d you liked it," he said, heartily; "and now, scamper home and to
bed, all of you, so your parents won't say I made you lose your beauty
sleep."

CHAPTER VIII

A REVELATION

Marjorie was practising.

It was a lovely afternoon, and she wanted to go out and play, but her
hour's practising must be done first. She was conscientious about it,
and tried very hard to hold her hands just right, as she counted,
one--two--three--four; one--two--three--four.

Mrs. Corey, Hester's mother, was calling on Mrs. Maynard, and the two
ladies sat on the veranda, just outside the window near which the piano
stood.

Marjorie did not listen to their conversation, for it was of no interest
to her, and, too, she was devoting all her attention to her exercises.
Usually, she didn't mind practising, but to-day the Sand Club was
waiting for her, and her practice hour seemed interminable.

"One--two--three--four," she counted to herself, when something Mrs.
Corey said arrested her attention.

"Your oldest daughter?" Marjorie heard her exclaim; "you amaze me!"

Midget had no thought of eavesdropping, and as the piano was near the
open window, surely they could hear her practising, and so knew she was
there.

But Mrs. Maynard answered, in a low, serious voice, "Yes, my oldest
girl. She is not our child. She is a foundling. We adopted her when an
infant."

"Really?" said Mrs. Corey, much interested. "How did that happen?"

"Well," said Mrs. Maynard, "my husband desired it, and I consented. She
has grown up a good girl, but of course I can't feel toward her as I
feel toward my own children."

"No, of course not," agreed Mrs. Corey. "The others are all your own?"

"Yes, they are my own."

"She doesn't know this, does she?"

"Oh, no, we have never let her suspect it. She thinks I am her mother,
and she thinks I love her as I do my own children. But it is hard for me
to pretend affection for her, when I remember her humble origin."

"Your husband? Does he care for her?"

"He feels much as I do. You see, she is not of as fine a nature as our
own children. Of course he can't help seeing that. But we both do our
best for the girl."

"Good for you, Mrs. Maynard; that's fine!"

"Do you really think so, Mrs. Corey? I'm afraid that----"

But Marjorie heard no more. She had stopped her practising at the first
words of these awful disclosures.

Not her mother's own child! She, Marjorie Maynard! It couldn't be
possible! But as