"What is it, Marjorie?" Allie exclaimed in alarm, as the young hostess sank down into the wood box and buried her face in her hands.
An inarticulate moan was her only answer.
"Marjorie! Marjorie!" she urged again. "Tell me what's the matter. Are you ill?"
Then Marjorie raised her head for a moment.
"I'm all right," she said, with a great sob of shame; "but what shall we do, Allie? We ate up all the bread for breakfast, and I forgot to order any more."
It was late that evening when the guests took their leave; and, as they went away down the street together, they said, over and over again, that Mrs. Fisher had never before been half so bright and witty in her talk, so quick to plan new modes of entertainment. Their hostess watched them out of sight; then, after an expressive look at her husband, she turned away from the door, and crossed the hall to Marjorie's room. All was dark within, as she opened the door and entered; but, as soon as her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, she went up to the bed, and laid her hand on a small, dark body, curled up on the white spread.
"Marjorie, dear," she said gently.
The childish figure was quivering with suppressed sobs; but there was no other answer.
"Marjorie," she said again; "don't feel so badly about it, my child."
The tone of motherly sympathy was too much for Marjorie's self-control, and the tears began to come, thick and fast.