"You're a funny child, Midget," said her father, looking at her quizzically. "But, do you know, I rather like you; and I suppose you get your spirit of adventure and daring from me. Your Mother is most timid and conventional. What do you s'pose she'll say to all this, Mopsy mine?"
"Why, as you think it was wrong, I s'pose she'll think so, too. I just can't make it seem wrong, myself, but as you say it was, why, of course it must have been, and I promise never to do it again. Now, if you've finished your coffee, shall we begin to spell?"
"Yes, come on. Since you have the book, we must make the most of our time."
An hour of hard work followed. Mr. Maynard drilled Marjorie over and over on the most difficult words, and reviewed the back lessons, until he said he believed she could spell down Noah Webster himself.
"And you must admit, Father," said Marjorie, as they closed the book at last, "that it's a good thing I did get my speller last night, for I had a whole hour's study on it, and besides I didn't have to go over there for it this morning."
"It would have been a better thing, my child, if you had remembered it in the first place."
"Oh, yes, of course. But that was a mistake. I suppose everybody makes mistakes sometimes."
"I suppose they do. The proper thing is to learn by our mistakes what is right and what is wrong. Now the next time you are moved to do anything as unusual as that, ask some one who knows, whether you'd better do it or not. Now, here's Mother, we'll put the case to her."
In a few words, Mr. Maynard told his wife about Marjorie's escapade.
"My little girl!" cried Mrs. Maynard, catching Marjorie in her arms. "Why, Midget, darling, how could you do such a dreadful thing? Oh, thank Heaven, I have you safe at home again!"