After leaving the conductor's house in Asbury Park, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Bryant went to a telephone office, and pursued the plan of calling up every railroad station along the road between Seacote and New York.

But no good news was the result. It was difficult to get speech with the station men, and none of them especially remembered seeing a little girl of Marjorie's description get off the train.

"What can we do next?" asked Mr. Maynard, dejectedly; "I can't go home and sit down to wait for police investigation. I doubt if they could ever find Marjorie. I must do something."

"It seems a formidable undertaking," said Mr. Bryant, "to go to each of these way stations; and yet, Ed, I can't think of anything else to do. We have traced her to the train, and on it. She must have left it somewhere, and we must discover where."

Mr. Maynard looked at his watch.

"Jack," he said, "it is nearly time for that very train to stop here. Let us get on that, and we may get some word of her from the trainmen other than the conductor."

"Good idea! and meanwhile we'll have just time to snatch a sandwich somewhere; which we'd better do, as you've eaten nothing since breakfast."

"Neither have you, old chap; come on."

After a hasty luncheon, the two men boarded at Asbury Park, the same train which Marjorie had taken at Seacote the day before. Conductor Fischer greeted them, and called his trainmen, one by one, to be questioned.

"Sure!" said one of them, at last, "I saw that child, or a girl dressed as you describe, get off this train at Newark. She was a plump little body, and pretty, but mighty woe-begone lookin'. She was in comp'ny with a big, red-faced man, a common, farmer-lookin' old fellow. It struck me queer at the time, them two should be mates."

Mr. Maynard's heart sank. This looked like kidnapping. But the knowledge of where Marjorie had alighted was help of some sort, at least.

After discussing further details of her dress and appearance, Mr. Maynard concluded that it was, indeed, Midget who had left the train at Newark with the strange man, and so he concluded to get off there also.

"We're on the trail, now," said Jack Bryant, cheerily; "we're sure to find her."

Mr. Maynard, though not quite so hopeful, felt a little encouraged, and impatiently the two men sprang off the train at Newark. Into the station they went and interviewed an attendant there.

"Yep," he replied, "I seen that kid. She was with old Zeb Geary, an' it got me, what he was doin' with a swell kid like her!"

"Where did they go?" asked Mr. Maynard, eagerly.

"I dunno. Prob'ly he went home. He lives out in the country, and he takes a little jaunt down to the shore now and then. He's sort of eccentric,—thinks he can sell his farm stuff to the hotel men, better'n any other market."

"How can I get to his house?"

"Wanter see Zeb, do you? Well, he has his own rig, not very nobby, but safe. I guess you could get a rig at that stable 'cross the way. An' they can tell you how to go."

"Couldn't I get a motor-car?"

"Likely you could. Go over there and ask the man."

The station attendant had duties, and was not specially interested in a stranger's queries, so, having rewarded him, as they thought he deserved, the two men hastened over to the livery stable.

"Zeb Geary?" said the stable keeper. "Why, yes, he lives five miles out of town. He leaves his old horse here when he goes anywhere on the train. It's no ornament to my place, but I keep it for the old fellow. He's a character in his way. Yes, he went out last night and a little girl with him."

"Could we get a motor here, to go out there?"

"Right you are! I've good cars and good chauffeurs."

In a few moments, therefore, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Bryant were speeding away toward Zeb Geary, and, as they hoped, toward Marjorie.

While the car was being made ready, Mr. Maynard had telephoned to King that they had news of Marjorie, and hoped soon to find her. He thought best to relieve the minds of the dear ones at home to this extent, even if their quest should prove fruitless, after all.

"I can't understand it," said Mr. Maynard, as they flew along the country roads. "This Geary person doesn't sound like a kidnapper, yet why else would Midget go with him?"

"I'm only afraid it wasn't Marjorie," returned Mr. Bryant. "But we shall soon know."

Marjorie had worked hard all day. Partly because she wanted to prove herself a good worker, and partly because, if she stopped to think, her troubles seemed greater than she could bear.

But a little after five o'clock everything was done, supper prepared, and the child sat down on the kitchen steps to rest. She was tired, sad, and desolate. The slight excitement of novelty was gone, the bravery and courage of the morning hours had disappeared, and a great wave of homesickness enveloped her very soul. She was too lonely and homesick even to cry, and she sat, a pathetic, drooped little figure, on the old tumble-down porch.

She heard the toot of a motor-horn, but it was a familiar sound to her, and she paid no attention to it. Then she heard it again, very near, and looked up to see her father and Cousin Jack frantically waving, as the car fairly flew, over many minor obstacles, straight to that kitchen doorway.

