But Marjorie knew what she was doing; the race was by no means short, and she calculated that endurance would count. Ruth Henry’s mighty effort could not last to the end; she would give out before they were three quarters finished. So Marjorie continued her steady strokes, now leaving all but Ruth behind, and taking her place as second.
It was Ruth’s canoe which first reached the farther shore, and started to swing around. But here she encountered one of her weaknesses: she had never learned to turn a canoe gracefully and quickly. Before she had swung into position again, Marjorie was beside her, and the two canoes turned almost together.
But Ruth was still confident. She had beaten Marjorie to this shore with an equal start; now that she was slightly ahead there ought to be no doubt about her victory. But her muscles stiffened under the strain; she realized suddenly that she was tired! Marjorie shot ahead with renewed vigor, as if she were fresh for the race.
As the canoes neared the middle of the lake again, Ruth took a fresh spurt and pulled two or three inches ahead of Marjorie; but the gain was temporary, for the latter, carefully measuring her distance, decided that now was the time for putting forth her utmost effort. With sudden, swift strokes, she left all the canoes behind, and made like lightning for the shore. A great shout went up from the spectators; she arrived fully three seconds before Frieda, who came second. For Ruth had fallen back to third place!
In a moment, Mr. Andrews was calling for Marjorie, and holding up the beautiful silver cup. The girl, out of breath, but smiling happily, advanced to accept the award with a bow of acknowledgement. The meet was over.
Turning around to look for Lily, Marjorie almost bumped into the Trowbridge girls, waiting anxiously to be the first to congratulate her.
“And mother and father want you to spend the second week in August with us,” said Jeanne, as she took Marjorie’s arm; “so that you can take part in the big carnival. Can you?”
“I’d love to!” cried Marjorie, catching sight of Ruth’s envious face behind her. Surely the girl was being punished now, in the bitterest way possible: to see Marjorie surrounded by the honor and social distinction that she coveted for herself!
The Trowbridge girls and Griffith Hunter were the only outsiders at the banquet that night. But it was a festive occasion; the table was laden with flowers, and the ten-course dinner was served noiselessly and beautifully. On one side of Marjorie sat John Hadley; on the other her new friend Griffith Hunter; and she could not tell which was the more entertaining.
Suddenly, at the end of the salad course, a piano in the living room struck up a wedding march. The guests all stopped eating to behold little Dorothy Trowbridge, a tiny tot of about four years of age, appear, dressed in a filmy costume, and bearing a Cupid’s dart in her hand. She went towards a side table, upon which Mr. Andrews lifted her, and in her clear childish voice, she said,