She tried to summon anew her natural pluck and independence.

“Marjorie Maynard!” she said, to herself, and then stopped,—­overwhelmed by the thought that she had no right even to that name!

Presently a voice beside her said:  “Now, little miss, won’t you let me help you?”

She turned sharply, and looked the red-faced man in the eyes.

He didn’t look very refined, he didn’t even look good, but the sound of a friendly voice was like a straw held out to a drowning man.

“How can you help me?” she said, miserably.

“Well, fust off, where’ve ye set out fur?”

The man was uncultured, but there was a note of sincerity in his speech that impressed Marjorie, now that she was so friendless and alone.

“New York,” she replied.

“Why’d ye get out at Newark?”

“I made a mistake,” she confessed.

“An’ what be ye goin’ to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah, jest what I thought!  An’ then ye ask, how kin I help ye?”

“Well, how can you?”

Under the spur of his strong voice, Marjorie’s spirits had revived the least bit, and she spoke bravely to him.

“Now, that’s more peart-like.  Wal, in the fust place I kin take ye home with me, an’ my old woman’ll keep ye fer the night, an’ I guess that’s what ye need most.”

“Where do you live?”

“’Bout five miles out in the country.”

“How do you get there?”

“Wal, I ain’t got none o’ them autymobiles, nor yet no airship; but I’ve got a old nag that can do the piece in an hour or so.”

“Why do you want to take me home with you?” asked Marjorie, for she couldn’t help a feeling that there was something wrong.

“Why, bless your heart, child, bekase you’re alone and forlorn and hungry and all done out.  An’ it’s my privit opinion as how ye’ve run away from home.”

“No, not that,” said Midget, sadly; “I haven’t any home.”

“Ye don’t say so!  Wal, wal, never mind fer to-night.  You go ’long with me, an’ Zeb Geary, he’ll look after ye fer a spell, anyhow.”

There was no mistaking the kindness now, and Marjorie looked up into the man’s red face with trust and gratitude.

“I’d be glad to go with you and stay till to-morrow,” she said; “but first I want to own up that I didn’t ’zactly trust you,—­but now I do.”

“Wal, wal, thet shows a nice sperrit!  Now, you come along o’ me, an’ don’t try to talk nor nothin’.  Jest come along.”

He took Midget’s hand, and they went down the steps, and along the street for a block or two, to a sort of livery stable.

“Set here a minute,” said Mr. Geary, and he left Marjorie on a bench, which stood outside, against the building.

After a time he returned, with an ancient-looking vehicle, known as a Rockaway, and a patient, long-suffering horse.

“Git in back,” he said, and Marjorie climbed in, too tired and sad to care much whither she might be taken.