Marjorie supposed she ought to be grateful, but she could not help resisting the fact that her aunt evidently did not consider her present wardrobe "decent," and this, added to her other troubles, resulted in a very unhappy half-hour. But Marjorie was a plucky girl, and she had plenty of common sense.
"I won't write a word about all this to Mother or Aunt Jessie," she decided as she dried her eyes. "It wouldn't do any good, and they would be so sorry. I am sure Aunt Julia means to be kind, and I suppose I did frighten them, but it does seem so silly not to be allowed to go out for a walk by one's self."
She had just bathed her red eyes, and was sitting down to write the deferred letter to her mother, when the door opened, and Elsie came in.
"Mamma says you are to be ready to go out with her in fifteen minutes," she began, then paused, regarding her cousin curiously. "You look as if you'd been crying," she said abruptly. "Mamma did pitch into you pretty hard, but it was an awfully queer thing to go out by yourself at seven o'clock in the morning."
"I'm very sorry I did what was wrong," said Marjorie, "but I had no idea any one would object. I often go for a gallop on my pony before breakfast at home."
"Oh, I daresay you do, but that is very different. I think it was too funny that you should have met Beverly Randolph. Do tell me what he is like."
"He is very nice indeed," said Marjorie, frankly; "I liked him ever so much."
"You'll be sure to introduce us, won't you? It will be such fun to tell Lulu Bell I've met him first; not that she'll care much, she's such a baby. Mamma thinks she may call on Mrs. Randolph to thank her."
"What does she want to thank her for?" inquired Marjorie, innocently.
"Why, for her son's bringing you home, and being so kind to you. You might have been lost for hours if he hadn't done it."