They clasped each other in a fond embrace. Oh, was it really true that she was a daughter of the house, that she had a right to the love and care? Could she ever give enough to repay? There was a stir down stairs and some merry voices. Major Crawford rejoined his wife presently. "The two Chichester girls to see if the children are sure to go to the Van Ordens, though I think their eagerness is most for Will," laughing. "His gay time will soon be over. Zay's as well. Next week school will begin, and Marguerite must come under rules. The chief one is that there is no frollicking until Friday evening, no holiday until Saturday." "Oh, I wish girls did not have to grow up so fast. Think how soon they will be sixteen," bemoaned the mother. "I kept another birthday," said Marguerite. "I am glad to go back even the few months." "You look as if you were beginning to feel at home," said her father. "Oh, I hope we shall have many, many happy years together." Marguerite's heart was too full to reply. She looked at him with eyes like her mother's, only they were a little deeper. Zay came flying up stairs. "Have I neglected you all the afternoon? We found a bad rent in my pretty frock and Aunt Kate had to change the skirt. Then I wanted to write some letters and the days are so short." She kissed her mother rapturously; then went and sat on her father's knee. "And the Chichesters want us to dinner tomorrow and a little dance afterward. It is Will's last nibble at pleasure. Oh, why didn't you make him choose some real business, you naughty father, so he could have stayed at home like a respectable citizen." "And had a sweetheart. Then what would you have done?" "Looked up a sweetheart also. Oh, must he go Wednesday night?" "Think what a nice long holiday he has had!" "And think of three desolate years!" "They may be more desolate for us than for him. But it was his choice." He entered the room just then. Had Marguerite found any special entertainment? What had Zay been doing? "Oh, writing letters. Marguerite be glad you have not forty dear friends who are crying write, write all the time." No there was only one person she had written to. That was Sally Weeks at Laconia, and if Sally answered--well, she was lame on spelling, if she had a good generous heart. Zay and her aunt had done something beside writing and mending the party frock. They had discussed Marguerite. "Well," Aunt Kate had said with a long and rather unwilling accent, "she might have been worse. Her table manners are passable. I do suppose she has picked up a good deal at Mrs. Barrington's. But she has a rather uncertain air, and we shall have to hunt her up some clothes. I must talk to your mother about it." "Oh, dear, what a fuss there will be at school; I wish it was all over! I do wonder what Louie Howe will say! We had some talks--well, I could see how some of the girls felt." "I think that was very natural. I suppose she _was_ presuming."