"It seems to be your party, Steve," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling; "can't I help you with the arrangements?"
"Yes, indeed; you and Mother can look after the feast part of it, but the rest I'll attend to myself."
After breakfast the children were advised to stay indoors for a while, lest they get into more mischief, and also until their elders felt that there was no danger of their taking cold.
"Lucky we didn't have Rosy Posy with us," said King, picking up his smallest sister, and tossing her up in the air.
"Don't speak of it," said his mother, turning pale at the thought; "and don't ever take the baby on your escapades. She's too little to go through the dangers that you older ones persist in getting into."
"Oh, we don't persist," said Marjorie, "the dangers just seem to come to us without our looking for them."
"They do seem to, Midget," agreed Uncle Steve. "But you all seem to have a happy-go-lucky way of getting out of them, and I think you're a pretty good bunch of children after all."
"Listen to that!" exclaimed King, proudly, strutting about the room, elated with the compliment. "It's worth while having an uncle who says things like that to you," and the others willingly agreed with him.
Kept in the house, the children wandered about in search of amusement. Kitty curled herself up on a sofa, with a book, saying she was determined to keep out of mischief for once.
"Let's go up in the attic," said Midget to King, "and hunt over our old toys that are put away up there. We might find some nice game."
"All right, come on," and in a minute the two were scrambling up the attic stairs.
"Gracious! look at that big chest. I never saw that before. Wonder what's in it," said Marjorie, pausing before a big cedar chest.
"Is it locked?" said King, and lifting the lid he discovered it wasn't.
But it was filled to the brim with old-fashioned garments of queer old
Quaker cut.
"Wouldn't it be fun to dress up in these," cried King.
"Yes," assented Marjorie, "but I'm not going to do it, until we ask
Grandma. I've had enough mischief for one day."
So King ran downstairs and asked Grandma, and soon came running back.
"She says we may," he announced briefly, "so let's choose our rigs."
They lifted out the quaint, old-fashioned clothes, and found there were both men's and women's garments among them.
"Where do you suppose they came from?" asked Marjorie.
"Grandma said some old relative in Philadelphia sent her the chest, some time ago, but she's never opened it."
They tried on various costumes, and pranced around the attic, pretending they were ladies and gentlemen of bygone days.
Finally King tried on a woman's dress. It just fitted him, and when he added a silk Shaker bonnet and a little shoulder shawl, the effect was so funny that Marjorie screamed with laughter.
"All you want," she said, "is some false hair in the front of that bonnet, and you'll be a perfect little old lady."
Then Marjorie ran down to Grandma, and asked her for some of her false puffs, and getting them, flew back to the attic again, and deftly pinned them inside of King's bonnet, transforming him into a sweet-faced Quaker lady.
Then Marjorie arrayed herself as another Quaker lady, drawing her hair down in smooth bands over her ears, which greatly changed the expression of her face, and made her look much older. Each carried an old-fashioned silk reticule, and together they went downstairs. After parading before their admiring relatives, they decided to play a joke on Eliza. She had not yet seen them, so they slipped downstairs and out the front door, and then closing it softly behind them, they rang the bell.
Eliza came to the door, and utterly failed to recognize the children.
"Does Mrs. Sherwood live here?" asked King, in a thin, disguised voice.
"Yes, ma'am," said Eliza, not knowing the children, "but—" gazing in surprise at the quaint, old-fashioned dresses and bobbing bonnets.
"Please tell her her two aunts from Philadelphia are here," said Marjorie, but she could not disguise her voice as well as King, and Eliza suddenly recognized it.
"Two aunts from Phillydelphy, is it?" she said. "More likes it's too loonytics from Crazyland! What will ye mischiefs be cuttin' up next! But, faith, ye're the bonny ould ladies, and if ye'll come in and take a seat, I'll tell the missus ye're here."
But, having fooled Eliza, the fun was over in that direction, and the
Quaker ladies trotted away to make a call on Carter.
Just at first he didn't know them, and thought the two ladies were coming to see him. But in a moment he saw who they were, and the good-natured man entered at once into the game.
CHAPTER X
CALLING AT THE SCHOOLHOUSE
"Good-morning, ladies," he said, bowing gravely, "I'm very pleased to see you. May I ask your names?"
"Mrs. William Penn and Mrs. Benjamin Franklin," said Marjorie, "and we have come to look at your flowers."
"Yes, ma'am; they do be fine this year, ma'am. Happen you raise flowers yourself?"
"No, not much," said King, "we don't raise anything."
"Except when you raise the mischief," declared Carter, laughing at the prim faces before him. "I'm thinkin' if you'd always wear those sober-colored dresses you mightn't lead such a rambunctious life."
"That's so," said King, kicking at his skirts. "But they're not easy to get around in."
"I think they are," said Marjorie, gracefully swishing the long folds of her silk skirt. "Come on, King, let's go over and see Stella; we haven't seen her yet."
"Miss Stella's gone to school," Carter informed them. "I saw her go by with her books just before nine o'clock. And if you ladies can excuse me now, I'll be going back to my work. If so be ye fall in the river or anything, just you scream, Miss Marjorie, and I'll come and fish you out."
"We don't fall in twice in one day," said Marjorie, with dignity, and the two Quaker ladies trailed away across the lawn.
They went down into the orchard, to pay a visit to Breezy Inn. This was Marjorie's tree-house which Uncle Steve had had built for her the year before.
But the rope ladder was not there, so they could not go up, and they wandered on, half hoping they might meet somebody who would really think they were Quaker ladies. Crossing the orchard, they came out on one of the main streets of the town, and saw not far away, the school which Stella and Molly attended.
Marjorie had a sudden inspiration. "Let's go to the school," she said, "and ask for Stella and Molly!"
"Only one of them," amended King; "which one?"
"Stella, then. We'll go to the front door, and we'll probably see the janitor, and we'll ask him to call Stella Martin down."
"I think we'd better send for Molly."
"No, Molly would make such a racket. Stella's so much quieter, and I don't want to make any trouble."
They reached the schoolhouse, which was a large brick building of three or four stories. The front door was a rather impressive portal, and the children went up the steps and rang the bell.
"You do the talking, King," said Marjorie. "You can make your voice sound just like an old lady."
The janitor appeared in answer to their ring, and looked greatly amazed to see two old Quaker ladies on the doorstep. The children kept their heads down, and the large bonnets shaded their faces.
"We want to see Miss Stella Martin," said King, politely, and the clever boy made his voice sound like that of an elderly lady.
