“What is the matter, Midge?” said her father, “You sigh as if you’d lost your last friend.”

The family were in the pleasant living-room one evening, just after dinner.

All, that is, except Rosy Posy, who had gone to bed long ago.  Kingdon was reading, and Kitty was idly playing with the kitten, while Marjorie, her head bent over a book on the table, was abstractedly moving her lips as if talking to herself.

“Oh, Father! it’s this horrid old spelling lesson.  I just can’t learn it, and that all there is about it!”

“Can’t learn to spell?  Bring me your book, and let me have a look at it.”

Very willingly Marjorie flew to her father’s side, and, big girl though she was, perched herself on his knee while she showed him the page.

“Just look!  There’s ‘deleble’ spelled with an e, and ‘indelible’ with an i!  Why can’t they spell them alike?”

“I think myself they might as well have done so,” said Mr. Maynard, “but, since they didn’t, we’ll have to learn them as they are.  Where is your lesson?”

“All that page.  And they’re fearfully hard words.  And words I’ll never use anyway.  Why would I want to use ‘harassed’ and ‘daguerreotype’ and ‘macaroni’ and such words as those?”

Mr. Maynard smiled at the troubled little face.

“You may not want to use them, dearie, but it is part of your education to learn to spell them.  Come, now, I’ll help you, and we’ll soon put them through.  Let’s pick out the very hardest one first.”

“All right; ‘daguerreotype’ is the hardest.”

“Oh, pshaw, no!  That’s one of the very easiest.  Just remember that it was a Frenchman named Daguerre who invented the process; then you only have to add ‘o’ and ‘type,’ and there you are!”

“Why, that is easy!  I’ll never forget that.  ‘Macaroni’ is a hard one, though.”

“Why?”

“Oh, because I always put two c’s or two r’s or two n’s in it.”

“Ho, that makes it easy, then.  Just remember that there isn’t a double letter in it, and then spell it just as it sounds.  Why, macaroni is so long and thin that there isn’t room for a double letter in it.”

“Oh, Father, you make it so easy.  Of course I’ll remember that, now.”

Down the long list they went, and Mr. Maynard, with some little quip or quibble, made each word of special interest, and so fixed it in Marjorie’s memory.  At the end of a half-hour she was perfect in the lesson, and had thoroughly enjoyed the learning of it.

“I wish you’d help me every night,” she said, wistfully.  “All this week, anyway.  For there’s to be a spelling-match on Friday, between our class and Miss Bates’ class, and we want to win.  But I’m such a bad speller, nobody wants to choose me on their side.”

“They don’t, don’t they?  Well, I rather think we’ll change all that.  You and I will attack Mr. Speller every evening, and see if we can’t vanquish him.”

“I think we can,” said Marjorie, her eyes sparkling.  “For it’s only some few of those catchy words that I can’t seem to learn.  But after you help me they all seem easy.”

So every night that week Midge and her father had a spelling-class of their own, and fine work was accomplished.

The spelling-match was to be on Friday, and Thursday night they were to have a grand review of all the lessons.  Marjorie brought home her schoolbooks on Thursday, and left them in the house while she went out to play.  But when she came in to get ready for dinner, her mother was dressing to go out.

“Where are you going, Mother?” said Marjorie, looking admiringly at her mother’s pretty gown.

“We’re going to Mrs. Martin’s to dinner, dearie.  She invited us over the telephone this morning.  There’s a very nice dinner prepared for you children, and you must have a good time by yourselves, and not be lonesome.  Go to bed promptly at nine o’clock, as we shall be out late.”

“Is father going, too?” cried Marjorie, aghast.

“Yes, of course.  You may fasten my glove, Midget, dear.”

“But I want father to help me with my spelling.”

“I thought about that, Mops,” said her father, coming into the room.  “And I’m sorry I have to be away to-night.  But I’ll tell you what we’ll do.  When is this great spelling-match, ­to-morrow?”

“Yes, to-morrow afternoon.”

“Well, you study by yourself this evening, and learn all you can.  Then skip to bed a bit earlier than usual, and then hop up early to-morrow morning.  You and I will have an early breakfast, at about seven o’clock.  Then from half-past seven to half-past eight I’ll drill you in that old speller till you can spell the cover right off it.”

“All right,” said Marjorie.  “It’s really just as well for me to study alone to-night, and then you can help me a lot to-morrow morning.  But won’t it make you too late going to business?”

“No, I’ll take a half-hour off for your benefit.  If I leave here by half-past eight that will do nicely, and that’s about the time you want to go to school.”

