the. She could not have spoken had her life depended
on it, but fortunately Mrs. Randolph did not appear to expect an answer.

"My little girl would have been fifteen to-day," she said, sadly. "It
seems hard to realize; she was such a child when she went away. I have
missed Beverly so much to-day; he and I always talk of Barbara on her
birthday."

"Would you like to talk to me about her, Mrs. Randolph?" said Marjorie,
in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper.

"I should like it very much. Indeed, that is why I sent for you. Mrs.
Patterson has gone out. I offered to go with her, but she said she had
some important business to attend to, and would rather go alone. I am
afraid something is troubling her, and she doesn't want to worry me
about it."

Marjorie, who knew that Mrs. Patterson had gone to the station to meet
the travelers, in answer to an urgent telegram from Dr. Randolph, said
nothing. Mrs. Patterson, being a nervous, excitable little woman, had
been purposely kept in ignorance of the real reason of her cousins'
Western trip, and it was in order to break the news to her that the
doctor had wired her to meet him at the station, and to say nothing on
the subject of her errand to Mrs. Randolph. Consequently, the poor
little lady had been filled by apprehensions of something dreadful
having happened to one or both of the travelers, and had departed in a
state of perturbation well calculated to arouse Mrs. Randolph's
suspicions that something was troubling her.

There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs. Randolph went on.

"I never talk of my little girl to strangers--it is all too sacred for
that--but you are not a stranger any more. I have loved you dearly ever
since we stood together at my Barbara's grave, and you showed me by your
silent sympathy how well you understood."

Marjorie could not speak, but she took her friend's hand, and stroked it
softly, while Mrs. Randolph went on, calmly, though with a quiver in her
voice:

"I used to try to make the children's birthdays as happy as possible; I
thought they would be pleasant memories for them when they were older.
Even the year after my husband died, when my heart was very sad, I
wanted them to have a merry time. Little children's lives should never
be saddened. I think you would have loved my little girl, Marjorie; she
was very sweet."

"I know I should," said Marjorie, with a sob, that was half hysterical.

"I am afraid she was a sad rogue someti