This consisted of King, Midget, and Rosy Posy in patriotic costume.

King, as Uncle Sam, presented a funny figure with his white beaver hat, his long-tailed blue coat, and red and white striped trousers.  Midget wore a becoming “Miss Columbia” costume, with a liberty cap and liberty pole and flag.  Rosamond was a chubby little Goddess of Liberty, but she preferred to run around everywhere, rather than stand still and receive.

King and Midget did the honors gracefully, and after all the guests had assembled, they took seats on the lawn to watch the fireworks.

These were of a fine quality, and as the flowerpots and bombs burst into stars in the sky both children and grown-ups joined in loud applause.

There was patriotic music, and more ice cream, and when, at last, it was all over, the Sand Club went together to thank Cousin Jack for the entertainment.

“Glad you liked it,” he said, heartily; “and now, scamper home and to bed, all of you, so your parents won’t say I made you lose your beauty sleep.”

CHAPTER VIII

A REVELATION

Marjorie was practising.

It was a lovely afternoon, and she wanted to go out and play, but her hour’s practising must be done first.  She was conscientious about it, and tried very hard to hold her hands just right, as she counted, one—­two—­three—­four; one—­two—­three—­four.

Mrs. Corey, Hester’s mother, was calling on Mrs. Maynard, and the two ladies sat on the veranda, just outside the window near which the piano stood.

Marjorie did not listen to their conversation, for it was of no interest to her, and, too, she was devoting all her attention to her exercises.  Usually, she didn’t mind practising, but to-day the Sand Club was waiting for her, and her practice hour seemed interminable.

“One—­two—­three—­four,” she counted to herself, when something Mrs. Corey said arrested her attention.

“Your oldest daughter?” Marjorie heard her exclaim; “you amaze me!”

Midget had no thought of eavesdropping, and as the piano was near the open window, surely they could hear her practising, and so knew she was there.

But Mrs. Maynard answered, in a low, serious voice, “Yes, my oldest girl.  She is not our child.  She is a foundling.  We adopted her when an infant.”

“Really?” said Mrs. Corey, much interested.  “How did that happen?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Maynard, “my husband desired it, and I consented.  She has grown up a good girl, but of course I can’t feel toward her as I feel toward my own children.”

“No, of course not,” agreed Mrs. Corey.  “The others are all your own?”

“Yes, they are my own.”

“She doesn’t know this, does she?”

“Oh, no, we have never let her suspect it.  She thinks I am her mother, and she thinks I love her as I do my own children.  But it is hard for me to pretend affection for her, when I remember her humble origin.”