Once inside her own home grounds, she quickened her pace a little, and almost ran up the verandah steps and in at the door.
She slammed it behind her, and though, I am sorry to say, this was not an unusual proceeding for Midget, yet she was truly trying to break herself of the habit.
But this time she gave the door a hard, angry slam, and flinging her wraps anywhere, as she went along, she brushed hastily through the various rooms in search of her mother.
But Mrs. Maynard and Kitty had gone out driving, and King wasn't at home, either, so poor Marjorie, her eyes now blinded with surging tears, stumbled on to her own room, and threw herself, sobbing, on her little white bed.
She buried her face in the pillow and gave way to such tumultuous grief that the brass bedstead fairly shook in sympathy.
"I can't bear it!" she murmured, half aloud; "I can't bear it! It's a wicked shame! I don't Want to live any more! Oh, I wish Mother would come home!"
For nearly half an hour Marjorie cried and cried. Now with big, bursting, heart-rending sobs, and at quieter intervals, with floods of hot tears.
Her little handkerchief became a useless, wet ball, and she dried her eyes, spasmodically, on various parts of the pillow-case.
At last, in one of her paroxysms of woe, she felt a little hand on her cheek, and Rosy Posy's little voice said, sweetly:
"What 'e matter, Middy? Wosy Posy loves 'oo!"