"I have ridden ever since I can remember," said Marjorie, her eyes sparkling at the prospect of the coming pleasure. "I would rather ride a horse than do anything else in the world."
Mrs. Randolph laughed, and led the way up a broad oak staircase, and along a wide hall, to the prettiest little room imaginable, all furnished in pink and white; a typical girl's room, as Marjorie saw at the first glance.
"I have put you here because this room is next to mine," Mrs. Randolph explained. "I thought you would like it better than being away down at the other end of the hall. This was my little Barbara's room," she added softly; "no one has slept here since she left it, and nothing has been changed."
"Oh, Mrs. Randolph," cried Marjorie, gratefully, "how very good you are to me, but are you sure you really want me to have this room?"
"Yes, dear, I am quite sure I do. If my Barbara were alive I know she would love you, and I like to think I shall have a little girl next to me again to-night."
With a sudden impulse, Marjorie flung her arms round Mrs. Randolph's neck and hugged her. She did not speak—words did not come easily just then—but Barbara's mother understood, and the kiss she gave in return was a very tender one.
When Marjorie was left alone, her first occupation was to look about the room, and examine all its details. It was very simple, but everything was in perfect taste, and the girl admired it all, from the pretty china ornaments on the bureau, to the row of books on a shelf over the writing-desk. She took down one of the books reverently; it seemed almost like sacrilege to touch these things that had belonged to another girl, whose death had been so very sad. It was "Lorna Doone," and on the fly-leaf Marjorie read, "To Barbara Randolph, from her affectionate cousin, Grace Patterson." Then she examined the framed photographs on the mantelpiece; Mrs. Randolph and Beverly, and a gentleman whom she supposed must have been Barbara's father. There were other photographs as well, one in particular of a girl with curly hair, and a very friendly expression, and Marjorie wondered if she could be the cousin, who had given Barbara "Lorna Doone." It was strange how intimate she was beginning to feel with this Barbara, who had died nearly three years ago.
Marjorie had just finished her unpacking when there was a tap at her door, and in answer to her "Come in," a girl of about her own age presented herself. One glance was sufficient to assure Marjorie that she was the same curly-haired, friendly-faced girl, whose photograph, in a silver frame, stood in a prominent place on the writing-desk.
"I'm Grace Patterson," announced the visitor, in a voice as friendly as her face. "Cousin Barbara told me to come right up; my brother and I have come over especially to see you."
"I'm very glad to meet you," said Marjorie, shaking hands, and drawing forward a chair for her guest. "I've just been looking at your picture," she added, smiling.