"How could you, Sandy?" Marjorie asked, tenderly kissing the impertinent little nose turned up to her. And that was all the reproach Sandy ever heard.
"THE LITTLE HUDDLED-UP PARTY."
"Didn't mean to, Margie," eagerly. "The door got locked 'fore we got down. How did you guess we were here?" he went on, the fascination of the "game," now that he again felt safe and irresponsible, filling his imagination. "Was it the signal?"
He listened much gratified, as Marjorie described how the fluttering sash had caught her sight.
The children woke one by one, Barbara climbing into her father's arms to be divested of her strange night-clothes. She returned the coat to its owner, with a gracious "Barbedie's done."
Sandy and David listened amazed to the warmth of Mr. Pelham's thanks.
"You have been good to my baby. I shall never forget it, never. You are two little men."
With hurrying, trembling fingers, Marjorie tidied up the children—some impulse making her wish her mother's first sight of them to be wholly without alarm. Barbara refused to leave her father's arms, so her rescued sash was tied on under his eloquent eyes. Now that they had once delivered their message, they were masterful and compelling. Marjorie's fell before them; but something in the quiver of her lip, and the wanness of her face in the sunlight, under his closer scrutiny, made him hasten to speak. He caught her fingers, and they lay for a moment pressed close against his breast.
"Mine, Marjorie! Mine now," he said. "Dearest, do not shrink," he whispered, turning hurriedly to see what was producing the startled change in the kindling face before him. Mr. Warde stood in the doorway surveying the little scene.