! She's just screaming! Shall we go down?"

"No, I'm sure mother wouldn't like us to. But I don't feel like playing princess, do you?"

"No, not while she screams like that. There goes the doctor away."

From the window, the girls saw the doctor hasten down the path, jump into his electric runabout, and whiz rapidly away.

They could still hear sobbing from the kitchen, and now and then the moans of the baby.

At last, Mary, the waitress, came to take the tray away.

"What is the matter with Maggie's little boy, Mary?" asked Delight.

"He's sick, Miss Delight."

"But why does Maggie scream so?"

"It's near crazy she is, fearin' he'll die."

"Oh," said Marjorie, "is he as bad as that! What's the matter with him,
Mary?"

"He,—he has a cold, Miss."

"But babies don't die of a cold! Is that all that ails him?"

"He has,—he has a fever, Miss."

"A high fever, I s'pose. Rosy Posy had that when she had croup. Is it croup, Mary?"

"No, Miss,—I don't know, Miss, oh, don't be askin' me!"

With a flurried gesture, Mary took the tray and left the room.

"It's very queer," said Delight, "they're making an awful fuss over a sick baby. Here's the doctor back again, and another man with him."

The two men came in quickly, and Mrs. Spencer met them at the front door. They held a rapid consultation, and then the doctor went to the telephone and called up several different people to whom he talked one after another.

And then Mrs. Spencer went to the telephone.

"Oh," said Delight, looking at Marjorie with startled eyes, "she's calling up father in New York. It must be something awful!"