Marjorie's New Friend

"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!"

CHAPTER XI

MARJORIE CAPTIVE

It was something awful. The doctor diagnosed the child's case as diphtheria, and proceeded at once to take the steps ordered by the Board of Health in such cases.

Mrs. Spencer wanted to send the little one to the hospital, but Doctor Mendel said that would not be allowed. So the house was to be disinfected, and a strict quarantine maintained until all danger should be past.

"The woman and her child must be put in certain rooms, and not allowed to leave them," said the doctor; "and no one in the house must go out of it, and no one out of it may come in."

"What!" cried Mrs. Spencer, in dismay, thinking of Marjorie. And Marjorie and Delight, unable to keep away any longer, came into the room just in time to hear the doctor's statement.

"What's the matter, mother?" cried Delight. "Tell me about it! Is

Maggie's little boy going away?"

"You tell her, Doctor Mendel," said Mrs. Spencer; "I can't."

"Why, Marjorie Maynard?" exclaimed the doctor, "are you here? Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish!"

Although the Spencers had never seen Doctor Mendel before, he was the Maynards' family physician, and he realized at once the great misfortune of Marjorie's presence in the infected house.

"Yes, I'm here," said Midget; "can't I go home?"

"No, child," said Doctor Mendel, gravely; "you cannot leave this house until all danger of infection is over. That will be two weeks at least, and perhaps more."

"And can't Mr. Spencer come home?" asked Mrs. Spencer.

"No; unless he stays here after he comes in. He can not go back and forth to New York every day."

Mrs. Spencer looked utterly bewildered. Accustomed to depend upon her husband in any emergency, she felt quite unable to meet this situation.

"And there is danger of these two girls having diphtheria?" she said, in a scared voice, as if anxious to know the worst at once.

"There is grave danger, Mrs. Spencer, for all in the house. But we will hope by careful treatment to avoid that. The quarantine, however, is imperative. You must not let your servants or your family go out into the street, nor must you allow any one except myself to come in."

"Oh, Doctor Mendel," cried Marjorie, "how can I see Mother?"

"You can't see her. I'm sorry, Marjorie, but you simply can not go home, nor can she come here."

"And I'll have to have diphtheria, and die, without seeing her at all!"

"Tut, tut! You're not going to have diphtheria, I hope. These precautions are necessary, because of the law, but you're by no means sure to take the disease."

"Delight will," said Mrs. Spencer, in a hopeless tone. "She's so delicate, and so subject to throat affections. Oh, how can I stand all this without any one to help me? Can't I have a trained nurse?"

Doctor Mendel almost laughed at the lady's request.

"Of course you may, as soon as there's a patient for her to take care of. But you surely don't want one when there's no illness in this part of the house."

"Why, so there isn't!" said Mrs. Spencer, looking greatly relieved. "I'm so bewildered I felt that these two children were already down with diphtheria."

"It's a very trying situation," went on Doctor Mendel, looking kindly at Mrs. Spencer. "For I do not see how your husband can come home, if he wants to continue at his business. And surely, there's no use of his coming home, so long as there's no illness in your immediate family. He would better stay in New York."

"Oh, not in New York," cried Mrs. Spencer. "He can come to Rockwell every night, and stay at the hotel or some place."

"Yes, that would be better; then you can telephone often."

"And I can telephone to Mother!" said Midget, who was beginning to see a brighter side.

"Yes, of course," agreed the doctor. "I'll go there, and tell her all about it."

"Won't she be surprised!"

"Yes, I fancy she will! Do you want her to send you some clothes?"

"Why, yes; I s'pose so. I never thought of that! Oh, I'd rather go home!"

The bright side suddenly faded, and Midget's curly head went down in her arm, and she shook with sobs. A vision of home, and the dear family around the dinner-table, while she was exiled in a strange house, was too much for her.

"Now, Marjorie," said the doctor, "you must bear this bravely. It is hard, I know, but Mrs. Spencer is by far the greatest sufferer. Here she is, with two children to look after, and her husband shut out from his home, and her servants in a state of unreasoning terror. I think you two girls should brace up, and help Mrs. Spencer all you can."

"I think so, t-too," said Midget, in a voice still choking with tears, and then Delight began to cry.

Her crying wasn't a sudden outburst like Marjorie's, but a permanent sort of affair, which she pursued diligently and without cessation.

Mrs. Spencer paid little attention to the two weeping children, for the poor lady had other responsibilities that required her attention.

"What about Maggie, Doctor?" she asked.

"She must stay here, of course. And, as she can't go to a hospital, she will probably prefer to stay here. Your waitress may desert you, but I will tell her if she goes, it is in defiance of the law, and she will be punished. I trust, Mrs. Spencer, that there will be no more illness here, and the worst will be the inconvenience of this quarantine. At any rate we will look at it that way, so long as there are no signs of infection. Now, I will go over to the Maynards and explain matters to them, and I will meet Mr. Spencer at the train, and he will telephone you at once. Meantime, I will myself superintend the disinfection of this house. And remember, while there is danger for the two little girls, I do not think it probable that they will be affected."

