They jogged along at a fair pace, but Mr. Geary, on the front seat, offered no conversation, merely looking back occasionally, as if to assure himself that his guest was still with him.

After a mile or two, Marjorie began to think more coherently.

She wondered what she would have done if she hadn’t chanced to fall in with this kind, if rough, friend.

She wondered whether she could ever have reached Grandma Maynard’s house in safety, for the crowds and confusion were much worse than she had anticipated, and in New York they would be worse still.

At any rate, she would gladly accept shelter and hospitality for the night, and continue her journey next day, during the earlier hours.

It was well after six o’clock when the jogging old horse turned into a lane, and finally stopped at a somewhat tumble-down porch.  An old woman appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Wal, Zeb,” she called out, “did ye get back?”

“Yes, Sary, an’ I brought ye a visitor for the night.”

“A what!  Wal, I do declar’!” and Mrs. Geary stepped down and peered into the back seat of the Rockaway.  “Who in creation is that?”

“I don’t know,” returned her husband.

“Ye don’t know!  I swan, Zeb Geary, you must be plumb crazy!  Whar’d ye get her?”

“Thar, thar, now, Sary, don’t be askin’ questions, but take the pore lamb in, an’ cuddle her up some.  She’s plumb beat out!”

“Come on, dearie,” said the old wife, who had caught sight of Marjorie’s winsome face and sad eyes.  “Come along o’ me,—­I’ll take keer o’ ye.”

Marjorie let herself be helped from the rickety old vehicle, and went with her hostess, in at the kitchen door.

It wasn’t an attractive kitchen, such as Eliza’s, at Grandma Sherwood’s; it was bare and comfortless-looking, though clean and in good order.

“Now, now, little miss,” said Mrs. Geary, hobbling about, “fust of all, let’s get some supper down ye.  When did ye eat last?”

“This noon,” said Marjorie, and then, at the remembrance of the happy, merry luncheon table at Seacote, she put her head down on her arms, and sobbed as if she had never cried before.

“Bless ’ee, bless ’ee, now, my lamb; don’t go fer to take on so.  There, there, have a sup o’ warm milk!  Oh, my! my!”

In deference to Mrs. Geary’s solicitude, Marjorie tried hard to conquer her sobs, and had finally succeeded, when Mr. Geary came in.

“Don’t bother her any to-night, Mother,” he said, after a sharp glance at Marjorie; “she’s all on edge.  Feed her up good, and tuck her into bed.”

“Yes, yes; here, my lamb, here’s a nice soft-boiled egg for your tea.  You’ll like that, now?”

“Thank you,” said Marjorie, her great, dark eyes looking weird in the dimly lighted kitchen.

After a satisfying supper, Mrs. Geary took the child up to a low, slant-ceiled room, that was as bare and clean as the kitchen.  The old woman bathed Marjorie’s face and hands with unexpected gentleness, and then helped her to undress.  She brought a coarse, plain nightgown of her own, but it was clean and soft, and felt comfortable to the tired child.