“You’re welcome, Dais’,” she said, rising and offering her visitor a chair, “if you are not here to talk about the election. I’m bored to death with it.”
Daisy laughed good-naturedly; it was the same old, modest Marjorie, who had been sort of an idol to her ever since she had succeeded in finding her sister Olive and reuniting her with her husband, and later when she had sympathized with Daisy’s plea for the little slum-baby and its sick mother. Other people might prove disappointing, but Marjorie Wilkinson had never failed her.
“I’ll talk about anything you like, or keep absolutely quiet,” she replied amiably.
“You’re a dear!” exclaimed her hostess, with sincerity. “Well, then—I want to talk about the Girl Scouts.”
“All right; what Girl Scouts?”
Marjorie outlined something of her plan to the other girl, explained that she wanted Daisy or either of the other juniors to take charge of the little troop in the village, so that she might devote her time to a more difficult group. Her voice grew animated as she spoke of her hopes and her dreams for the troop that was to be hers.
“But I don’t know how to find such a troop,” she concluded, pathetically. “You can’t exactly go into the streets in the poor districts and gather the children up. They might question your motive.”
“Naturally,” agreed Daisy.
“Can’t you think of any way, Dais’?” she persisted.
“I’m afraid I can’t—unless you’d take a job I have off my hands. I’m supposed to go to the Community House tonight, and supervise a dance. I don’t know what the girls are like, but they might be interested in starting a troop.”