Mrs. Geary brought Marjorie’s hat and her little purse, and in another moment they were flying along the country road toward Newark.

Marjorie said nothing at all, but cuddled into her father’s arm, and now and then drew long, deep sighs, as if still troubled.

But he only held her closer, and murmured words of endearment, leaving her undisturbed by questions about her strange conduct.

In Newark they telephoned the joyful news to Mrs. Maynard, and then took the first train to Seacote.

All through the two-hour ride, Marjorie slept peacefully, with her father’s arm protectingly round her.

The two men said little, being too thankful that their quest was successfully ended.

“But I think her mind is all right,” whispered Mr. Maynard, as Mr. Bryant leaned over from the seat behind.  “She has some kind of a crazy notion in her head,—­but when she’s thoroughly rested and wide awake, we can straighten it all out.”

The Maynards’ motor was waiting at Seacote station, and after a few moments’ ride, Marjorie was again in the presence of her own dear people.

“Mother, Mother!” she cried, in a strange, uncertain voice, and flew to the outstretched arms awaiting her.

Though unnerved herself, Mrs. Maynard clasped her daughter close and soothed the poor, quivering child.

“Are you my mother?” wailed Marjorie, in agonized tones; “are you?”

“Yes, my child, yes!” and there was no doubting that mother-voice.

“Then why,—­why did you tell Mrs. Corey I was a findling?”

“Tell Mrs. Corey what?”

“Why, when I was practising, you were talking to her, and I heard you tell her that you took me from an asylum when I was a baby,—­and that I didn’t really belong to you and Father?”

“Oh, Marjorie!  Oh, my baby!” and dropping into the nearest armchair, with Marjorie in her lap, Mrs. Maynard laughed and cried together.

“Oh, Ed,” she exclaimed, looking at her husband, “it’s those theatricals!  Listen, Marjorie, darling.  Our Dramatic Club is going to give a play called ‘The Stepmother,’ and Mrs. Corey and I were learning our parts.  That’s what you heard!”

“Truly, mother?”

“Truly, of course, you little goosie-girl!  And so you ran away?”

“Yes; I couldn’t stay here if I wasn’t your little girl,—­and Father’s,—­and King’s sister,—­and all.  And you said I was different from your own children and,——­”

“There, there, darling, it’s all right now.  And we’ll hear the rest of your story to-morrow.  Now, we’re going to have some supper, and then tuck you in your own little bed where you belong.  Have you had your supper?”

“No,—­but I set the table,” and Marjorie began to smile at the recollection of the Geary kitchen.  “You see, Mother, I’ve been maid-of-all-work.”

“And now you’ve come back to be maid-of-all-play, as usual,” broke in Cousin Jack, who didn’t want the conversation to take a serious turn, for all present were under stress of suppressed emotion.