"Yes'm," said the janitor, a little bewildered. "Will you come in?"
"No," said King, "we won't come in, thank you. Please ask Miss Stella Martin to come down here. Her two aunts from Philadelphia want to see her."
The janitor partly closed the door, and went upstairs to Stella's classroom.
"We fooled him all right!" chuckled King, "but what do you suppose Stella will say?"
"I don't know," said Midget, thoughtfully; "you never can tell what Stella will do. She may think it's a great joke, and she may burst out crying. She's such a funny girl."
In a moment Stella came down. The janitor was with her, and opened the door for her. As she saw the two Quaker figures her face expressed only blank bewilderment.
"Who are you?" she asked, bluntly. "I haven't any aunts in Philadelphia."
"Oh, yes, you have," said King, in his falsetto voice, "Don't you remember your dear Aunt Effie and Aunt Lizzie?"
"No, I don't," declared Stella, and then as she showed signs of being frightened, and perhaps crying, Marjorie came to the rescue.
She hated to explain the joke before the janitor, but he looked good-natured, and after all it was only a joke. So she threw back her head, and smiled at Stella, saying, "Then do you remember your Aunt Marjorie Maynard?"
"Marjorie!" exclaimed Stella. "What are you doing in such funny clothes?
And who is this with you,—Kitty?"
"No," said King, "it's Kingdon. I'm Marjorie's brother, and we're out on a little lark."
"How did you ever dare come here?" and Stella's startled gaze rested on them, and then on the janitor.
The janitor was a good-natured man, but he felt that this performance was not in keeping with school discipline, and he felt he ought to send the children away at once. But Marjorie smiled at him so winningly that he could not speak sternly to her.
"I guess you'd better run along now," he said; "the principal wouldn't like it if he saw you."
"Yes, we're going now," said Marjorie, "but I just wanted to speak to Stella a minute. We're going to have a party, Stella, and I want you to come over this afternoon and tell us who to invite."
"All right," said Stella; "I'll come right after school. And now do go away. If my teacher should see you she'd scold me."
"She'd have no right to," said King. "You couldn't help our coming."
"No, but I can help staying here and talking to you. Now I must go back to my classroom."
"Skip along, then," said Marjorie, and then turning to the janitor, she added, "and will you please ask Miss Molly Moss to come down."
"That I will not!" declared the man. "I've been pretty good to you two kids, and now you'd better make a getaway, or I'll have to report to the principal."
"Oh, we're going," said Marjorie, hastily; "and don't mention our call to the principal, because it might make trouble for Stella, though I don't see why it should."
"Well, I won't say anything about it," and the janitor smiled at them kindly as he closed the door.
The pair went home chuckling, and when they reached the house it was nearly lunch time. So they came to the table in their Quaker garb, and created much merriment by pretending to be guests of the family.
Stella and Molly both came after school, and the list for the party invitations was soon made out. Uncle Steve wrote the invitations, and sent them to the mail, but he would not divulge any of his plans for the party, and though Midget was impatient to know, she could get no idea of what the plays or games were to be.
But it was not long to wait for the day of the party itself. The guests were invited from three to six in the afternoon, and though the Maynards knew some of them, there were a number of strangers among the company. However, Stella and Molly knew them all, and it did not take long for the Maynards to feel acquainted with them.
The first game was very amusing. Uncle Steve presented each child with a Noah's Ark. These were of the toy variety usually seen, but they were all empty.
"You must find animals for yourselves," said Uncle Steve, who was never happier than when entertaining children. "They are hidden all about, in the drawing-room, library, dining-room, and hall. You may not go upstairs, or in the kitchen, but anywhere else in the house you may search for animals to fill your arks. Now scamper and see who can get the most."
The children scampered, and all agreed that hunting wild animals was a great game. It was lots more fun than a peanut hunt, and they found elephants, lions, and tigers tucked away behind window curtains and sofa pillows, under tables and chairs, and even behind the pictures on the walls.
There were so many animals that each one succeeded in filling his or her ark, and after they had declared they could find no more, each child was told to take the ark home as a souvenir of Marjorie's party.
"The next game," said Uncle Steve, as they all sat round, awaiting his directions, "is out of doors, so perhaps you had better put on your coats and hats."
"Oh, Uncle Steve," said Marjorie, "the air is so soft and warm, I'm sure we don't need wraps."
"Yes, you do," said Uncle Steve; "this is a peculiar game, and you must have your coats on."
So the children trooped upstairs, and soon returned garbed for outdoors, and two by two they followed Uncle Steve in a long procession. Mr. Maynard was with them, too, but Uncle Steve was general manager, and told everybody what to do.
He led them across the lawns, down through the orchard, and then they came to a large plot of soft, newly-dug earth. It was a sandy soil and not at all muddy, and the children wondered what kind of a game could take place in a ploughed field.
"It has just been discovered," Uncle Steve began, "that this field you see before you is the place where Captain Kidd buried his treasures! For many years the site was undiscovered, but documents have been found recently, proving beyond all doubt that the greater part of his vast treasure was concealed in this particular piece of ground. Of course, if this were generally known, all sorts of companies and syndicates would be formed to dig for it. But I have carefully kept it secret from the world at large, because I wanted you children to be the first ones to dig for it. Bring the spades, please, Carter, and let us set to work at once."
So Carter brought twenty small spades, and gave one to each child present.
"Now," said Uncle Steve, "dig wherever you like, all over the field, and when you find any buried treasure, dig it up, but if it is tied up in a parcel, do not open it. Every one finding any treasure must bring it, and put it in this wheelbarrow, and then, if you choose, you may go back and dig for more."
This was indeed a novel game, and girls and boys alike began to dig with enthusiasm.
Marjorie worked like mad. The dirt flew right and left, and she dug so hard and fast that she almost blistered her palms.
"Slow and sure is a better rule, Midget," said her uncle, who was watching her. "Look at Kitty, she has dug quite as much as you without making any fuss about it."
"Oh, I have to work fast, Uncle Steve, 'cause I'm having such a good time! If I didn't fling this spade around hard, I couldn't express my enjoyment; and oh, Uncle, I've struck a treasure!"
Sure enough, Marjorie's spade had come in contact with what seemed to be a tin box. It was quite a large box and was strongly tied with lots of cord, and on it was pasted a paper with the legend, "This treasure was buried by Captain Kidd. It is of great value."
