bara, and the Randolphs might never have known."

"I wonder how they are going to break the news to Mrs. Randolph,"
remarked Elsie, without heeding her cousin's last observation. "I should
think it would be dreadfully dangerous; the shock might kill her."

Marjorie's bright face clouded.

"I can't help worrying about it," she said, "but I am sure Dr. Randolph
will find a way of doing it. It's wonderful to see her so calm, just
doing every-day things, and talking as if nothing unusual were
happening, when we are all so excited and nervous."

"I really don't see how you managed to keep her from suspecting when you
were on the way home," said Elsie; "I'm afraid I should have let out
something without intending to."

"I couldn't do that," said Marjorie, gravely. "Think how terrible it
would have been if Mrs. Randolph had hoped and then been disappointed.
I was sure myself, but neither Dr. Randolph nor Beverly believed it
could be true. I shall never forget that last evening in Virginia.
Beverly and I were both almost ill from excitement, and yet we had to
act just as if nothing unusual had happened. Fortunately the doctor and
Beverly were to start the first thing in the morning, so we all went to
bed early. I don't believe any of us slept a wink; I know I didn't. The
day on the train wasn't quite so bad, because Mrs. Patterson was with
us, and she hadn't been told anything, and could be natural without
trying. I pretended to be very much interested in a book, so as not to
have to talk much, but I couldn't tell you what it was about. And all
the time Mrs. Randolph was just as sweet and calm as possible, and
worried about me because my hands were cold, and I couldn't eat."

"I think you were very plucky," said Elsie.

The bright color rushed into Marjorie's cheeks; this was the first
compliment Elsie had ever paid her.

"I wasn't at all plucky," she said, modestly; "any one else would have
done the same thing. I'm glad you think I was, though, for I do want you
to like me."

"Of course I like you," said Elsie, reddening in her turn. "There's the
door-bell; I wonder if it's Mamma."

"Perhaps it's a letter," cried Marjorie, springing to her feet; "I ought
to have a letter from home to-day. I haven't heard a word since that
little note from Aunt Jessie the morning after Barbara was found."

But it was not a letter. Neither was it Mrs. Carleton, who had gone
driving with a friend. In a moment the faithful Hortense app