e Steve, but Grandma Maynard
_had_ wanted her,--really _wanted_ her.

Marjorie looked at the little clock on her dressing table. It was almost
three o'clock. She knew there was a train to New York about three, and
she resolved to go on it.

At first she thought of taking some things in a bag, but she decided not
to, as she didn't want any of the things the Maynards had given her.

"Oh," she thought, while the tears came afresh; "my name isn't even
Maynard! I don't know _what_ it is!"

She put on a blue linen dress, and a blue hat with roses on it. Some
instinct of sadness made her tie her hair with black ribbon.

As she went downstairs, she heard Mrs. Corey say, "I am astounded at
these revelations!" and her mother replied, "Dear friend, I knew you
would be."

Marjorie wasn't crying then, she felt as if she had no tears left. She
shut her teeth together hard, and went out by a side door. This way she
could reach the street unobserved, and she walked straight ahead to the
railroad station. She had a five-dollar gold piece that Uncle Steve had
sent her on Christmas, and that, with a little silver change, she
carried in her pocketbook. But she left behind her pearl ring and all
the little trinkets or valuables she possessed.

She felt as if her heart had turned to stone. It wasn't so much anger at
Mr. and Mrs. Maynard as it was that awful sense of desolation,--as if
the world had come to an end.

At one moment she would think she missed King the most; then with the
thought of her father, a rush of tears would come; and then her poor
little tortured heart would cry out, "Oh, Mother, _Mother_!"

She knew perfectly well the way to New York, and though the station
agent looked at her sharply when she bought a ticket, he said nothing.
For Marjorie was a self-possessed little girl, of good manners and quiet
air when she chose to be. With her ticket in her hand, she sat down to
wait for the train. There were few people in the station at that hour,
and no one who knew her.

When the train came puffing in, she went out and took it, in a
matter-of-fact way, as if quite accustomed to travelling alone.

Really, she felt very much frightened. She had never been on a train
alone before, and the noise of the cars and the bustle of the people,
and the shouting of the trainmen made her nervous.

And then, with a fresh flood of woe, the remembrance of _why_ she was
going would come over her, and obliterate all other considerat