Whether Roland understood or not I cannot pretend to say, but he rubbed his soft nose against Marjorie's cheek, and snuggled up close to her as if he loved her, and she left the stable feeling somehow cheered and comforted.
On the way back she passed the old playhouse, and could not resist the temptation of going in for one more last good-bye, although she knew it would mean another fit of crying. The sight of the old toys and picture books—relics of the childhood that would never come back—affected her even more than the parting with Roland had done, and sinking down on the bench where she had dozed on the afternoon of Undine's arrival, she gave herself up to a few minutes of quiet, undisturbed grief.
She had just dried her eyes, and was wondering if she could manage to reach her own room, and wash her face, without being seen by any of her family, when the door, which had been partly closed, was pushed gently open, and Undine came in.
At sight of her friend, Undine drew back, blushing.
"I didn't know you were here," she said, apologetically; "I'll go away if you want to be alone."
"Come in," said Marjorie, making room for her on the bench. "Were you looking for me?"
Undine's eyes drooped, and the color deepened in her cheeks.
"I came to cry," she said simply.
"To cry?" repeated Marjorie in surprise; "what did you want to cry for?"
"Because you're going away," Undine confessed, nestling closer to her friend.