"May I come in, Marjorie?" she inquired in a rather conciliatory tone.
Marjorie looked up from the letter she was writing; her face brightening with sudden hope.
"Of course you may," she said, heartily.
"Oh, Elsie, do let us make up; I can't stand not being friends with people I love."
Elsie advanced slowly into the room and closed the door.
"Papa has been talking to me," she said, "and I have promised him to forgive you for what you said to me the other night. You—you didn't tell him anything, did you?"
"No," said Marjorie indignantly, "of course I didn't. He asked me, but I wouldn't tell. I'm afraid I made him angry."
Elsie looked much relieved.
"That's all right," she said, speaking more pleasantly than she had done since the meeting of the Poetry Club. "We won't say any more about it. I've torn up that silly poem, and nobody is going to remember it. If Beverly Randolph should ever say anything to you, you can tell him it was just a joke. Now come into my room, and I'll tell you all about the good time Carol and I had yesterday."
But although Marjorie accepted the olive branch, and she and Elsie were apparently as good friends as ever that evening, her confidence in her cousin had been cruelly shaken, and she told herself sadly that she could never feel quite the same towards Elsie again. Still, it was a great comfort to be on good terms once more, and to see the worried expression disappear from Aunt Julia's face, even though she could not help feeling a slight shock on hearing her aunt remark in a low tone to her uncle at the dinner table: