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"Go aboard what, I'd like to know?" speaks up Marjorie. "Why, the Pyxie," says he. "See, there she is anchored off well, what the deuce! Pardon me for a moment." With that he steps over to a six-foot megaphone swung from the club veranda and proceeds to boom out a few remarks. "Pyxie ahoy! Hey, there! On board the Pyxie!" he roars.
A fire was soon burning on the hearth, and Marjorie suggested that the boys should go to the rocks on the farther side of the island and try to catch a few fish while she and Tricksy made scones and boiled the kettle.
She had noticed that the pretty girl was always the center of a group and she had also noted that one small, black-haired girl with an elfish face, who wore the most exquisite clothes invariably walked at the tall girl's side. There was a pink-cheeked girl, too, with laughing blue eyes and dimples, and a fair-haired, serious-faced girl, who reminded Marjorie of Alice Duval.
They all leaped into the water now, and between us we ran the crazy raft on to the beach, Lancelot and I doing the most part of the work, for the poor wretches that had been on board of her seemed to be sorely exhausted and scarcely able to speak as they splashed and staggered through the shallow water to the shore, where Marjorie was waiting anxiously for us.
Marjorie sat on the floor beside the Christmas tree, her feet tucked under her, and listened with becoming gravity and attention while he told her about Santa Claus' visit, and one by one brought forth his precious presents for her to see. "He must have had enough presents to go around this year or he wouldn't have left me so many," asserted the child with happy positiveness.
"I know where it went, but I'll let Marjorie tell you," Jerry said calmly. "I told the girls they would have time to fix up the surprise before you came back. Vera did that lettering on one of her sheets in about five minutes. Maybe we didn't hustle, though." She had now turned to Marjorie. "Do you believe I know where you were?" Marjorie looked into Jerry's eyes and smiled.
"You ain't afeerd o' nothin', air ye, an' I reckon this rabbit tail is a- goin' to you," and he handed it to her and turned to his horse. The boy had jerked Marjorie from under the thoroughbred's hoofs and then gone on recklessly after the rabbit, getting a glancing blow from one of those hoofs himself. Marjorie smiled.
The two were alone in an old-fashioned, low basket-phaeton; and Uncle Steve was willing to stop whenever Marjorie wished, to note an especially beautiful bird on a neighboring branch or an extra- fine blossom of some wild flower. Also, Uncle Steve seemed to know the names of all the trees and flowers and birds they chanced to see.
Taking the locket from the box, Lyle handed it, unopen, to Houston, saying as she did so, "This is the only clue I have by which to find my friends; it contains my mother's picture, and my own name, Marjorie Lyle Washburn." "Washburn!" exclaimed Houston in surprise, pausing as he was about to open the locket. "Washburn! Marjorie Washburn!
Then as they reached it, he said, in a tone quite low and yet full of suppressed passion of some kind, a name that Marjorie could not catch. She turned before they went in, and looked again. The priest was talking to the stranger, and was making gestures, as if asking for direction. "Who is it, Mr. Babington?" she asked again as they went in. "I did not " "Topcliffe," said Anthony.
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