"It is a treasure, it is!" cried Marjorie, and eagerly she wielded her spade to get the box free. At last she succeeded, and picking it up from the dirt, carried it to the wheelbarrow.
Two or three other children also brought treasures they had found, and this encouraged the others so that they dug deeper.
Shouts of glee rang out from one or another as more and more boxes of treasure were unearthed, and the pile of boxes in the wheelbarrow grew higher every moment. The boxes were of all shapes and sizes. They were all carefully tied up with lots of string and paper, and they all bore testimony in large printed letters that they had been buried by Captain Kidd and his band of pirates. King unearthed a large box two or three feet square, but very flat and shallow. He could not imagine what it might contain, but he piled it on the wheelbarrow with the others.
After twenty pieces of treasure had been dug up, Uncle Steve declared that they had emptied the field, and he led the children back to the house. Carter followed with the wheelbarrow, and they all gathered in the little enclosed porch that had been furnished especially for Marjorie the summer before. With a whiskbroom, Carter brushed off any dirt still clinging to the treasures, and piled them up on a table.
Then calling the children by name. Uncle Steve invited each one to select a box of treasure for his or her very own. As it was impossible to judge by the shape of the box what it contained, great merriment was caused by the surprises which ensued.
The treasures were all dainty and pretty gifts; there were books, games, toys, fancy boxes, and pretty souvenirs of many sorts. If a boy received a gift appropriate for a girl, or vice versa, they made a happy exchange, and everybody was more than satisfied.
After this, they were summoned to the dining-room for the feast, and a merry feast it was. Eliza had used her best skill in the making of dainty sandwiches and little cakes with pink and white icing. Then there were jellies and fruits, and, best of all, in Kitty's eyes, most delightful ice cream. It was in individual shapes, and each child had a duck, or a chicken, or a flower, or a fruit beautifully modelled and daintily colored.
The guests went away with a box of treasure under one arm and a Noah's ark under the other, and they all declared, as they said good-bye, that it was the nicest party they had ever seen, and they wished the Maynard children lived at their Grandmother's all the year around.
CHAPTER XI
A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE
All of the Maynards were sorry when the time came to leave Grandma Sherwood's. But they had still three weeks of their trip before them, and many places yet to be visited. Kitty was almost tempted to stay, since she was coming back in June anyway, and she wasn't quite so fond of travelling about as King and Midget were. But they would not hear of this, and persuaded Kitty to go on the trip, and return to Grandma Sherwood's later.
So on a fair, sunshiny May morning, the big car started once more on its travels, with half a dozen Maynards packed in it. They were waving good-byes, and calling back messages of farewell, and the car rolled away, leaving Grandma and Uncle Steve watching them out of sight.
Their next destination was New York City, where they were to make a short visit at Grandma Maynard's.
"Isn't it funny," Marjorie said, voicing the sentiment of many older travellers, "that when you leave one place you sort of forget it,—and your thoughts fly ahead to the next place you're going."
"It's so long since I've been at Grandma Maynard's," said Kitty, "and I was so little when I was there, that I hardly remember it at all."
"It isn't half as much fun as Grandma Sherwood's," declared King, and then Marjorie, afraid lest her father should feel hurt, added quickly, "But it's very nice indeed, and Grandma and Grandpa Maynard are lovely. The only reason we have more fun at Grandma Sherwood's is because we don't have to be quite so careful of our manners and customs."
"Well, it won't hurt you, Midget," said her mother, "to have a little experience in that line; and I do hope, children, you will behave yourselves, and not go to cutting up any of your mischief or jinks."
"Kit will be our star exhibit," said King, "she'll have to do the manners for the family."
"I'll do my share," said Kitty, taking him literally, "but unless you two behave, I can't do it all. If you go to pulling hair-ribbons and neckties off each other, Grandma Maynard will think you're Hottentots!"
"I will be good, dear Mother," said King, with such an angelic expression on his face that Mrs. Maynard felt sure he was in a specially roguish mood; and though she thought her children were the dearest in the world, yet she knew they had a propensity for getting into mischief just when she wanted them to act most decorously.
But she said no more, for very often special admonitions resulted in special misbehavior.
They were spinning along a lovely country road, which ran across that portion of New Jersey, and the children found much to interest them in the scenes they passed. Mr. Maynard liked to travel rather slowly, and as it neared noon they stopped at a hotel for luncheon. Here they stayed for some time, and the children were delighted to find that there were several other children living at the hotel, and they soon became acquainted.
One girl, about Marjorie's age, named Ethel Sinclair, seemed an especially nice child, and Mrs. Maynard was glad to have Marjorie play with her.
She was sitting on the veranda embroidering, and this interested Marjorie, for all the girls she knew of her own age liked to run and play better than to sit and sew.
But when Ethel showed them her work, Kitty and Marjorie, and even King, took an interest in looking at it. It was a large piece of white linen, about a yard square, neatly hemstitched, and all over it were names of people.
Ethel explained that she asked any one whom she chose to write an autograph on the cloth in pencil, and then afterward she worked them very carefully with red cotton, taking very small stitches that the names might be clear and legible.
"But what's it for?" asked King, with a boy's ignorance of such matters.
"It's a teacloth," said Ethel, "to cover a tea table, you know."
"But you don't have afternoon tea, do you?" asked Marjorie, for Ethel, like herself, was only twelve.
"No, but I'm going to use it for a tablecover in my bedroom, and perhaps when I grow older I can use it for a teacloth."
Ethel was a prim-mannered child, and had apparently been brought up in a conventional manner, but Marjorie liked her, and stayed talking with her, while King and Kitty went off to explore the gardens.
"I wish I could make one," went on Marjorie to Ethel, "where did you get the linen?"
"There's a little shop just down the road, and they have the squares already hemstitched. It would be nice for you to make one, for you could get so many names as you go on your trip."
"So I could; I'm going to ask mother if I may buy one. Will you go with me, Ethel?"
Ethel went gladly, and when the girls showed the teacloth to Mrs. Maynard, she approved of the whole plan, for she wanted Marjorie to become more fond of her needle, and this work would be an incentive to do so.
So she gave Marjorie the money for the purchase, and the two girls trotted away to the little shop which was not far from the hotel.
Marjorie found a square just like Ethel's, and bought it with a decidedly grownup feeling.
"I don't like to sew much," she confessed to Ethel, as they walked back.
"I've tried it a little, but I'd rather read or play."
"But this isn't like regular sewing, and it's such fun to see the names grow right under your eyes. They're so much prettier after they're worked in red than when they're just written in pencil."
