Hortense was quite ready for a walk, and really the afternoon was much less forlorn than Marjorie had anticipated. The French maid had taken a fancy to the little Western girl, who was always kind and friendly in her manner, and did not--as she told a friend--treat her as if she were "_seulement une machine_." Elsie never talked to Hortense during their walks, but this afternoon Marjorie was longing for companionship, and she and the maid chatted together like old friends. They were both young and far away from home, and perhaps that fact had a good deal to do towards drawing them together. Marjorie was always glad to talk of her life on the ranch, and Hortense told in her turn of the little French village, where she had spent her childhood, and of the widowed mother and little brothers and sisters, to whom she sent more than half of her earnings. She spoke in broken English, with here and there a French expression thrown in, but Marjorie had no difficulty in understanding, and her interest and sympathy for the plucky little French girl, who had left home and friends to earn her own living, grew rapidly. They took a long walk, for Hortense was almost as fond of tramping as Marjorie herself, and it was almost dusk when they at last came in sight of the big hotel. Then Hortense suddenly remembered an errand she had to do for Mrs. Carleton, and Marjorie--who was not in the least tired--declared her intention of accompanying her. "It is not far," the maid explained; "only to Sixth Avenue. We shall not be more than a quarter of an hour." The errand accomplished they turned their steps in a homeward direction, and were about half way up Fifty-seventh Street, on their way to the Plaza, when Marjorie's attention was attracted by a horse and cart, which had come to a standstill only a few feet in front of them. The cart was loaded with boxes and packages, and the horse, which was a mere skeleton, and looked as if his working days had long been over, had evidently completely given out. The driver, a boy of sixteen or seventeen, had sprung down from his seat, and was endeavoring to discover the cause of the trouble. "Oh, look, Hortense," cried Marjorie, her quick sympathies instantly aroused, "look at that poor horse. He isn't strong enough to drag that heavy wagon, with all those boxes in it. Oh, what a shame! That boy mustn't beat him so--he mustn't!" And before the horrified maid could interpose, impulsive Marjorie had sprung forward to remonstrate. "Stop beating that horse," she commanded, with flashing eyes; "can't you see he isn't able to go any farther with that load? You ought to be ashamed to load a poor creature like that in such a way!" The boy stared at her for a moment in stupid amazement; then an ugly look came into his face. He gave one quick glance up and down the street, to make sure there was no policeman in sight; and turned on Marjorie with rough fury.