Marjorie, who knew that Mrs. Patterson had gone to the station to meet the travelers, in answer to an urgent telegram from Dr. Randolph, said nothing. Mrs. Patterson, being a nervous, excitable little woman, had been purposely kept in ignorance of the real reason of her cousins' Western trip, and it was in order to break the news to her that the doctor had wired her to meet him at the station, and to say nothing on the subject of her errand to Mrs. Randolph. Consequently, the poor little lady had been filled by apprehensions of something dreadful having happened to one or both of the travelers, and had departed in a state of perturbation well calculated to arouse Mrs. Randolph's suspicions that something was troubling her.
There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs. Randolph went on.
"I never talk of my little girl to strangers—it is all too sacred for that—but you are not a stranger any more. I have loved you dearly ever since we stood together at my Barbara's grave, and you showed me by your silent sympathy how well you understood."
Marjorie could not speak, but she took her friend's hand, and stroked it softly, while Mrs. Randolph went on, calmly, though with a quiver in her voice:
"I used to try to make the children's birthdays as happy as possible; I thought they would be pleasant memories for them when they were older. Even the year after my husband died, when my heart was very sad, I wanted them to have a merry time. Little children's lives should never be saddened. I think you would have loved my little girl, Marjorie; she was very sweet."
"I know I should," said Marjorie, with a sob, that was half hysterical.
"I am afraid she was a sad rogue sometimes," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling; "Beverly and I often laugh even now over the memory of some of her pranks. I want him to remember all the bright, pleasant things, and not dwell too much on the sadness."
"Mammy told me about some of Barbara's pranks," said Marjorie, "she showed me her photograph, too."
Mrs. Randolph unfastened a small gold locket from a chain she always wore about her neck, and opened it. Inside was the miniature of a merry-faced girl of twelve—the same face that had looked at Marjorie from the photograph in Mammy's cabin.
"That was taken only a few weeks before my little girl went away," she said. "She was just twelve then. I suppose she would look older now, but I can never think of Babs as growing up."