o with appearance."

"And now I am going to take you to your room, Marjorie," said Mrs.
Randolph as they rose from the breakfast table. "You will want to
unpack and wash up a little after that dusty journey. I have asked some
cousins of ours, the Pattersons, to luncheon, and perhaps this afternoon
you and Beverly will like to go for a ride. I needn't ask if you are
accustomed to riding; every girl brought up on a ranch must be."

"I have ridden ever since I can remember," said Marjorie, her eyes
sparkling at the prospect of the coming pleasure. "I would rather ride a
horse than do anything else in the world."

Mrs. Randolph laughed, and led the way up a broad oak staircase, and
along a wide hall, to the prettiest little room imaginable, all
furnished in pink and white; a typical girl's room, as Marjorie saw at
the first glance.

"I have put you here because this room is next to mine," Mrs. Randolph
explained. "I thought you would like it better than being away down at
the other end of the hall. This was my little Barbara's room," she added
softly; "no one has slept here since she left it, and nothing has been
changed."

"Oh, Mrs. Randolph," cried Marjorie, gratefully, "how very good you are
to me, but are you sure you really want me to have this room?"

"Yes, dear, I am quite sure I do. If my Barbara were alive I know she
would love you, and I like to think I shall have a little girl next to
me again to-night."

With a sudden impulse, Marjorie flung her arms round Mrs. Randolph's
neck and hugged her. She did not speak--words did not come easily just
then--but Barbara's mother understood, and the kiss she gave in return
was a very tender one.

When Marjorie was left alone, her first occupation was to look about the
room, and examine all its details. It was very simple, but everything
was in perfect taste, and the girl admired it all, from the pretty china
ornaments on the bureau, to the row of books on a shelf over the
writing-desk. She took down one of the books reverently; it seemed
almost like sacrilege to touch these things that had belonged to another
girl, whose death had been so very sad. It was "Lorna Doone," and on the
fly-leaf Marjorie read, "To Barbara Randolph, from her affectionate
cousin, Grace Patterson." Then she examined the framed photographs on
the mantelpiece; Mrs. Randolph and Beverly, and a gentleman whom she
supposed must have been Barbara's father. There were other photographs
as well, o