Then she was tucked between coarse sheets, on a hard bed, but so weary was she that it seemed comfortable.

Mrs. Geary patted her arm and hummed softly an old hymn-tune, and poor little Marjorie dropped asleep almost at once.

“What do you make of it, Father?” asked the old woman, returning to the kitchen.

“She run away from her home fer some reason.  Said she hadn’t got no home.  Stepmother, I shouldn’t wonder.  We’ll find out to-morrow, an’ I’ll tote her back.”

“Mebbe there’ll be a reward.”

“Mebbe so.  But we’ll do our best by her, reward or no.  But if so be they is one, I’ll be mighty glad, fer I had pore luck sellin’ that hay to-day.”

“Wal, chirk up, Father; mebbe things’ll grow brighter soon.”

“Mebbe they will, Sary,—­mebbe they will.”

In her unaccustomed surroundings, Marjorie woke early.  The sun was just reddening the eastern horizon, and the birds were chirping in the trees.

She had that same sinking of the heart, that same feeling of desolation, but she did not cry, for her nerves were rested, and her brain refreshed, by her night’s sleep.  She lay in her poor, plain bed and considered the situation.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, sternly, to herself, “how bad I feel about it, it’s true.  I’m not a Maynard, and never was.  I don’t know who I am, or what my name is.  And I don’t believe I’d better go to Grandma Maynard’s.  Perhaps she doesn’t know I’m not really her granddaughter, and then she wouldn’t want me, after all.  For I’d have to tell her.  So I just believe I’ll earn my own living and be self-supporting.”

This plan appealed to Marjorie’s imagination.  It seemed grand and noble and heroic.  Moreover, she was very much in earnest, and in this crisp, early morning she felt braver and stronger than she had felt the night before.

“Yes,” she thought on, “I ought to earn my living,—­for I’ve no claim on Fa—­on Mr. Maynard.  Perhaps these people here can find me some work to do.  At any rate, I’ll ask them.”

She jumped up, and dressed herself, for she heard Mr. and Mrs. Geary already in the kitchen.

“My stars!” said her hostess, as she appeared; “how peart you look!  Slept good, didn’t ye?”

“Fine!” said Midget; “good-morning, both of you.  Can’t I help you?”

Mrs. Geary was transferring baked apples from a pan to an old cracked platter.  Though unaccustomed to such work, Marjorie was quick and deft at anything, and in a moment she had the apples nicely arranged and placed on the table.  She assisted in other ways, and chattered gayly as she worked.

Too gayly, Mrs. Geary thought, and she glanced knowingly at her husband, for they both realized Marjorie’s flow of good spirits was forced,—­not spontaneous.

After breakfast was over, Midget said, “Now, I’ll wash up the dishes, Mrs. Geary, and you sit down and take a little rest.”