"The wedding was last week, and Mrs. Hicks came on from Kansas. She is Miss Brent's sister, and her husband has a big cattle farm. Mrs. Hicks brought her baby with her, and they got me to help take care of it, and then Miss Brent persuaded her sister to take me home with her. I didn't want to go, for I knew I shouldn't like Mrs. Hicks, but Miss Brent said I must. We started yesterday, and it was awful. Mrs. Hicks kept saying she knew I would never be any use to her, and the baby was so heavy, and cried all the time. I had just about made up my mind to run away when Mrs. Hicks slapped me, and that settled it. I never was slapped before, and I couldn't stand it." The brown eyes flashed indignantly, and there was a crimson spot in both the girl's cheeks. Marjorie had been listening to this strange story in breathless astonishment. It did not occur to her for a moment to doubt its truth. Before she could ask any more questions, however, she was brought back to a recollection of every-day life once more by the sound of her father's voice calling from the porch: "Supper's ready, Marjorie." Marjorie came down to earth with a rush, and hastily explaining to her new friend that she would be back in a minute, dashed away to the house, there to electrify her family with the astounding news that there was a strange girl in the playhouse, who had walked all the way from the railroad, and didn't know her own name. When Marjorie returned five minutes later, she was accompanied by an excited group, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Graham, Miss Jessie, and the Mexican servant, Juanita. At sight of so many strangers the visitor shrank into a corner, and her eyes seemed to grow bigger and more frightened than ever, but when Mrs. Graham spoke to her in her kind, motherly voice, the pale face lighted up, and holding out both hands to Marjorie's mother, she exclaimed joyfully: "You're kind, too; I can see it in your face. Oh, please don't send me away; I'm so tired and hungry, and I don't know where else I can possibly go." "And what are we to call you, my dear?" Mrs. Graham inquired, late that evening, when the uninvited guest had been refreshed by a bath and a hearty supper, and was lying back comfortably in the big rocker in the living-room. "Did I understand Marjorie to say that you had been called Sally?" The stranger pouted. Now that her face was washed she was really very pretty. "I hate 'Sally,'" she said, impatiently; "it's not my name, and I don't see why I need be called by it. I wish you'd call me something pretty." Mrs. Graham looked a little doubtful, but Marjorie, who was regarding this singular young person in a kind of fascinated awe--half expecting to see her vanish at any moment as mysteriously as she had come--hastened to the rescue.