"It was a beautiful little poem," she faltered, "only—only I thought—but perhaps I was mistaken—I'm sure Elsie wouldn't have done such a thing; it must have been a mistake."
Beverly said nothing, but he did not look convinced.
"Where—where did you see it before?" Marjorie went on desperately.
"In an old volume of 'St. Nicholas' at home. My mother used to take the magazine when she was a little girl, and has all the volumes bound. I used to be very fond of some of the old stories, and so was my sister Barbara. I remember she learned that poem once to recite to Mother on her birthday."
Marjorie's heart sank like lead. Well did she remember the old worn volumes of St. Nicholas—relics of her own mother's childhood—over which she had pored on many a rainy day at home. She cast an appealing glance at Beverly.
"You won't tell?" she said unsteadily.
"Of course I won't; I'm not a cad. And look here, Marjorie; I wouldn't bother my head about it if I were you. Miss Elsie is quite able to fight her own battles."
"But she is my cousin," said Marjorie in a very low voice, "and I'm so ashamed."
Beverly's face softened, and his voice was very kind when he answered:
"You're a brick, Marjorie; lots of girls wouldn't care. But don't let it make you unhappy. If I were you I'd have it out with Elsie; perhaps she'll have some excuse to offer."