did
she stay on talking to them? A cold doubt began to creep into
Margery's mind. Had she, after all, disgraced only herself? The
doubt slowly grew to a certainty, until, by the time she found
herself dragged into the library, she felt as miserable and
forlorn as she looked.

Without a word Henry placed her before her mother. Her mother
raised languid eyes from a novel; then, like Gladys, showed
livelier interest.

"Margery! What have you been doing?"

"Swimmin'." Henry answered for her, in the first syllables he had
uttered since leaving the pond.

"Swimming!" repeated her mother faintly.

"With boys," added Henry gloomily.

"With boys!" echoed her mother, looking helpless and alarmed. The
occasion was evidently one which demanded a well-chosen reproof.
She paused a moment, then said impressively: "Why, I never heard
of a little girl doing such a thing!"

At that all Margery's waning spirit flared up. It was what they
always said! Whatever she did was bad, not because it _was_ bad,
but because _she_ was a girl!

"'Tain't my fault I'm a girl!" she cried, stamping her foot and
glaring out from under her muddy hair, more than ever like a
little creature of the woods. "I don't want to be a girl! I want
to be a boy, and you know I do!"

"That will do, Margery," said her mother coldly. "You may go to
bed now, and when your father comes home, I shall tell him how
you've been behaving and he can punish you. Henry, call Effie."

To Effie was intrusted the task of giving Margery a bath and
putting her to bed.

"She's been a bad girl this afternoon, Effie, and if she's rude
to you, you may spank her." And Margery's mother, thus shifting
her maternal responsibility, first to a servant, then to her
husband, returned to her novel with a troubled sigh.

When one is small and in the grip of adverse circumstances, there is,
perhaps, no process of life which can be made more humiliating than a
bath. In this instance, suffice to say that Effie was lavish in the
use of soap and water, especially soap, and, by the time she finished,
had reduced her charge to a state of quiescent misery.

* * * * *

Margery's room was the small front corner room adjoining her
mother's. The window was open, and, as she lay in bed, feverish
and unhappy, the murmur of conversation from the porch below
reached her distinctly. She paid little attention until, hearing
Gladys Bailey's voice, it suddenly ca