"But suppose we promised, honor bright--"

"Begging your pardon," broke in another voice, "that's understood in
any case,--a foregone conclusion, you know. Our honor would _have_ to
be bright."

"Suppose we promised faithfully," continued the first voice, pretending
not to notice the interruption, "to bring you back in time to go in
when your turn comes, would n't you rather take a journey with us and
see any number of wonderful things than just to sit here leaning
against your mother's arm and watching these people that you think so
'stupid'?"

"Of course," assented Marjorie, at once. "It 's awful tiresome,--this;
it makes me feel just as sleepy as can be. But what 's the use of
talking? I can't leave here or I 'd lose my chance, and besides Mamma
never lets me go out with strangers."

"We 're not strangers," asserted the voice, calmly; "we are as familiar
to you as your shadow,--in fact, more so, come to think of it. You
have always known us, and so has your mother. She 'd trust you to us,
never fear! Will you come?"

Marjorie considered a moment, and then said: "Well, if you're perfectly
sure you 'll take care of me, and that you 'll bring me back in time, I
guess I will."

No sooner had she spoken than she felt herself raised from her place
and borne away out of the crowded room in which she was,--out, out into