"I hope not," said Mrs. Spencer, sighing. "And here's another thing, Doctor. I expect a governess for Delight, a Miss Hart, who is to come with Mr. Spencer on the train this evening. She should be warned."

"Yes, indeed. I'll meet them at the train, and attend to that for you. Probably she'll remain at the hotel over night, and go back to the city to-morrow."

"She could go to our house to stay," said Marjorie. She was still crying, but she loved to make plans. "Then she could telephone the lessons over to Delight, and I could learn a little too. Oh, I won't have to go to school for two weeks!"

This was a consolation, and the happy thought entirely stopped Marjorie's tears.

Not so Delight. She cried on, softly, but steadily, until Midget looked at her with real curiosity.

"What do you cry that way for, Delight?" she said. "It doesn't do any good."

Delight looked at her, but wept industriously on.

"Oh, come," said Midget, "let's look for the bright side. Let's pretend I've come to visit you for two weeks, and let's have some fun out of this thing."

"How can you talk so?" said Delight, through her tears. "We may both be dead in two weeks."

"Nonsense!" cried Doctor Mendel; "no more of that sort of talk! If you're so sure of having diphtheria, I'll send you to the hospital at once."

Delight did not know the doctor as well as Marjorie did, and this suggestion frightened her.

She tried to stop crying, and smile, and she succeeded fairly well.

"That's better," said the doctor. "Now, I'm going across the street. Marjorie, what message do you want to send your mother? Of course she'll send over some clothes and things. You can have anything you want sent, but don't have needless things, for they must all be disinfected later, and it might harm your best clothes."

"Oh, I shan't want my best clothes, since we can't have company or parties," said Midget, interested now, in spite of herself. "Tell Mother to send my night things; and my red cashmere for to-morrow morning, and my other red hair ribbons, and my pink kimono, and my worsted slippers, and that book on my bureau, the one with the leaf turned down, and some handkerchiefs, and—"

"There, there, child, I can't remember those things, and your mother will know, anyway,—except about the book with the leaf turned down,—I'll tell her that. And you can telephone her, you know."

"Oh, so I can! That will be almost like seeing her. Can't I telephone now?"

"No, I'd rather tell her about it myself. Then I'll tell her to call you up, and you can give her your list of hair ribbons and jimcracks."

"All right then. Hurry up, Doctor, so I can talk to her soon."

Doctor Mendel went away, and Marjorie and Delight sat and looked at each other. Mrs. Spencer had gone to the kitchen to arrange for the comfort of the distressed mother, and the little girls were trying to realize what had happened.

"I'm glad you're here," said Delight, "for I'd be terribly lonely without you, in all this trouble."

Midget was silent. She couldn't honestly say she was glad she was there, and yet to say she was sorry seemed unkind.

"Well, as long as I am here," she said at last, "I'm glad you're glad. It's all so strange! To be here staying in Gladys's house, and Gladys not here, and I can't get away even if I want to,—why, I can't seem to get used to it."

"It's awful!" said Mrs. Spencer, coming in from the kitchen. "I hope your mother won't blame me, Marjorie; I'm sure I couldn't help it."

"Of course she won't blame you, Mrs. Spencer. She'll only be sorry for you."

"But she'll be so worried about you."

"Yes'm; I s'pose she will. But maybe, if I do take it, it will be a light case."

"Oh, don't talk of light cases! I hope you won't have it at all,—either of you."

After what seemed to Marjorie a long time of waiting, her mother called her up on the telephone.

"My dear little girl," said Mrs. Maynard, "how shall I get along without you for two weeks?"

"Oh, Mother," said Marjorie, "you have the others, but I haven't anybody!

How shall I get along without you?"

Marjorie's voice was trembling, and though Mrs. Maynard was heart-broken she forced herself to be cheerful for Midget's sake.

"Well, dearie," she said, "we must make the best of it. I'll telephone you three times a day,—or at least, some of us will,—and I'll write you letters."

"Oh, will you, Mother? That will be lovely!"

"Yes, I'll write you every day. You can receive letters although you can't send any. Now, I want you to be my own brave little daughter, and not only try to be cheerful and pleasant yourself, but cheer up Mrs. Spencer and Delight."

"Yes, Mother, I will try. I feel better already, since I've heard your voice."

"Of course you do. And Father will talk to you when he comes home, and to-morrow Kitty and King can talk, and you'll almost feel as if you were at home."

"Yes,—but oh, Mother, it's awful, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't awful at all, unless you get ill But we won't cross that bridge until we come to it. Now, I'll send over a suitcase to-night, and then I can send more things to-morrow."

"Yes, Mother. And put in your picture, won't you? The one on my mantelpiece, I mean. Then I'll have it to kiss good-night to."

Mrs. Maynard's voice choked a little, but she said:

"Yes, dear, I will. Good-bye for now; we mustn't monopolize Mrs.

Spencer's telephone."

"Good-bye," said Midget, reluctantly, and hung up the receiver, feeling that now she was indeed an exile from her home. But not long after, she was called to the telephone again, and her father's cheery voice said:

"Why, Marjorie Midget Mopsy Maynard! What's this I hear about your deserting your home and family?"

