They walked about, and looked at the various beautiful rooms, and then Mr. and Mrs. Maynard came, and they all went to the dining-room.

A table had been reserved for them, and Marjorie felt very grown up and important as the waiter pushed up her chair.  After their long ride, their appetites were quite in order to do justice to the good things put before them, and when it was time for dessert, Cousin Jack announced that he and Marjorie were a committee of two to select it.

“Though of course,” he added, “any one who doesn’t care for what we choose is entirely at liberty to choose something else.”

So the two gravely studied the menu, and kept the others in suspense while they read over the long list.  Many names were in French, but Marjorie skipped those.

“Ice cream,” Kitty kept whispering, in low but distinct stage whispers; and at last Cousin Jack proposed to Midget that they choose what was billed as a “Lakewood Souvenir.”

Marjorie had no idea what this might be, but she agreed, for she felt sure it was something nice.

And so it was, for it turned out to be ice cream, but so daintily put up in a little box that it was like a present.  The box was carved with crinkly paper, and had a pretty picture of Lakewood scenery framed in gilt on the top.  After every one had eaten his ice cream, the boxes were carried away as souvenirs.

Then they all went out and sat on the terrace while the elders had coffee.  The three children did not drink coffee, so they were allowed to run around the grounds a little.

“How long are we going to stay here?” asked Kitty.

“Till to-morrow afternoon, I think,” replied King.  “I heard Father say he thought he’d do that.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” said Midget, “but I’d just as lieve be riding, wouldn’t you, Kit?”

“Oh, I don’t care.  I like ’em both,—­first one and then the other.”

Kitty was of a contented disposition, and usually liked everything.  But the other two were also easily pleased, and the three agreed that they didn’t care whether they were motoring or staying at the lovely hotel.

“Now, then, little Maynards, bed for yours!” announced their father, as he came strolling out to find them.

“Father,” said Marjorie, grasping his hand, “is this really an Ourday?”

“Yes, Midget; of course it is.  You don’t mind the Bryants sharing it, do you?”

“No, not a bit.  Only,—­to-morrow can’t I ride with you?  If it’s our Ourday, I like better to be by you.”

“Of course you can!” cried Mr. Maynard, heartily.  “We’ll fix it somehow.”

“But don’t tell Cousin Ethel and Cousin Jack that I don’t want to ride with them,” went on Midget, “because it might hurt their feelings.  But you know,—­when I thought I didn’t have any father,—­I thought about all our Ourdays, and——­”

Midget’s voice broke, and Mr. Maynard caught her to him.