“How can I get to his house?”

“Wanter see Zeb, do you?  Well, he has his own rig, not very nobby, but safe.  I guess you could get a rig at that stable ‘cross the way.  An’ they can tell you how to go.”

“Couldn’t I get a motor-car?”

“Likely you could.  Go over there and ask the man.”

The station attendant had duties, and was not specially interested in a stranger’s queries, so, having rewarded him, as they thought he deserved, the two men hastened over to the livery stable.

“Zeb Geary?” said the stable keeper.  “Why, yes, he lives five miles out of town.  He leaves his old horse here when he goes anywhere on the train.  It’s no ornament to my place, but I keep it for the old fellow.  He’s a character in his way.  Yes, he went out last night and a little girl with him.”

“Could we get a motor here, to go out there?”

“Right you are!  I’ve good cars and good chauffeurs.”

In a few moments, therefore, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Bryant were speeding away toward Zeb Geary, and, as they hoped, toward Marjorie.

While the car was being made ready, Mr. Maynard had telephoned to King that they had news of Marjorie, and hoped soon to find her.  He thought best to relieve the minds of the dear ones at home to this extent, even if their quest should prove fruitless, after all.

“I can’t understand it,” said Mr. Maynard, as they flew along the country roads.  “This Geary person doesn’t sound like a kidnapper, yet why else would Midget go with him?”

“I’m only afraid it wasn’t Marjorie,” returned Mr. Bryant.  “But we shall soon know.”

* * * * *

Marjorie had worked hard all day.  Partly because she wanted to prove herself a good worker, and partly because, if she stopped to think, her troubles seemed greater than she could bear.

But a little after five o’clock everything was done, supper prepared, and the child sat down on the kitchen steps to rest.  She was tired, sad, and desolate.  The slight excitement of novelty was gone, the bravery and courage of the morning hours had disappeared, and a great wave of homesickness enveloped her very soul.  She was too lonely and homesick even to cry, and she sat, a pathetic, drooped little figure, on the old tumble-down porch.

She heard the toot of a motor-horn, but it was a familiar sound to her, and she paid no attention to it.  Then she heard it again, very near, and looked up to see her father and Cousin Jack frantically waving, as the car fairly flew, over many minor obstacles, straight to that kitchen doorway.

“Marjorie!” cried Mr. Maynard, leaping out before the wheels had fairly stopped turning, and in another instant she was folded in that dear old embrace.

“Oh, Father, Father!” she cried, hysterically clinging to him, “take me home, take me home!”

“Of course I will, darling,” said Mr. Maynard’s quivering voice, as he held her close and stroked her hair with trembling fingers.  “That’s what we’ve come for.  Here’s Cousin Jack, too.”