Marjorie awoke the next morning with a very heavy heart. Although Elsie's companionship had not proved quite all she had anticipated, still they had hitherto been perfectly good friends. Marjorie had looked upon her clever cousin with genuine admiration, and if in some things Elsie had disappointed her, she had explained the fact to herself by remembering how different life in New York was from life in Arizona.
"Elsie has so many friends," she had told herself over and over again; "of course I can't expect her to be as fond of me as I am of her."
But last night's discovery had been a cruel disappointment, and her cousin's parting words had hurt more than perhaps Elsie herself fully realized. She had lain awake a long time, hoping—almost expecting—that Elsie would come back to tell her she was sorry. She was so ready to forgive, herself, and even to make allowances, but no sound had come from the adjoining room, and she had fallen asleep at last, still hoping that morning might bring about the longed-for reconciliation.
It was still very early, but accustomed all her life to the early hours of the ranch, she had not yet learned to sleep as late as the other members of the family. She tossed about in bed for half an hour, vainly trying to go to sleep again, and then suddenly determined to get up.
"If I could only have a canter on Roland, or a good long tramp before breakfast," she thought, with a regretful sigh, "I know it would clear the cobwebs from my brain, and I should feel ever so much better. But since that is out of the question, I may as well answer Undine's letter. She will like a letter all to herself, and I shall have plenty of time to write before the others are up."
Accordingly, as soon as she was dressed, she sat down at her desk, and began a letter, which she was determined to make as bright and cheerful as possible.
"New York, November 28th.
"I was delighted to get your nice letter last week, but this is the very first spare moment I have had in which to answer it. It is still very early—only a little after six—and nobody else is up, but I can't get accustomed to the queer New York hours. Just think, nobody has breakfast much before half past eight, and instead of dinner at twelve or one, we don't dine till half past seven. I thought I should be dreadfully hungry when I first heard at what hour New York people dined, but really luncheon—which they have in the middle of the day—is almost the same as dinner. I have eaten so much since I came here that I am sure I must have gained pounds already.
"I wrote Father all about the football game, and what a wonderful day I had. Since then we have had Thanksgiving, and that was very pleasant too, though of course not as exciting as the football match and the motor ride. We all dined with Aunt Julia's sister, Mrs. Lamont. Mrs. Lamont's son, who is an artist, and very clever, drew funny sketches on all the dinner cards, and his sister made up the verses. I think my card was lovely; it had a picture of a girl riding a horse, and the verse underneath was:
"'Welcome, Western stranger
To our Thanksgiving board,
May you have a jolly time,
And not be very bored.'