Mrs. Geary patted her arm and hummed softly an old hymn-tune, and poor little Marjorie dropped asleep almost at once.
"What do you make of it, Father?" asked the old woman, returning to the kitchen.
"She run away from her home fer some reason. Said she hadn't got no home. Stepmother, I shouldn't wonder. We'll find out to-morrow, an' I'll tote her back."
"Mebbe there'll be a reward."
"Mebbe so. But we'll do our best by her, reward or no. But if so be they is one, I'll be mighty glad, fer I had pore luck sellin' that hay to-day."
"Wal, chirk up, Father; mebbe things'll grow brighter soon."
"Mebbe they will, Sary,—mebbe they will."
In her unaccustomed surroundings, Marjorie woke early. The sun was just reddening the eastern horizon, and the birds were chirping in the trees.
She had that same sinking of the heart, that same feeling of desolation, but she did not cry, for her nerves were rested, and her brain refreshed, by her night's sleep. She lay in her poor, plain bed and considered the situation.
"It doesn't matter," she said, sternly, to herself, "how bad I feel about it, it's true. I'm not a Maynard, and never was. I don't know who I am, or what my name is. And I don't believe I'd better go to Grandma Maynard's. Perhaps she doesn't know I'm not really her granddaughter, and then she wouldn't want me, after all. For I'd have to tell her. So I just believe I'll earn my own living and be self-supporting."