Midge was one of the numerous nicknames by which Marjorie was
called. Her tumbling, curly hair, which was everlastingly escaping
from its ribbon, had gained for her the title of Mops or Mopsy.
Midge and Midget had clung to her from babyhood, because she was
an active and energetic child, and so quick of motion that she
seemed to dart like a midge from place to place. She never did
anything slowly. Whether it was an errand for her mother or a game
of play, Midge always moved rapidly. Her tasks were always done in
half the time it took the other children to do theirs; but in
consequence of this haste, they were not always done as well or as
thoroughly as could be desired.

This, her mother often told her, was her besetting sin, and
Marjorie truly tried to correct it when she thought of it; but
often she was too busy with the occupation in hand to remember the
good instructions she had received.

"I'm glad you did that, Mother," she replied to her mother's
remark, "for I really haven't time to study the list now. But I'll
promise to read it over every morning at Grandma's, and honest and
true, I'll try to be good."

"Of course you will," said her father, heartily; "you'll be the
best little girl in the world, except the two you leave here
behind you."

"Me's the bestest," calmly remarked Rosamond, who seemed
especially satisfied with herself that evening.

"You are," agreed King; "you look good enough to eat, to-night."