So the matter was settled, and Mr. and Mrs. Maynard drove away, leaving the three children to dine by themselves.  The meal was a merry one, for when thus left to themselves the children always “pretended.”

“I’m a princess,” said Marjorie, as she seated herself in her mother’s place.  “These dishes are all gold, and I’m eating birds of paradise with nectarine sauce.”

Even as she spoke, Sarah brought her a plate of soup, and Midge proceeded to eat it with an exaggerated air of grandeur, which she thought befitted a princess.

“I’m not a prince,” said Kingdon.  “I’m an Indian chief, and I’m eating wild boar steak, which I shot with my own trusty bow and arrows.”

“I’m a queen in disguise,” said Kitty.  “I’m hiding from my pursuers, so I go around in plain, dark garbs, and no one knows I’m a queen.”

“How do we all happen to be dining at one table?” asked Marjorie.

“It’s a public restaurant,” said King.  “We all came separately, and just chanced to sit at the same table.  May I ask your name, Madam?”

“I’m the Princess Seraphina,” said Marjorie, graciously.  “My home is in the sunny climes of Italy, and I’m travelling about to see the world.  And you, noble sir, what is your name?”

“I am Chief Opodeldoc, of the Bushwhack Tribe.  My tomahawk is in my belt, and whoever offends me will add his scalp to my collection!”

“Oh, sir,” said Kitty, trembling; “I pray you be not so fierce of manner!  I am most mortal timid.”

Kitty had a fine dramatic sense, and always threw herself into her part with her whole soul.  The others would sometimes drop back into their every-day speech, but Kitty was always consistent in her assumed character.

“Is it so, fair Lady?” said King, looking valiant.  “Have no fear of me.  Should aught betide I will champion thy cause to the limit.”

“And mine?” said Marjorie.  “Can you champion us both, Sir Opodeldoc?”

“Aye, that can I. But I trust this is a peaceful hostelry.  I see no sign of warfare.”

“Nay, nay, but war may break out apace.  Might I enquire your name, fair lady?”

“Hist!” said Kitty, her finger on her lip, and looking cautiously about, “I am, of a truth, the Queen of ­of Macedonia.  But disguised as a poor waif, I seek a hiding-place from my tormentors.”

“Why do they torment you?”

“’Tis a dark secret; ask me not.  But tell of yourself, Princess Seraphina.  Dost travel alone?”

“Yes; with but my suite of armed retainers.  Cavalrymen and infantry attend my way, and twelve ladies-in-waiting wait on me.”

“A great princess, indeed,” said King, in admiration.  “We are well met!”

“Methinks I am discovered!” cried Kitty, as Sarah approached her with a dish of pudding.  “This damsel!  She is of my own household.  Ha!  Doth she recognize me?”

Although used to the nonsense of the children, Sarah couldn’t entirely repress a giggle as Kitty glared at her.

“Eat your dinner, Miss Kitty,” she said, “an’ don’t be afther teasin’ me.”

“Safe!” exclaimed Kitty.  “She knows me not!  ‘Kitty’ she calls me!  Ha!”

The play went on all through the meal, for the Maynards never tired of this sort of fun.

“I’m going out for a few minutes,” said King, as they at last rose from the table.  “Father said I might go down to Goodwin’s to get slides for my camera.  I won’t be gone long.”

“All right,” said Marjorie, “I’m going to study my spelling.  What are you going to do, Kit?”

“I’m going up to the playroom.  Nannie is going to tell me stories while she sews.”

So Marjorie was alone in the living-room as she took up her school-bag to get her spelling-book from it.  To her dismay it was not there!  The book which she had mistakenly brought for her speller was her mental arithmetic; they were much the same size, and she often mistook one for the other.

But this time it was a serious matter.  The spelling-match was to be the next day, and how could she review her lessons without her book?

Her energetic mind began to plan what she could do in the matter.

It was already after seven o’clock, quite too late to go to the schoolhouse after the missing book.  If King had been at home she would have consulted him, but she had no one of whom to ask advice.

She remembered what her father had said about getting up early the next morning, and she wondered if she couldn’t get up even earlier still, and go to the schoolhouse for the book before breakfast.  She could get the key from the janitor, who lived not far from her own home.

It seemed a fairly feasible plan, and, though she would lose her evening’s study, she determined to go to bed early, and rise at daybreak to go for the book.

“I’ll write a note to mother,” she thought, “telling her all about it, and I’ll leave it on her dressing-table.  Then, when she hears me prowling out at six o’clock to-morrow morning, she’ll know what I’m up to.”