"Marjorie!" cried Mr. Maynard, leaping out before the wheels had fairly stopped turning, and in another instant she was folded in that dear old embrace.

"Oh, Father, Father!" she cried, hysterically clinging to him, "take me home, take me home!"

"Of course I will, darling," said Mr. Maynard's quivering voice, as he held her close and stroked her hair with trembling fingers. "That's what we've come for. Here's Cousin Jack, too."

And then Midget felt more kisses on her forehead, and a hearty pat on her back, as a voice, not quite steady, but determinedly cheerful, said: "Brace up now, Mehitabel, we want you to go riding with us."

Marjorie looked up, with a sudden smile, and then again buried her face on her father's shoulder and almost strangled him as she flung her arms round his neck. Then she drew his head down, while she whispered faintly in his ear. Three times she had to repeat the words before he could catch them:

"Are you my father?" he heard at last. The fear flashed back upon him that Midget's mind was affected, but he only held her close to him, and said, gently, "Yes, Marjorie darling, my own little girl," and the quiet assurance of his tone seemed to content her.

"Wal, wal! an' who be you, sir?" exclaimed a gruff voice, and Mr. Maynard looked up to see Zeb Geary approaching from the barn.

"You are Mr. Geary, I'm sure," said Cousin Jack, advancing; "we have come for this little girl."

"Wal, I'm right down glad on't! I jest knew that purty child had a home and friends, though she vowed she hadn't."

"And you've been kind to her, and we want to thank you! And this is Mrs. Geary?"

"Yep, that's Sary. Come out here, Mother, and see what's goin' on."

Out of shyness, Mrs. Geary had watched proceedings from the kitchen window, but fortified by her husband's presence, she appeared in the doorway.

"They've been so good to me, Father," said Marjorie, still nestling in his sheltering arms.

"Wal, we jest done what we could," said Mrs. Geary. "I knowed that Jessiky belonged to fine people, but she didn't want to tell us nothin', so we didn't pester her."

"And we ain't askin' nothin' from you, neither," spoke up Zeb. "She's a sweet, purty child, an' as good as they make 'em. An' when she wants to tell you all about it, she will. As fer us,—we've no call to know."

"Now, that's well said!" exclaimed Mr. Bryant, holding out his hand to the old man. "And, for the present, we're going to take you at your word. If you agree, we're going to take this little girl right off with us, because her mother is anxiously awaiting news of her safety. And perhaps, sometime later, we'll explain matters fully to you. Meantime, I hope you'll permit us to leave with you a little expression of our appreciation of your real kindness to our darling, and our gratitude at her recovery."

A few whispered words passed between the two gentlemen, and then, after a moment's manipulation of his fountain pen and checkbook, Mr. Bryant handed to old Zeb Geary a slip of paper that took his breath away.

"I can't rightly thank you, sir," he said, brokenly; "I done no more'n my duty; but if so be's you feel to give me this, I kin only say, Bless ye fer yer goodness to them that has need!"

"That's all right, Mr. Geary," said Cousin Jack, touched by the old man's emotion; "and now, Ed, let's be going."

Mrs. Geary brought Marjorie's hat and her little purse, and in another moment they were flying along the country road toward Newark.

Marjorie said nothing at all, but cuddled into her father's arm, and now and then drew long, deep sighs, as if still troubled.

But he only held her closer, and murmured words of endearment, leaving her undisturbed by questions about her strange conduct.

In Newark they telephoned the joyful news to Mrs. Maynard, and then took the first train to Seacote.

All through the two-hour ride, Marjorie slept peacefully, with her father's arm protectingly round her.

The two men said little, being too thankful that their quest was successfully ended.

"But I think her mind is all right," whispered Mr. Maynard, as Mr. Bryant leaned over from the seat behind. "She has some kind of a crazy notion in her head,—but when she's thoroughly rested and wide awake, we can straighten it all out."

The Maynards' motor was waiting at Seacote station, and after a few moments' ride, Marjorie was again in the presence of her own dear people.

"Mother, Mother!" she cried, in a strange, uncertain voice, and flew to the outstretched arms awaiting her.

Though unnerved herself, Mrs. Maynard clasped her daughter close and soothed the poor, quivering child.

"Are you my mother?" wailed Marjorie, in agonized tones; "are you?"

"Yes, my child, yes!" and there was no doubting that mother-voice.

"Then why,—why did you tell Mrs. Corey I was a findling?"

"Tell Mrs. Corey what?"

"Why, when I was practising, you were talking to her, and I heard you tell her that you took me from an asylum when I was a baby,—and that I didn't really belong to you and Father?"

