and Mrs. Carleton were out, and the girls went at once to
their rooms, without exchanging the usual good-nights. Marjorie's heart
was beating painfully fast, and her cheeks were burning, but she did not
waver in her determination to "have it out" with Elsie before they went
to bed. So instead of beginning to undress, she sat down to wait until
Hortense should have finished waiting on her cousin and gone away. She
had, with some difficulty, at last succeeded in convincing the maid that
she did not require assistance herself.

"Elsie will be terribly angry," she told herself mournfully, "and it
will be very horrid and uncomfortable, but it wouldn't be honest not to
let her know I recognized that poem. Perhaps she can explain--oh, I do
hope she can--and then I can tell Beverly, and everything will be all
right again."

She heard the outer door close behind Hortense, and was just about to go
to her cousin's room, when her door was pushed unceremoniously open and
Elsie herself came in. Elsie's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were
flashing, but whether with anger or excitement Marjorie could not tell.

"Well," she began in a tone which she evidently intended to be quite
cheerful and indifferent, "I've gotten rid of Hortense. She seemed to
think she ought to stay till Papa and Mamma came home, but I told her we
didn't need her. Now you can tell me what you said you would when we
got home. Do be quick about it, though, for I'm awfully sleepy, and I
want to go to bed."

Before answering Marjorie went over to her cousin's side, and laid a
timid hand on her shoulder.

"Elsie," she said gently, "I'm so sorry; I hate to say it, but I've got
to. It's--about that poem; I've read it before. You didn't think you
really made it up, did you?"

With an angry gesture Elsie pushed away her cousin's hand.

"Of course I made it up," she said angrily; "how dare you say I didn't?
I don't believe you ever saw a poem like it before in your life; you
only say so because you're jealous."

"Oh, Elsie, how can you say such dreadful things?" cried poor Marjorie,
clasping her hands in her distress, and on the verge of tears. "How
could I possibly be jealous of any one so much cleverer than myself?
I've been so proud of you, Elsie--indeed, indeed I have--but I read that
poem in an old 'St. Nicholas' at home. I remembered it because it was so
pretty. Beverly Randolph remembers it, too; he--"

"Beverly Randolph!" cried Elsie, her eyes flashing