Marjorie, however, made her curtseys and farewells in a creditable manner.
"There!" Penrod said again, when she rejoined him in the darkness outside. "What did I tell you? Didn't I say I'd get the blame of it, no matter if the house went and fell down? I s'pose they think I put mucilage and soap in my own shoes."
Marjorie delayed at the gate until some eagerly talking little girls had passed out. The name "Penrod Schofield" was thick and scandalous among them.
"Well," said Marjorie, "_I_ wouldn't care, Penrod. 'Course, about soap and mucilage in YOUR shoes, anybody'd know some other boy must of put 'em there to get even for what you put in his."
Penrod gasped.
"But I DIDN'T!" he cried. "I didn't do ANYTHING! That ole Miss Rennsdale can say what she wants to, I didn't do--"
"Well, anyway, Penrod," said MarJorie, softly, "they can't ever PROVE it was you."
He felt himself suffocating in a coil against which no struggle availed.
"But I never DID it!" he wailed, helplessly. "I never did anything at all!"
She leaned toward him a little, and the lights from her waiting carriage illumined her dimly, but enough for him to see that her look was fond and proud, yet almost awed.
"Anyway, Penrod," she whispered, "_I_ don't believe there's any other boy in the whole world could of done HALF as much!"
And with that, she left him, and ran out to the carriage.
But Penrod remained by the gate to wait for Sam, and the burden of his sorrows was beginning to lift. In fact, he felt a great deal better, in spite of his having just discovered why Marjorie loved him.