"Wouldn't they be prettier still worked in white?" asked Marjorie.
"No; I saw one that way once, and the names don't show at all,—you can hardly read them. Red is the best, and it doesn't fade when it's washed."
Marjorie had bought red cotton at the shop, and she showed her purchases to her mother with great delight.
"They're fine," said Mrs. Maynard, approvingly. "Now why don't you ask Ethel to write her name, and then you can always remember that hers was the first one on the cloth."
"Oh, that will be lovely!" cried Marjorie. "Will you, Ethel?"
"Yes, indeed," and getting a pencil, Ethel wrote her name in a large, plain, childish hand.
"You must always ask people to write rather large," she advised, "because it's awfully hard to work the letters if they're too small."
Then Ethel lent Marjorie her needle and thimble so that she might do a few stitches by way of practice.
But it was not so easy for Marjorie as for Ethel, and her stitches did not look nearly so nice and neat. However, Mrs. Maynard said that she felt sure Marjorie's work would improve after she had done more of it, and she thanked Ethel for her assistance in the matter.
Then Ethel's mother appeared, and the two ladies were made acquainted, and then it was luncheon time, and the Maynards all went to the dining-room.
"I think the most fun of the whole trip is eating in restaurants," said Kitty. "I just love to look around, and see different tables and different people at them."
"It is fun," agreed King; "but I wouldn't want to live in a hotel all the time. I think it's more fun to be at home."
"So do I," said Marjorie. "Somehow, in a hotel, you feel sort of stiff and queer, and you never do at home."
"You needn't feel stiff and queer, Marjorie," said her father; "but of course there is a certain conventional restraint about a public dining-room that isn't necessary at home. I want you children to become accustomed to restaurants, and learn how to act polite and reserved, without being what Marjorie calls stiff and queer."
"Don't we act right, Father?" inquired Kitty, anxiously.
"Yes, you do very nicely, indeed. Your table manners are all right, and the less you think about the subject the better. This trip will give you a certain amount of experience, and anyway you have all your life to learn in. But I will ask you, children, to be on your good behavior at Grandma Maynard's. She is more difficult to please than Grandma Sherwood, but I want her to think my children are the best and the best-behaved in the whole world."
"How long shall we stay there, Father?" asked Marjorie.
"About three days. I'm sure you can exist that long without falling in the water or cutting up any pranks in the house."
"Is there any water to fall in?" asked King.
"No, there isn't. I used that as a figure of speech. But I'm sure if you try to be quiet and well-behaved children you can easily succeed."
"I'm sure we can," said Marjorie, heartily, and deep in her heart she registered a vow that she would succeed this time.
After luncheon was over, Pompton brought the car around, and they started off again. Marjorie bade Ethel good-bye with a feeling of regret that she did not live nearer, so she might have her for a friend. But she had her autograph as a souvenir, and she intended to work her tablecloth very neatly, so it would look as good as Ethel's.
The afternoon ride was not a long one, and before four o'clock they came in sight of the tall towers of the New York buildings.
The children had never approached the city in a motor car before, and were enthusiastic over the view of it. Mr. Maynard pointed out the different business buildings, some of which they already recognized. They had to cross a downtown ferry, and soon they were speeding north through the streets of crowded traffic.
As they neared Grandma Maynard's house in Fifth Avenue, Mrs. Maynard looked over her brood carefully to see if they were in proper order for presentation.
Except for slight evidences of travel, they all looked neat and tidy, and the girls' pretty motor garb was becoming and correct. Rosy Posy as usual, looked the pink of perfection, for the child had a knack of keeping herself dainty and fresh even in difficult circumstances.
Satisfied with her inspection, Mrs. Maynard gave them final injunctions to behave correctly, and then they reached the house.
The children had been there before, but they did not go often, and for the last two years the elder Maynards had been travelling abroad. So they felt almost like strangers as they entered the lofty and dimly lighted hall, to which they were admitted by an imposing-looking footman in livery.
Ushered into the reception room, the visitors found themselves in the presence of their host and hostess.
Grandma and Grandpa Maynard were most worthy and estimable people; but they were not very young, and they had lived all their lives in an atmosphere of convention and formality. They did not realize that this was different from the mode of living preferred by their son's family, and indeed they were so accustomed to their own ways that it never occurred to them that there were any others.
Mr. and Mrs. Maynard appreciated and understood all this, and accepted the situation as it stood.
But the children, impressed by the admonitions of their parents, and oppressed by the severe and rigid effects of the house, turned into quiet little puppets, quite different from their usual merry selves.
Although the elder Maynards' greetings were formal, Mr. and Mrs. Maynard, Jr., were cordial in their manner. Mr. Maynard shook his father heartily by the hand, and kissed his mother tenderly, and Mrs. Maynard did the same.
Marjorie endeavored to do exactly as her parents did, but as she began to chatter to her grandfather, Grandma Maynard told her that children should be seen and not heard, and bade her sit down on a sofa. The old lady had no intention of hurting Marjorie's feelings, but she meant exactly what she said, and it irritated her to hear a child chatter.
"And now," said Grandma Maynard, after the greetings were all over, "you would like to go to your rooms, I'm sure, and make ready for tea."
Decorously the children filed upstairs and were put in charge of maids who assisted them with their toilets.
Marjorie and Kitty were in the same room, but owing to the maids' presence, they could make no comments.
As the trunks had been sent ahead, they had fresh frocks in plenty, and soon, attired in stiff white kilted piqué, they went downstairs again.
Grandma Maynard nodded approval, and told them to sit down on the divan.
"Of course, you little girls don't drink tea," she said, as she seated herself behind the elaborately appointed tea-tray which the butler had brought in. "So I have milk for you."
This was entirely satisfactory, and as there were plenty of lovely little cakes and dainty sandwiches, the children felt there was no fault to be found with Grandma's hospitality, even though they were not allowed to talk.
King adapted himself rather more easily than the girls to this order of things, and he sat quietly in his chair, speaking only when he was spoken to; and though Marjorie knew he was fairly aching to shout and race around, yet he looked so demure that he almost made her laugh.
Not that she did! No, indeed, she knew better than that; but though she tried very hard to appear at her ease, her nature was so sensitive to mental atmosphere, that her cakes almost choked her.
Rosy Posy was perfectly at ease. The midget sat quietly, and accepted with benign grace the milk and crackers fed to her by one of the maids.
But at last the tea hour was over and the Maynards discovered that virtue is sometimes rewarded.