"Oh, Marjorie! Oh, my baby!" and dropping into the nearest armchair, with Marjorie in her lap, Mrs. Maynard laughed and cried together.

"Oh, Ed," she exclaimed, looking at her husband, "it's those theatricals! Listen, Marjorie, darling. Our Dramatic Club is going to give a play called 'The Stepmother,' and Mrs. Corey and I were learning our parts. That's what you heard!"

"Truly, mother?"

"Truly, of course, you little goosie-girl! And so you ran away?"

"Yes; I couldn't stay here if I wasn't your little girl,—and Father's,—and King's sister,—and all. And you said I was different from your own children and,——"

"There, there, darling, it's all right now. And we'll hear the rest of your story to-morrow. Now, we're going to have some supper, and then tuck you in your own little bed where you belong. Have you had your supper?"

"No,—but I set the table," and Marjorie began to smile at the recollection of the Geary kitchen. "You see, Mother, I've been maid-of-all-work."

"And now you've come back to be maid-of-all-play, as usual," broke in Cousin Jack, who didn't want the conversation to take a serious turn, for all present were under stress of suppressed emotion.

"I say, Mops, you ought to have known better," was King's brotherly comment, but he pulled off her black hair-ribbons in the old, comforting way, and Midget grinned at him.

"Let's dispense with these trappings of woe," said Cousin Jack, dropping the black ribbons in a convenient waste-basket.

So Midget went out to supper without any ribbons, her mop of curls tumbling all over her head and hanging down her shoulders.

"My, but I'm hungry!" she said, as she saw once again her own home table, with its pretty appointments and appetizing food.

"You bet you are!" said King, appreciatively; "tell us what you had to eat in the rural district."

"Boiled beef," said Midget, smiling; "and gingerbread and turnips!"

"Not so awful worse," commented King.

"No? Well, s'pose you try it once! I like these croquettes and Saratoga potatoes a whole heap better!"

"Well, I 'spect I do, too. I say, Mops, I'm glad you didn't break your word to come out and play,—at least, not intentionally."

"No, I never break my word. But I guess if you thought you didn't have any father or mother or brother or sister, you'd forget all about going out to play, too."

"I haven't any brother," said King, looking very sad and forlorn.

"I'll be a brother to you," declared Cousin Jack, promptly; "you behaved like a man, last night, old fellow,—and I'm proud to claim you as a man and a brother."

"Pooh, I didn't do anything," said King, modestly.

"Yes, you did," said his mother. "You were fine, my son. And I never could have lived through to-day without you, either."

"Dear old Kingsy-wingsy!" said Midget, looking at him with shining eyes. And then,—for it was their long-established custom,—she tweaked his Windsor scarf untied.

As this was a mark of deep affection, King only grinned at her and retied it, with an ease and grace born of long practice.

"Well, Mehitabel," said Cousin Jack, "I always said you were a child who could do the most unexpected things. Here you've been and turned this whole house upside down and had us all nearly crazy,—and here you are back again as smiling as a basket of chips. And yet you did nothing for which any one could blame you!"

"Indeed they can't blame her!" spoke up Mrs. Maynard; "the child thought I was talking to Mrs. Corey, instead of reading my part in the play. Marjorie sha'n't be blamed a bit!"

"That's just what I said," repeated Cousin Jack, smiling at the mother's quick defense of her child; "why, if anybody told me I was a,—what do you call it?—a findling,—I'd run away, too!"

"Don't run away," said Cousin Ethel, laughing. "I'd have to run with you, or you'd get lost for keeps. And I'd rather stay here. But I think we must be starting for Bryant Bower, and leave this reunited family to get along for awhile without our tender care."

"But don't think we don't realize how much we are indebted to you," said Mr. Maynard, earnestly, for the two good friends in need had been friends indeed to the distracted parents.

"Well, you can have a set of resolutions engrossed and framed for us," said Cousin Jack, "or, better yet, you can give me a dollar bill, in full of all accounts. By the way, Mehitabel, it's lucky you came home from your little jaunt in time for your birthday. I incidentally learned that it will be here soon, and we're going to have a celebration that will take the roof right off this house!"

"All right, Cousin Jack; I'm ready for anything, now that I know I've got a father and mother."

"And a brother," supplemented King, "and such a brother!" He rolled his eyes as if in ecstasy at the thought of his own perfections, and Marjorie lovingly pinched his arm.

"And a couple of sisters," added Cousin Ethel; "I like to speak up for the absent."

"Yes, and two dearest, darlingest cousins," said Marjorie, gleefully. "Oh, I think I've got the loveliest bunch of people in the whole world!"