omforter, Charlie had hobbled to his
corner, where his Christmas tree still stood, and, with that blessed
forgetfulness of sorrow which childhood alone knows, had dragged forth
his violin and begun a dismal screeching and scraping, a nerve-racking
obligato to his foster sister's sobs.

Five endless minutes passed, but Constance made no sign.

"I'm--I'm going now," choked Marjorie. Hot tears lay thick on her
eyelashes. She stumbled blindly toward the door, her face averted from
the girl who had so misused and abused her friendship. "Good-bye,
Constance."

Something in the reproachful ring of that "Good-bye," startled Constance
out of her grief. She had been too greatly overcome with her own trouble
to note the effect of her tears and broken words upon Marjorie. Surely
Marjorie was not angry with her for crying.

"Wait a minute, Marjorie," she called. "Please don't be angry. I won't
cry any more. I want to tell you about the pin. It was----"

But only the sound of a closing door answered her. Marjorie was gone.

CHAPTER XX

THE CROWNING INJURY

Marjorie never remembered just how she reached home that afternoon. She
followed the familial streets mechanically, her brain tortured with but
one burning thought--Constance was a thief. Over and over the dreadful
sentence repeated itself in her mind. "How could she?" was her
half-sobbed whisper, as she slipped quietly into the house, and, without
glancing toward the living-room, went softly upstairs to her room. She
wanted to be alone. Not even her beloved captain could ease the hurt
dealt her by the girl she had loved and trusted. Her mother must never
know that Constance was unworthy. No one should know, but she could
never, never be friends with Constance again.

With the tears running down her cheeks Marjorie took off the new fur
coat she had worn so proudly that afternoon and dropped it upon the
first convenient chair. Her hat followed it; then throwing herself
across the bed, she gave way to uncontrolled weeping. Until that moment
she had not realized how greatly she had loved this girl who had Mary's
eyes of true blue, but who was so sadly lacking in Mary's fine sense of
honor.

Until the afternoon light waned and the shadows began to creep upon her
she lay mourning, and inconsolable. Her generous heart had been sorely
wounded and she could not easily thrust aside her dreadful sense of
loss; neither could she understand why Constance had partly acknowle