"Oh," cried Marjorie, flinging herself into her mother's arms, "we've had a most 'stonishing time! We visited a little circus girl in her own tent, and here's her picture!"
Marjorie held up to her mother's amazed view the picture of little Vivian. It was taken in stage costume, and represented Vivian in one of her clever acrobatic feats. Her pretty child-face wore a sweet smile, and the whole effect of the photograph was dainty and graceful. Across a corner was scrawled the word "Vivian" in large, childish letters.
"Did you buy this?" asked Mrs. Maynard, knowing that circus performers often sold their photographs.
"Oh, no, indeed, Mother; she gave it to me. And what do you think, Mother? The poor little thing has to live in a tent, and she wants to live in a home! And it made her awful sad to see us, 'cause we have a home, and we can wear regular dresses and shoes, and she has to wear queer bloomer things,—and sandals on her feet!"
"But I don't understand, Marjorie," said Mrs. Maynard. "How do you know all this? Did you talk with the child?"
"Oh, yes, Mother; we went in her tent, and saw her mother and sister. I don't think they mind being in the circus so much. But Vivian feels just awful about it! And she's such a sweet little thing; and, Mother, I have the loveliest plan! Don't you think it would be nice for us to 'dopt her, and let her live with us?"
"Midget, what are you talking about?" and Mrs. Maynard's face showed so plainly her dissent to the proposition that Marjorie jumped out of her lap, and ran across to her father, in the hope of better success.
"Now, Father," she said as she threw her arms around his neck, and drew his arms around her; "do please pay 'tention to my plan! You know we ought to do some good in this world, and what could be better than rescuing a poor little sad circus girl, and letting her live in our own happy home with us? It wouldn't cost much,—she could have half of my clothes, and half of Kitty's,—we could each get along with half, I know. And we could both eat less,—that is, I could,—I don't know about Kit. But anyway, Father, won't you think about it?"
"Yes, dear," said Mr. Maynard, looking fondly at his impetuous daughter; "I'll think about it right now,—and I'll express my thoughts aloud, as I think them. I think, first, that you're a generous and kind-hearted little girl to want to give this poor child a home. And I think next, that having made your suggestion, you must leave it to Mother and me to decide the matter. And our decision is that four children are quite enough for this family, and we don't want to adopt any more! Besides this, Marjorie, it is far from likely that the little girl would be allowed to come to us. She is being trained for her profession, and though I feel sorry that the child is not happy, yet she is with her own people, and they are responsible for the shaping of her life and career. Just now, you are carried away by sympathy for the little girl, and I don't blame you at all, for it is a sad case. But you must trust your father's judgment, when he tells you that he does not think it wise to follow out your suggestion."
Marjorie looked disappointed, but she well knew that when her father talked thus seriously, there was no use in pursuing the subject; so she only said, "All right, Father; I know you know best. But it does seem too bad for Vivian not to have any home pleasures, when I have so many!"