t?"

"I don't know," returned her husband.

"Ye don't know! I swan, Zeb Geary, you must be plumb crazy! Whar'd ye
get her?"

"Thar, thar, now, Sary, don't be askin' questions, but take the pore
lamb in, an' cuddle her up some. She's plumb beat out!"

"Come on, dearie," said the old wife, who had caught sight of Marjorie's
winsome face and sad eyes. "Come along o' me,--I'll take keer o' ye."

Marjorie let herself be helped from the rickety old vehicle, and went
with her hostess, in at the kitchen door.

It wasn't an attractive kitchen, such as Eliza's, at Grandma Sherwood's;
it was bare and comfortless-looking, though clean and in good order.

"Now, now, little miss," said Mrs. Geary, hobbling about, "fust of all,
let's get some supper down ye. When did ye eat last?"

"This noon," said Marjorie, and then, at the remembrance of the happy,
merry luncheon table at Seacote, she put her head down on her arms, and
sobbed as if she had never cried before.

"Bless 'ee, bless 'ee, now, my lamb; don't go fer to take on so. There,
there, have a sup o' warm milk! Oh, my! my!"

In deference to Mrs. Geary's solicitude, Marjorie tried hard to conquer
her sobs, and had finally succeeded, when Mr. Geary came in.

"Don't bother her any to-night, Mother," he said, after a sharp glance
at Marjorie; "she's all on edge. Feed her up good, and tuck her into
bed."

"Yes, yes; here, my lamb, here's a nice soft-boiled egg for your tea.
You'll like that, now?"

"Thank you," said Marjorie, her great, dark eyes looking weird in the
dimly lighted kitchen.

After a satisfying supper, Mrs. Geary took the child up to a low,
slant-ceiled room, that was as bare and clean as the kitchen. The old
woman bathed Marjorie's face and hands with unexpected gentleness, and
then helped her to undress. She brought a coarse, plain nightgown of her
own, but it was clean and soft, and felt comfortable to the tired child.

Then she was tucked between coarse sheets, on a hard bed, but so weary
was she that it seemed comfortable.

Mrs. Geary patted her arm and hummed softly an old hymn-tune, and poor
little Marjorie dropped asleep almost at once.

"What do you make of it, Father?" asked the old woman, returning to the
kitchen.

"She run away from her home fer some reason. Said she hadn't got no
home. Stepmother, I shouldn't wonder. We'll find out to-morrow, an' I'll
tote her back."

"Mebbe there'll be a reward."

"Mebbe so. But we'll do our best b