"You are most pleasant and amiable children," said Grandma Maynard, looking judicially at the quartet, "and you certainly have very good manners. I'm glad to see, Ed, that you have brought them up to be quiet and sedate. I detest noisy children."
"Yes, you are sensible, and not annoying to have around," agreed Grandpa Maynard, and the three older children smiled respectfully at the compliment, but offered no reply.
"And now," went on Grandpa Maynard, "I think that you should be amused for an hour. They don't sit up to dinner, of course, my dear?" he added, turning to his wife.
"Yes, we do!" was on the tip of Marjorie's tongue, but she checked the speech just in time, and said nothing.
"No, of course not," replied Grandma Maynard; "our dinner hour is eight, and that is too late for children. Besides, I have invited some guests to meet Ed and Helen. So the children will have supper in the small breakfast-room at half-past six, and meantime, as you say, we must give them some amusement."
King greatly wondered what these grandparents' idea of amusement would be, but Marjorie and Kitty had so little hope that it would be anything very enjoyable that they took little interest in it.
However, when it proved that the amusement was to be a ride in the park, it sounded rather attractive.
CHAPTER XII
AT GRANDMA MAYNARD'S
The ride in the park, though conducted under rather formal conditions, proved very enjoyable to the four young Maynards.
Grandpa Maynard's equipage was a Victoria with a span of fine horses. On the high front seat sat the coachman and footman in livery, who looked sufficiently dignified and responsible to take care of a merry flock of children.
But, impressed by their surroundings, the children were not very merry, and Marjorie sat decorously on the back seat with Rosy Posy beside her, while King and Kitty sat facing them.
It was a lovely afternoon, and the park drives were crowded with vehicles of all sorts. Marjorie secretly thought carriage driving rather tame after motoring, but there was so much to look at that it was really desirable to go rather slowly.
As they passed the lake, Parker, the footman, turned around, and asked them if they would like to get out and see the swans.
They welcomed this opportunity, and the footman gravely assisted them from the carriage. He selected a bench for them, and the four sat down upon it without a word.
At last the funny side of the situation struck King, and as he looked at his three demure sisters, he couldn't stand it another minute. "I'll race you down to that big tree," he whispered to Marjorie, and like a flash the two were off, with their; heels flying out behind them.
Parker was scandalized at this performance, but he said nothing, and only looked at Kitty and Rosamond, still sitting demurely on the bench.
"They'll come back in a minute," said Kitty, and the footman answered respectfully, "Yes, Miss."
"Did you ever see anything like it?" said King to Marjorie, as they reached the big tree almost at the same time.
"It's awful funny," Midget returned, "but just for a day or two, I don't mind it. It's such a new experience that it's rather fun. Only it's such a temptation to shock Grandpa and Grandma Maynard. I feel like doing something crazy just to see what they would do. But we promised not to get into any mischief. Shall we go back now?"
"Might as well; if we stay much longer it will be mischief. I'll race you back to the carriage."
Back they flew as fast as they had come, and when they reached the others, their cheeks were glowing and their eyes sparkling with the exercise.
The impassive footman made no comments, and in fact, he said nothing at all, but stood like a statue with the carriage robe over his arm.
So Marjorie assumed command, and said quietly, "We will go back now, Parker," and the man said, "Yes, ma'am," and touched his hat, quite as if she had been Grandma Maynard herself.
But the very fact of being in a position of responsibility made Marjorie more audacious, and as the man put them into the carriage, she said, "On the way home, we will stop somewhere for soda water."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Parker, and he took his place on the box.
The others looked at Marjorie a little doubtfully, but greatly pleased at the suggestion. And after all it certainly was not mischievous to get soda water, a treat which they were often allowed at home.
They left the park, and drove down Fifth Avenue, and after a while the carriage stopped in front of a large drug shop.
Parker assisted them from the carriage, and ushered them into the shop, which had a well-appointed soda fountain. Then Parker proceeded to select four seats for his charges, and after he had lifted Rosamond up on to her stool, and the rest were seated, he said to Marjorie, "Will you give the order, Miss Maynard?"
Feeling very grownup, Marjorie asked the others what flavors they would like, and then she gave the order to the clerk. The footman stood behind them, grave and impassive, and as there was a large mirror directly in front of them, Marjorie could see him all the time. It struck her very funny to see the four Maynards eating their ice cream soda, without laughing or chatting, and with a statuesque footman in charge of them! However, the Maynards' enjoyment of their favorite dainty was not seriously marred by the conditions, and when at last they laid down their spoons, Marjorie suddenly realized that she had no money with her to pay for their treat.
"Have you any money, King?" she asked.
"Not a cent; I never dreamed of having any occasion to use it, and I didn't bring any with me."
"What shall we do?" said Kitty, who foresaw an embarrassing situation.
"If you have finished, I will pay the check," said Parker, "and then, are you ready to go home, Miss Maynard?"
"Yes, thank you," said Marjorie, delighted to be relieved from her anxiety about the money.
So Parker paid the cashier, and then marshalled his charges out of the shop, and in a moment they were once again on their way home.
"Pretty good soda water," said Marjorie.
"Yes; but you might as well drink it in church," said King, who was beginning to tire of the atmosphere of restraint.
"I wish they did serve soda water in church," said Kitty; "it would be very refreshing."
And then they were back again at Grandpa Maynard's, and were admitted with more footmen and formality.
But Marjorie, with her adaptable nature, was beginning to get used to conventional observances, and, followed by the other three, she entered the drawing-room, and went straight to her Grandmother. "We had a very pleasant drive, thank you," she said, and her pretty, graceful manner brought a smile of approbation to her grandmother's face.
"I'm glad you did, my dear. Where did you go?"
"We drove in the park, and along the avenue," said King, uncertain whether to mention the soda water episode or not.
But Marjorie's frankness impelled her to tell the story, "We stopped at a drug shop, Grandma, on our way home, and had soda water," she said; "I hope you don't mind."
"You stopped at a drug shop!" exclaimed Grandma Maynard. "You four children alone!"
"We weren't alone," explained Marjorie "Parker went in with us, and he paid for it. Wasn't it all right, Grandma?"
"No; children ought not to go in a shop without older people with them."
"But Parker is older than we are," said Kitty, who was of a literal nature.
"Don't be impertinent, Kitty," said her grandmother. "I do not refer to servants."
Now Kitty had not had the slightest intention of being impertinent, and so the reproof seemed a little unfair.
