ominously; "so you
told him about it, did you? That accounts for his not congratulating me
when all the others did. Marjorie Graham, you are the meanest, most
contemptible girl I have ever known. To think of your doing such a thing
after all Papa and Mamma have done for you! But if you suppose for one
moment that any one is going to take your word against mine, you'll find
yourself very much mistaken. I shall write a note to Beverly Randolph
to-morrow. A nice opinion he must have of you already--boys hate
sneaks."

"I'm not a sneak," retorted Marjorie, her own eyes beginning to flash.
"I wouldn't have told Beverly Randolph or any one else such a thing for
the world; I would have been ashamed to have them know. He recognized
the poem, too. I saw he did the minute you began to read--and afterwards
he spoke of it. But he won't tell; he promised not to, and--oh, Elsie I
thought you might be able to explain it in some way."

"There isn't anything to explain," said Elsie, obstinately. "If you and
that horrid Randolph boy choose to say wicked things about me you can,
but you are not everybody, and when my friends hear about it I think
they'll have something to say." And without another word, Elsie walked
out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and her cousin was left
to cry herself to sleep undisturbed.

CHAPTER XVI

THE THINGS THAT HURT

MARJORIE awoke the next morning with a very heavy heart. Although
Elsie's companionship had not proved quite all she had anticipated,
still they had hitherto been perfectly good friends. Marjorie had looked
upon her clever cousin with genuine admiration, and if in some things
Elsie had disappointed her, she had explained the fact to herself by
remembering how different life in New York was from life in Arizona.

"Elsie has so many friends," she had told herself over and over again;
"of course I can't expect her to be as fond of me as I am of her."

But last night's discovery had been a cruel disappointment, and her
cousin's parting words had hurt more than perhaps Elsie herself fully
realized. She had lain awake a long time, hoping--almost expecting--that
Elsie would come back to tell her she was sorry. She was so ready to
forgive, herself, and even to make allowances, but no sound had come
from the adjoining room, and she had fallen asleep at last, still
hoping that morning might bring about the longed-for reconciliation.

It was still very early, but accustomed all h