"Oh, Father dear, isn't it terrible!"

"Why, I don't know as it is. You'll have a fine visit with your little friend, and you won't have to go to school, and I should think you'd have a fine time! But some people are never satisfied!"

"Now, don't tease, Father. You know I'll just go crazy with homesickness to see you all again!"

"Oh, well, if you really do go crazy, I'll put you in a nice pretty little lunatic asylum that I know of. But before your mind is entirely gone, I want you to have a good time with Delight, and I'll help all I can."

"I don't see how you can help much, if I can't see you."

"You don't, eh? Well, you'll find out, later on. But just now, I'm going to give you three rules, and I want you to obey them. Will you?"

"Of course I will, Father. What are they?"

"First, never think for a moment that you're going to catch that sore throat that the cook's little boy has. I don't think you are, and I don't want to think so. Promise?"

"Yes, I promise. What next?"

"Next; never think that you're to stay over there two weeks. Never use the words at all. Just think each day, that you're merely staying that one night, and that you're just staying for fun. See?"

"Yes; I'll promise, but it won't be easy."

"Make it easy then. I'll help you. And third, don't feel sorry for yourself."

"Oh, Father, I do!"

"Well, don't! If you want to feel sorry for somebody, choose some one else, a poor Hottentot, or a lame kangaroo, or even your old father. But, mind, it's a rule, you're not to feel sorry for Marjorie Maynard."

"That's a funny rule. But I'll try to mind it."

"That's my own dear daughter. Now, to begin. As you're to stay with Delight to-night, we're sending over your night things. Go to bed early and sleep well, so you can wake bright and fresh and have fun playing all day to-morrow."

All this sounded so gay and pleasant that Marjorie was really very much cheered up, and replied gaily:

"All right, Daddy; I'll do just as you say. And will you call me up to-morrow morning before you go to New York?"

"Yes, of course I will. Now, good-night,—just the same as a good-night at home."

"Good-night, Father," and Midget hung up the receiver again.

By this time Delight had stopped her crying, and Mrs. Spencer had become a little more resigned to the unpleasant state of things. The servants had consented to stay, for the present, and their decision was more due to Doctor Mendel's hints about the law, than their own loyalty to Mrs. Spencer.

Then Doctor Mendel had met Mr. Spencer at the railroad station, and had explained affairs to him.

Although it seemed very hard it was thought advisable by all interested, that Mr. Spencer should not go to his home at all. His business, which was large and important, required his presence every day, and to take two weeks away from it just at that time would be disastrous in effect.

Mr. Maynard, who was present at the interview, invited Mr. Spencer to stay at his home until the quarantine should be raised, and this offer of hospitality was gratefully accepted.

"It seems only fair," said Mr. Maynard, "that we should entertain you, as you have our Marjorie as a guest at your house."

"An unwilling guest, I fear," said Mr. Spencer, with a sad smile.

"But ready to make the best of it, as we all must be," rejoined Mr. Maynard.

CHAPTER XII

MISS HART HELPS

Miss Hart, Delight's new governess, who came out from New York with Mr.

Spencer, listened to the doctor's story with a grave face.

"And I think, Miss Hart," said Doctor Mendel, in conclusion, "that you would better stay in Rockwell over night, and return to the city tomorrow."

"I don't think so!" said Miss Hart, with such emphasis that the three men looked at her in surprise.

"If you will go home with me," said Mr. Maynard, "Mrs. Maynard will give you a warm welcome, and then you can decide to-morrow on your further plans."

"No," said Miss Hart, who seemed to be a young woman of great decision of character, "I shall go straight to Mrs. Spencer's. I am engaged to go there to-night, and I want to go. I am not at all afraid of the diphtheria, and as Delight is perfectly well, she can begin her lessons just as we planned to do. This will keep her interested and prevent her from worrying as much as if she were idle. And then, if anything should happen, I will be there to assist Mrs. Spencer."

"Thank you, Miss Hart," said Mr. Spencer, shaking her hand. "You are a noble woman, and I shall be so glad to have you there with my wife. I've been trying to think how I could get a companion for her, but none of her city friends would enter the house, nor could they be expected to. And, of course, no Rockwell neighbors can go in. But you will be a tower of strength, and I shall be immensely relieved to have you there."

Doctor Mendel was pleased too, at the turn affairs had taken, for he feared Mrs. Spencer would break down under the nervous strain, if she had to bear her trouble alone.

So when Mr. Maynard took Mr. Spencer to his own home, Doctor Mendel took

Miss Hart to Mrs. Spencer's.

"I've brought you another visitor," he cried, cheerily, as he entered the quarantined house.

"Why, Doctor," said Mrs. Spencer, "you said nobody could come in!"

"No, not if they're to go out again. But Miss Hart has come to stay."

"Oh, how splendid!" cried Mrs. Spencer, "are you really willing to do so?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Miss Hart. "And it looks to me as if I should have two pupils instead of one." She looked kindly at Marjorie, who smiled in return, though she did not at all feel sure that she wanted lessons added to her other troubles.