Unable to control her indignation, when she saw Kitty's feelings were hurt, Marjorie tried to justify her sister.
"Kitty didn't mean that for impertinence, Grandma Maynard," she said. "We didn't know it wasn't right to go for soda water alone, for we always do it at home. The only thing that bothered me was because I didn't have the money to pay for it."
"The money is of no consequence, child; and I suppose you do not know that in the city, children cannot do quite the same as where you live. However, we will say no more about the matter."
This was a satisfactory termination of the subject, but Grandma's manner was not pleasant, and the children felt decidedly uncomfortable.
Their own parents had listened to the discussion in silence, but now their father said, "Don't be too hard on them, Mother; they didn't mean to do anything wrong. And they are good children, if not very conventional ones."
But Grandma Maynard only said, "We need not refer to the matter again," and then she told the children to go to their supper, which was ready for them.
As the four sat down to a prettily-appointed table, they were not a happy looking crowd. Rosamond was too young to understand what it was all about, but she knew that the other three were depressed and that was a very unusual state of things.
"I don't want any supper," began Kitty, but this speech was too much for King. Kitty was very fond of good things to eat, and for her to lose her appetite was comical indeed!
A pleasant-faced maid waited on them, and when Kitty saw the creamed sweet-breads and fresh peas and asparagus, with delightful little tea biscuits, her drooping spirits revived, and she quite forgot that Grandma had spoken sharply to her.
"You're all right, Kit," said King, approvingly. "I was frightened when you said you had lost your appetite, but I guess it was a false alarm."
"It was," said Kitty. "I do love sweet-breads."
"And there's custard pudding to come, Miss Kitty," said the maid, who smiled kindly on the children. In fact, she smiled so kindly that they all began to feel more cheerful, and soon were laughing and chatting quite in their usual way.
"What is your name, please?" inquired Marjorie, and the maid answered,
"Perkins."
"Well, Perkins, do you know what we are to do to-morrow? Has Grandma made any plans for us?"
"Oh, yes, Miss Marjorie; she made the plans some weeks ago, as soon as she heard you were coming. She is giving a children's party for you to-morrow afternoon."
"A children's party! How kind of her!" And Marjorie quite forgot
Grandma's disapproving remarks about the soda water escapade.
"Oh, I don't know," said King. "I expect a children's party here will be rather grownuppish."
"Oh, no, Master King," said Perkins; "there are only children invited. Young boys and girls of your own age. I'm sure it will be a very nice party."
"I'm sure of it, too," said Marjorie, "and I think it was awfully good of her, as we're to be here such a short time."
"Well, she needn't have said I was impertinent, when I wasn't," said
Kitty, who still felt aggrieved at the recollection.
"Oh, never mind that, Kit," said good-natured Marjorie. "As long as you didn't mean to be, it doesn't really matter."
When the supper was over, Rosamond was sent to bed, and the other three were allowed to sit in the library for an hour. The ladies were dressing for dinner, but Grandpa Maynard came in and talked to them for a while.
At first they were all very grave and formal, but by a lucky chance, King hit upon a subject that recalled Grandpa's boyish days, and the old gentleman chuckled at the recollection.
"Tell us something about when you were a boy," said Marjorie. "I do believe, Grandpa, you were fond of mischief!"
"I was!" and Grandpa Maynard smiled genially. "I believe I got into more scrapes than any boy in school!"
"Then that's where we inherited it," said Marjorie. "I've often wondered why we were so full of capers. Was Father mischievous when he was a boy?"
"Yes, he was. He used to drive his mother nearly crazy by the antics he cut up. And he was always getting into danger. He would climb the highest trees, and swim in the deepest pools; he was never satisfied to let any other boy get ahead of him."
"That accounts for his being such a successful man," said King.
"Yes, perhaps it does, my boy. He was energetic and persistent and ambitious, and those qualities have stood by him all his life."
"But, Grandpa," said Marjorie, who had suddenly begun to feel more confidential with her grandfather, "why, then, do you and Grandma want us children to be so sedate and poky and quiet and good? At home we're awfully noisy, and here if we make a breath of noise we get reprimanded!"
"Well, you see, Marjorie, Grandma and I are not as young as we were, and we're so unused now to having children about us, that I dare say we do expect them to act like grown people. And, too, your grandmother is of a very formal nature, and she requires correct behavior from everybody. So I hope you will try your best while you're here not to annoy her."
"Indeed, we will try, Grandpa," said Marjorie. "I think she's very kind to make a party for us to-morrow, and I'm sure we ought to behave ourselves. But, Grandpa, you don't know what it is to have to sit so stiff and still when you're accustomed to racing around and yelling."
"Yes, I suppose that is so; though I didn't know that you were noisy children. Now I'll tell you what you can do. You can go up in the big billiard room on the top floor of the house, and there you can make all the noise you like. You can play games or tell stories or do whatever you choose."
"Oh! that's lovely, Grandpa," and Marjorie threw her arms around his neck. "And won't anybody hear us if we make an awful racket?"
"No, the room is too far distant. Now run along up there, and you can have a pillow-fight if you want to. I believe that's what children enjoy."
"Well, you come with us, Grandpa, and show us the way," said Kitty, slipping her hand in his.
And with Marjorie on the other side, and King close behind, they all went upstairs. The billiard room, though not now used for its original purpose, was large and pleasant. There was not much furniture in it, but a cushioned seat ran nearly all round the room with many pillows on it. As soon as they were fairly in the room, Marjorie picked up a soft and fluffy pillow, and tossed it at her grandfather, hitting him squarely in the back of the neck.
The others were a little frightened at Marjorie's audacity, and Grandpa Maynard himself was startled as the pillow hit him. But as he turned and saw Marjorie's laughing face, he entered into the spirit of the game, and in a moment pillows were flying among the four, and shouts of merriment accompanied the fun.
Grandpa Maynard took off his glasses, and put them in his pocket for safekeeping, and soon he was the merriest one of all.
But suddenly he recollected that it was time for him to attend to his own duties as host.
"You young rascals," he said, "I don't know how you inveigled me into this disgraceful performance! Here I am all dishevelled, and in a few moments I must preside at dinner!"
"Oh, you're all right," said Marjorie, patting his necktie; "just brush your hair over again, and put your glasses on, and you'll look fine. And we're much obliged to you, Grandpa, for playing so jolly with us."
"Well, well; I'm surprised at myself! But remember this kind of play is only to be indulged in when you're up here. When you're downstairs, you must be polite and quiet-mannered, or else Grandma won't be pleased."
