"Well, it's a game,—a brand new game, and none of your poky old go-to-sleep affairs either. It's a lively, wide-awake game, that only lively, wide-awake children can play. So come one, come all!"
They all gathered round the table, and Mr. Maynard explained the rules of the new game. Marjorie loved games, and as this was really a most interesting one, she couldn't help enjoying it, and was soon absorbed in the play. It combined the elements of both skill and chance, and caused many moments of breathless suspense, as one or another gained or lost in the count.
When it was finished, Marjorie was again her own rosy, smiling self, and though she still felt the vague weight of sorrow, she had spent a pleasant, enjoyable hour.
"And now to bed, chickadees," cried their father, "it's long past nine!"
"Is it really?" exclaimed Midget, "how the time has flown!"
"That's because you were my own brave girl, and tried to rise above misfortune," said Mr. Maynard, as he bade her good-night. "No teary pillows to-night, girlie."
"No, Father, dear, I hope not."
"Just go to sleep, and dream that you have a few friends still east of the Rockies."
"More than I'll ever have west of them," responded Marjorie, and then with her arm round Kitty's waist, the two girls went upstairs to bed.
The next morning at the breakfast table, Mr. Maynard made a sudden and unexpected announcement.