"Let me see the poem," said Mr. Carleton, good-naturedly; "I should like to judge its merits for myself." "I can't; I've torn it up." Elsie tried to speak in a tone of complete indifference, but her cheeks were crimson, and her father watched her curiously. "My darling child, how very foolish!" remonstrated Mrs. Carleton. "You know your father and I always want to see everything you write. Why in the world did you tear it up?" "Oh, it wasn't any good," said Elsie, with an uneasy glance at Marjorie; "some of the girls thought Lulu's poem was better." "I don't believe it was, though," Mrs. Carleton maintained with conviction. "Wasn't Elsie's poem much the best, Marjorie?" It was a dreadful moment for poor Marjorie. She had never told a lie in her life, and yet how could she offend her uncle and aunt, who were doing so much for her, and who both adored Elsie? She cast an appealing glance at her cousin, and remained silent. "Oh, you needn't ask Marjorie," remarked Elsie, with a disagreeable laugh; "she doesn't like my poem. She only got five votes herself, so I suppose it's rather hard for her to judge of other people's poetry." Mr. Carleton frowned, and Mrs. Carleton looked distressed, but no more was said on the subject, for which Marjorie felt sincerely thankful. The next day was Sunday, and the most unhappy, homesick day Marjorie had spent in New York. Her uncle was the only member of the family who continued to treat her as usual. Elsie scarcely spoke to her, and Aunt Julia, though evidently making an effort to be kind, showed so plainly by her manner that she was both hurt and displeased, that poor Marjorie's heart grew heavier and heavier. They all went to church in the morning, and in the afternoon Elsie went for a drive with her mother, and Mr. Carleton retired to his own room to read and write letters. Marjorie began her usual home letter, but had not written half a page when she broke down, and spent the next half hour in having a good cry, which was perhaps the most satisfactory thing she could have done under the circumstances. She had just dried her eyes, and having made a brave resolution not to be so foolish again, was sitting down with the intention of going on with her letter, when she heard her uncle's voice calling her from the sitting-room. "Come here, Marjorie," said Mr. Carleton, kindly, as his niece appeared in answer to his summons. "Sit down and let us have a little talk before the others come home." Marjorie complied. She hoped devoutly that her uncle would not notice that she had been crying, but perhaps Uncle Henry's eyes were sharper than his family always suspected. "Marjorie," he said abruptly, "I want you to tell me what this trouble is between you and Elsie." Marjorie gave a little gasp, and her cheeks grew pink. "I--I'm afraid I can't tell you, Uncle Henry," she faltered; "you had better ask Elsie."