"All right," said Marjorie. "We promise we will," and all the others agreed.
CHAPTER XIII
A CHILDREN'S PARTY
The next day the children tried very hard to be good. It was not easy, for Grandma seemed especially punctilious, and reprimanded them for every little thing. She told them of the party in the afternoon, and taught them how to make curtseys to greet the guests.
"I know how to curtsey," said Marjorie. "I always do it at home, when mother has callers. But I don't curtsey to children."
"Yes, you must," said Grandma. "I don't want my grandchildren behaving like a lot of rustics."
This speech greatly offended Marjorie, and it was with difficulty that she refrained from answering that they were not rustics. But she controlled herself, and said that of course she would curtsey to the young guests if Grandma wished her to.
"Now that's a little lady," said Grandma, approvingly, and Marjorie felt glad that she hadn't given way to her irritation.
"What time is the party, Grandma?" asked Kitty.
"From four to six, Kitty; but you children must be dressed, and in the drawing-room at quarter before four."
The day dragged along, as there was nothing especial to do and no way to have any fun. Grandpa Maynard had gone out with their father, and though the children went up in the billiard room they didn't feel just like romping.
"I hate this house!" said King, unable to repress the truth any longer.
"So do I!" said Kitty. "If we stay here much longer, I'll run away."
This surprised the other two, for Kitty was usually mild and gentle, and rarely gave way to such speech as this.
"It's Grandma Maynard that makes the trouble," said King. "She's so pernickety and fussy about us. I'd behave a great deal better if she'd let me alone. And Grandpa wouldn't bother about us if Grandma didn't make him."
"I don't think you ought to talk like that, King," said Marjorie. "Somehow, it doesn't seem right. It isn't respectful, and all that, and it doesn't seem a nice thing to do."
"That's so, Mops; you're just right!" said King, taking the reproof in good part, for he knew it was merited. "It's a whole lot worse to be disrespectful about your grandpeople than to carry on and make a racket, I think."
"Yes, it is," said Marjorie, "and I say the rest of the time we're here, let's try to do just right. Because it's only two or three days anyway. I think we're going on day after to-morrow."
So they all agreed to try afresh to behave correctly, and on the whole succeeded pretty well.
Promptly at quarter of four that afternoon they presented themselves in the drawing-room for Grandma's inspection.
"You look very well," Grandma said, nodding her head approvingly at the girls' frilly white dresses and King's correct clothes. "Now I trust you'll behave as well as you look."
"What do you want us to do, Grandma?" asked Marjorie. "I mean to entertain the boys and girls."
"Oh, nothing of that sort, child; the entertainment will be provided by a professional entertainer. You have only to greet the guests properly, and that is all you need do."
Marjorie did not know quite what a professional entertainer was, but it sounded interesting, and she was quite sure she could manage to greet the guests politely.
Although Marjorie's mother was in the room, she had little to say, for Grandma Maynard was accustomed to dominate everything in her own house. And as her ideas were not entirely in accord with those of her daughter-in-law, the younger Mrs. Maynard thought it wise not to obtrude her own opinions.
Promptly at four o'clock the children began to come. The Maynards stood in a group at one end of the long room, and as each guest arrived, a footman stationed at the doorway announced the name in a loud voice. Then each little guest came and curtsied to the receiving party, and after a few polite remarks, passed on, and was ushered to a seat by another footman.
The seats were small, gilt chairs with red cushions, arranged all round the wall, and there were about forty.
In a short time the guests were all in their places, and then the
Maynards were shown to their seats.
Then the professional entertainer arrived. She proved to be a pretty and pleasant young lady, and she wore a light blue satin gown and a pink rose in her hair.
First, she sang a song for them, and then she told a story, and then she recited a poem.
Then she asked the children what they would like to have next. At first no one responded, and then a little girl said, "Won't you sing us another song, please. You sing so delightfully."
Marjorie looked in amazement at the child who talked in such grownup fashion. But the entertaining lady did not seem to think it strange, and she replied, "Yes, I will sing for you with pleasure."
So she sang another song, but though it was pretty music, Marjorie could not understand the words, and she began to think that the programme was rather tiresome.
The lady kept on telling stories and reciting poems, and singing, until Marjorie almost had the fidgets. It seemed so unlike her notion of a children's party, to sit still and listen to a programme all the afternoon, and she grew cramped and tired, and longed for it to be over. But the city children did not seem to feel that way at all. They sat very demurely with their hands clasped, and their slippered feet crossed, and applauded politely at the proper times. Marjorie glanced at King and Kitty, and their answering glances proved that they felt exactly as she did herself. However, all three were determined to do the right thing, and so they sat still, and tried to look as if they were enjoying themselves.
At half-past five the programme came to an end, and the children were invited to go out into the dining-room for the feast.
The dining-room was transformed into a place of beauty. Small tables accommodated six guests each, and at each place was a lovely basket of flowers with a big bow of gauze ribbon on the handle. Each table had a different color, and the flowers in the basket matched the ribbon bow. Marjorie's basket was filled with pink sweet peas, while at another table Kitty had lavender pansies, and King found himself in front of a basket of yellow daisies.
The feast, as might have been expected at Grandma Maynard's, was delicious, but the Maynard children could not enjoy it very much because of their environment. They were not together, and each one being with several strangers, felt it necessary to make polite conversation.
King tried to talk on some interesting subject to the little girl who sat next him.
"Have you a flower garden?" he said.
"Oh, no, indeed; we live in the city, so we can't very well have a flower garden."
"No, of course not," agreed King. "You see, we live in the country, so we have lots of flowers."
"It must be dreadful to live in the country," commented the little girl, with a look of scorn.
"It isn't dreadful at all," returned King; "and just now, in springtime, it's lovely. The flowers are all coming out, and the birds are hopping around, and the grass is getting green. What makes you say it's dreadful?"
"Oh, I don't like the country," said the child, with a shrug of her little shoulders. "The grass is wet, and there aren't any pavements, and everything is so disagreeable."
"You're thinking of a farm; I don't mean that kind of country," and then King remembered that he ought not to argue the question, but agree with the little lady, so he said, "But of course if you don't like the country, why you don't, that's all"
"Yes, that's all," said the little girl, and then the conversation languished, for the children seemed to have no subjects in common.
At her table, Marjorie was having an equally difficult time. There was a good-looking and pleasant-faced boy sitting next to her, so she said, "Do you have a club?"