The notion of an early morning adventure was rather attractive, but suddenly Marjorie thought that she might not be able to get the key from the janitor so early as that.

“Perhaps Mr. Cobb doesn’t get up until seven or later, and I can’t wait till then,” she pondered.  “I’ve a good notion to go for that key to-night.  Then I can go to the schoolhouse as early as I choose in the morning without bothering anybody.”

She rose and went to the window.  It was quite dark, for, though the streets were lighted, the lights were far apart, and there was no moon.

Of course, Marjorie never went out alone in the evening, but this was such an exceptional occasion, she felt sure her parents would not blame her.

“If only King was here to go with me,” she thought.  But King was off on his own errand, and she knew that when he returned he would want to fix his camera, and, anyway, it would be too late then.

Mr. Cobb’s house was only three blocks away, and she could run down there and back in ten minutes.

Deciding quickly that she must do it, Marjorie put on her coat and hat and went softly out at the front door.  She felt sure that if she told Nurse Nannie or Kitty of her errand, they would raise objections, so she determined to steal off alone.  “And then,” she thought, “it will be fun to come home and ring the bell, and see Sarah’s look of astonishment to find me at the door!”

It was a pleasant night, though cool, and Marjorie felt a thrill of excitement as she walked down the dark path to the gate, and then along the street alone.

In a few moments she reached Mr. Cobb’s house, and rang the doorbell.  Mr. Cobb was not at home, but when Mrs. Cobb appeared at the door, Marjorie made known her errand.

“Why, bless your heart, yes, little girl,” said the kindly disposed woman.  “I’ll let you take the key, of course.  Mr. Cobb, he always keeps it hangin’ right here handy by.  So you’re goin’ over to the school at sun-up!  Well, well, you’ve got spunk, haven’t you, now?  And don’t bother to bring ’t back.  Mr. Cobb, he can stop at your house for it, as he goes to the school at half-past seven.  Mebbe he’ll get there ’fore you do, after all.  I dunno if you’ll find it so easy to wake up at six o’clock as you think.”

“Oh, yes I will, Mrs. Cobb,” said Midget.  “I’m going to set an alarm clock.  The only trouble is that will awaken my sister, too.  But I ’spect she’ll go right to sleep again.  You see it’s a very important lesson, and I must have that book.”

“All right, little lady.  Run along now and get to bed early.  Are you afraid?  Shall I walk home with you?”

“Oh, no, thank you.  It’s only three blocks, and I’ll run all the way.  I’m ever so much obliged for the key.”

“Oh, that’s all right.  I’m glad to accommodate you.  Good-night.”

“Good-night, Mrs. Cobb,” said Marjorie, and in another moment the gate clicked behind her.

As she reached the first turning toward her own home, she looked off in the other direction, where the schoolhouse stood.  It was several blocks away, and Marjorie was thinking how she would run over there the next morning.  And then a crazy thought jumped into her brain.  Why not go now?  Then she could study this evening, after all.  It was dark, to be sure, but it was not so very late, ­not eight o’clock yet.

The thought of entering the empty schoolhouse, alone, and in utter darkness, gave her a thrill of fear, but she said to herself: 

“How foolish!  There’s nothing to be afraid of in an empty schoolhouse.  I can feel my way to our classroom, and the street lights will shine in some, anyway.  Pooh, I guess I wouldn’t be very brave if I was afraid of nothing!  And just to think of having that book to-night!  I can get it and be back home in twenty minutes.  I believe I’ll do it!”

Marjorie hesitated a moment at the corner.  Then she turned away from her home and toward the schoolhouse, and took a few slow steps.

“Oh, pshaw!” she said to herself.  “Don’t be a coward, Marjorie Maynard!  There’s nothing to hurt you, and if you scoot fast, it won’t take ten minutes to get that book.”

In a sudden accession of bravery, Marjorie started off at a brisk pace.

As she went on, her courage ebbed a little, but a dogged determination kept her from turning back.

“I won’t be a baby, or a ’fraid cat!” she said angrily, to herself.  “I’m not doing anything wrong, and there’s no reason at all to be frightened.  But I do wish it wasn’t so dark.”

The part of town where the school stood was less thickly settled than where Marjorie lived, and she passed several vacant lots.  This made it seem more lonely, and the far-apart street lights only seemed to make darker the spaces between.

But Marjorie trudged on, grasping the key, and roundly scolding herself for being timid.