the conversation went on, perfectly audible, though not
in loud tones, she could no longer doubt the truth of what her mother
was saying.

Dreadful it might be,--unbelievable it might be,--but true it must be.

"One--two--three--four," mechanically she tried to strike the keys, but
her fingers refused to move.

She left the piano, and went slowly up to her own room.

Her pretty room that her mother,--no, that Mrs. Maynard,--had fixed up
for her with flowering chintz hangings and frilly white curtains.

_Not_ her mother! Who, then, was or had been her mother?

And then Marjorie's calm gave way. She threw herself on her little white
bed, and burying her face in the pillow she sobbed convulsively. Her
thoughts flew to her father,--but no, he wasn't her father! King wasn't
her brother,--nor Kitty her sister! Nor Rosy Posy----?

It was all too dreadful. At every fresh thought about it, it grew worse.
Dear old King, she had never realized before how much she loved him. And
Kitty! And Father and Mother! She _would_ call them that, even though
they were no relation to her.

For a long time Marjorie cried,--great, deep, heart-racking sobs that
wore her out.

At last she settled down into a calm of despair.

"I am going away," she said, to herself. "I won't stay here where they
have to _pretend_ they love me! Oh, Mother, _Mother_!"

But no one heard the little girl's grief. Mrs. Maynard still sat on the
veranda, talking to Mrs. Corey; King was down at Sand Court; and the
nurse had taken Rosamond out for a walk.

"I _must_ go away," poor Marjorie went on; "I _can't_ stay here, I
should _suffocate_!"

She sat up on the edge of her bed, and clasped her hands in utter
desolation. Where could she go? Not to Cousin Ethel's, she'd only bring
her back home. _Home!_ She hadn't any home,--no _real_ home! She thought
of Grandma Sherwood's, but she wasn't her grandma at all! Then she
thought of Grandma Maynard. That was a curious thought, for though
Grandma Maynard wasn't her own grandmother, either, yet, a few months
ago, she had begged Marjorie to live with her and be her little girl.
Surely she must have _known_ that Midget wasn't really her
granddaughter, and yet she had really loved her enough to want her to
live there.

Then Grandma Maynard wouldn't have to _pretend_ to love her.

Clearly, that was the only thing to do. She couldn't run away, with no
destination in view.

She had no claim on Grandma Sherwood or Uncl