"Oh, no," returned the boy; "my father belongs to clubs, but I'm too young."
"But I don't mean that kind," explained Marjorie; "I mean a club just for fun. We have a Jinks Club,—we cut up jinks, you know."
"How curious!" said the boy. "What are jinks?"
Marjorie thought the boy rather silly not to know what jinks were, for she thought any one with common sense ought to know that, but she said, "Why, jinks are capers,—mischief,—any kind of cutting up."
"And you have a club for that?" exclaimed the boy, politely surprised.
"Yes, we do," said Marjorie, determined to stand up for her own club. "And we have lovely times. We do cut up jinks, but we try to make them good jinks, and we play all over the house, and out of doors, and everywhere."
"It must be great fun," said the boy, but he said it in such an uninterested tone that Marjorie gave up talking to him, and turned her attention to the neighbor on her other side.
When the supper was over, the young guests all took their leave. Again the Maynards stood in a group to receive the good-byes, and every child expressed thanks for the afternoon's pleasure in a formal phrase, and curtsied, and went away.
When they had all gone, the Maynard children looked at each other, wondering what to do next.
"You may go up to the billiard room and play, if you like," said Grandma, benignly. "You will not want any other supper to-night, I'm sure; so you may play up there until bedtime."
Rosy Posy was carried away by the nurse, but the three other children started for the billiard room. Marjorie, however, turned back to say, "We all thank you, Grandma Maynard, for the party you gave us."
Kitty and King murmured some sort of phrase that meant about the same thing, but as they had not enjoyed the party at all they didn't make their thanks very effusive, and then the three walked decorously upstairs. But once inside the billiard room, with the door shut, they expressed their opinions.
"That was a high old party, wasn't it?" said King.
"The very worst ever!" declared Kitty. "I never got so tired of anything in my life, as I did listening to that entertaining person, or whatever they call her."
"It was an awful poky party," said Marjorie, "but I think we ought to give Grandma credit for meaning to give us pleasure. Of course she's used to children who act like that, and she couldn't even imagine the kind of parties we have at home, where we frolic around and have a good time. So I say don't let's jump on her party, but remember that she did it for us, and she did it the best she knew how."
"You're a good sort, Mopsy," said King, looking at his sister affectionately. "What you say is all right, and it goes. Now let's cut out that party and try to forget it."
There were some quiet games provided for the children, and so they played parcheesi and authors until bedtime, for though the billiard room was hardly within hearing of their grandparents, yet they did not feel like playing romping games.
"I don't think I shall ever holler again," said King. "I'm getting so accustomed to holding my breath for fear I'll make too much noise that I'll probably always do so after this."
"No, you won't," said practical Kitty. "As soon as you get away from
Grandma Maynard's house you'll yell like a wild Indian."
"I expect I will," agreed King. "Come on, let's play Indians now."
"Nope," said Marjorie; "we'd get too noisy, and make mischief. I'm going to bed; I'm awfully tired."
"So'm I," said Kitty. "Parties like that are enough to wear anybody out!"
They all went downstairs to their bedrooms, but as Marjorie passed the door of her grandmother's room, she paused and looked in.
"May I come in, Grandma?" she said. "I do love to see you in your beautiful clothes. You look just lovely."
Marjorie's compliment was very sincere, for she greatly admired her grandmother, and in spite of her formality, and even severity, Marjorie had a good deal of affection for her.
The maid was just putting the finishing touches to Mrs. Maynard's costume, and as she stood; robed in mauve satin, with sparkling diamond ornaments, she made a handsome picture. Mrs. Maynard was a beautiful woman, and exceedingly young-looking for her age. There was scarcely a thread of gray in her dark brown hair, and the natural roses still bloomed on her soft cheeks.
Marjorie had not seen her grandmother before in full evening attire, and she walked round, gazing at her admiringly.
"I don't wonder my father is such a handsome man," she said. "He looks ever so much like you."
Grandma Maynard was pleased at this naïve compliment, for she knew Marjorie was straightforward and sincere. She smiled at her little granddaughter, saying, "I'm glad you're pleased with your family's personal appearance, and I think some day you will grow up to be a pretty young lady yourself; but you must try to remember that handsome is as handsome does."
Marjorie's adaptable nature quickly took color from her surroundings and influences, and gazing at her refined and dignified grandmother, she said earnestly, "When I grow up, Grandma, I hope I'll look just like you, and I hope I'll behave just like you. I am rather a naughty little girl; but you see I was born just chock-full of mischief, and I can't seem to get over it."
"You are full of mischief, Marjorie, but I think you will outgrow it. Why, if you lived with me, I believe you'd turn my hair white in a single night."
"That would be a pity, Grandma," and Marjorie smiled at the carefully waved brown locks which crowned her grandma's forehead.
"Now I'm going down to dinner, Marjorie,—we have guests coming. But if you like, you may amuse yourself for a little while looking round this room. In that treasure cabinet are many pretty curios, and I know I can trust you to be careful of my things."
"Thank you, Grandma; I will look about here for a little while, and indeed I will be careful not to harm anything."
So Grandma's satin gown rustled daintily down the stairs, and Marjorie was left alone in her beautifully appointed bedroom.
She opened the treasure cabinet, and spent a pleasant half hour looking over the pretty things it contained. She was a careful child, and touched the things daintily, putting each back in its right place after she examined it.
Then she locked the glass doors of the cabinet, and walked leisurely about the room, looking at the pretty furnishings. The dainty toilet table interested her especialty, and she admired its various appointments, some of which she did not even know the use of. One beautiful carved silver affair she investigated curiously, when she discovered it was a powder box, which shook out scented powder from a perforated top. Marjorie amused herself, shaking some powder on her hand, and flicking it on her rosy cheeks. It was a fascinating little affair, for it worked by an unusual sort of a spring, and Marjorie liked to play with it.
She wandered about the room with the powder-box still in her hand, and as she paused a moment at Grandma's bedside, a brilliant idea came to her.
The bed had been arranged for the night. The maid had laid aside the elaborate lace coverlet and pillow covers, had deftly turned back the bed clothing in correct fashion, and had put Grandma's night pillow in place.
For some reason, as Marjorie looked at the pillow, there flashed across her mind what Grandma had said about her hair turning white in a single night, and acting on a sudden impulse, Marjorie shook powder from the silver box all over Grandma's pillow. Then chuckling to herself, she replaced the powder-box on the dressing table, and went to her own room.