"One—two—three—four," mechanically she tried to strike the keys, but her fingers refused to move.
She left the piano, and went slowly up to her own room.
Her pretty room that her mother,—no, that Mrs. Maynard,—had fixed up for her with flowering chintz hangings and frilly white curtains.
Not her mother! Who, then, was or had been her mother?
And then Marjorie's calm gave way. She threw herself on her little white bed, and burying her face in the pillow she sobbed convulsively. Her thoughts flew to her father,—but no, he wasn't her father! King wasn't her brother,—nor Kitty her sister! Nor Rosy Posy——?
It was all too dreadful. At every fresh thought about it, it grew worse. Dear old King, she had never realized before how much she loved him. And Kitty! And Father and Mother! She would call them that, even though they were no relation to her.
For a long time Marjorie cried,—great, deep, heart-racking sobs that wore her out.
At last she settled down into a calm of despair.
"I am going away," she said, to herself. "I won't stay here where they have to pretend they love me! Oh, Mother, Mother!"
But no one heard the little girl's grief. Mrs. Maynard still sat on the veranda, talking to Mrs. Corey; King was down at Sand Court; and the nurse had taken Rosamond out for a walk.