"But I think her mind is all right," whispered Mr. Maynard, as Mr. Bryant leaned over from the seat behind. "She has some kind of a crazy notion in her head,—but when she's thoroughly rested and wide awake, we can straighten it all out."
The Maynards' motor was waiting at Seacote station, and after a few moments' ride, Marjorie was again in the presence of her own dear people.
"Mother, Mother!" she cried, in a strange, uncertain voice, and flew to the outstretched arms awaiting her.
Though unnerved herself, Mrs. Maynard clasped her daughter close and soothed the poor, quivering child.
"Are you my mother?" wailed Marjorie, in agonized tones; "are you?"
"Yes, my child, yes!" and there was no doubting that mother-voice.
"Then why,—why did you tell Mrs. Corey I was a findling?"
"Tell Mrs. Corey what?"
"Why, when I was practising, you were talking to her, and I heard you tell her that you took me from an asylum when I was a baby,—and that I didn't really belong to you and Father?"
"Oh, Marjorie! Oh, my baby!" and dropping into the nearest armchair, with Marjorie in her lap, Mrs. Maynard laughed and cried together.