"We—we are not quite sure," she said. "Undine says the people at the hospital told her a stone must have fallen on her head. She was found in San Francisco under some ruins, after—after the earthquake."
"After the earthquake," repeated Mrs. Randolph in a strange, startled tone, and she grew suddenly pale. "Oh, poor, poor child! At least my little Barbara was spared those horrors. Why have you never told me about this girl before, Marjorie?"
"Because Beverly said it made you sad to have any one speak of the earthquake, and I couldn't have told Undine's story without mentioning it. It was dreadful, of course, but she was saved. Think of it, Mrs. Randolph, she was saved, and perhaps some time—" poor Marjorie's over-strained nerves gave way, and she burst into tears.
Mrs. Randolph had grown very white; she was trembling, too, but she laid a firm hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Marjorie," she cried sharply, "what does this mean? Why are you telling me all this? Something has happened, I know it has—oh, Marjorie, for God's sake tell me what it is! My little girl is dead; they brought her home to me, though they would not let me see her dear face. Marjorie, why do you cry so? You must tell me at once, do you hear? I say at once."
"Oh, Mrs. Randolph, darling Mrs. Randolph, it isn't anything sad, indeed it isn't," sobbed Marjorie, with her arms about her friend's neck. "It's something beautiful; more beautiful and wonderful than you can ever imagine. I can't say any more, but Beverly will be here very soon, and he will tell you. Try to think of the very greatest joy that could possibly come to any one, and perhaps you will begin to have an idea what it is."
Marjorie paused, conscious of the fact that some one had entered the room. In their excitement neither she nor Mrs. Randolph had noticed the opening of the door, or the sound of an approaching footstep. But now as she lifted her face from her friend's shoulder, Marjorie saw two figures standing on the threshold; they were Dr. Randolph and Beverly. At the same moment Mrs. Randolph also recognized them, and held out her arms to her son.
"Beverly," she cried, "tell me what it is! You know, I see it in your face. Oh, Beverly, my darling, it isn't—it can't be news of Barbara?"
"Yes, Mother, it is!" cried the boy, gathering her in his strong arms. "Can you bear a great shock, Mother—a great joyful shock?—because if you can, Uncle George and I have something to tell you."
Marjorie waited for no more; such scenes were not for other eyes to see or other ears to hear. With a bound, she was out of the room, and flying across the corridor. In her flight she darted by two other figures without even seeing them; a trembling, white-faced girl clinging nervously to an older woman, whose face was scarcely less white than her own. She had but one thought: to reach her room before the burst of hysterical excitement completely overpowered her. A frantic ring at the Carletons' bell, and then the door was thrown open, and she was clinging to some one—presumably Hortense—crying and laughing both together.