er bedside, and there, bending her old knees,
offered up her simple prayer, asking in much faith and love God's
blessing on this new-found niece.

CHAPTER XXIV.

MARION'S REPENTANCE.

No time had been mentioned for the continuance of Marion's visit; and
coming as she had from the busy life of the school, where every minute
had its allotted task, Thanksgiving week was hardly over before she
began to be very homesick. In vain she strove against it, and by every
pleasant device in her power tried to make her visit pleasant to her
aunt. Even the short November days seemed to her endless, and the
evenings had only the early bedtime to make them endurable.

On her first coming, she had told Aunt Betty the day the vacation was
over, and evidently she was expected to stay until then; but on the
morning of the seventh day she became desperate, and for want of any
other excuse hit upon one that would be most displeasing to her aunt.

"You don't like to have me study my Greek here, Aunt Betty," she said;
"and, as I must review it before the term begins, I think I had better
go back now."

Aunt Betty put her steel-bowed spectacles high up on her nose, and,
after looking at her silently for a moment, said,--

"I don't take no stock in your Greek."

Marion laughed good-naturedly. "If you only would let me read it to
you," she said, "you would like it as well as I do; it's so soft and
beautiful."

"What's the matter with your Bible? Isn't that good enough for you?"

"But, Aunt Betty, you don't understand."

But Aunt Betty did understand enough to be very sure she did not want
Marion to go, so she turned abruptly on her heel, and hid herself in
the depths of the pantry.

Marion stood for a moment undecided what to do, then, seeing that if
she would go that day she had very little time to lose, she went
up-stairs, packed her valise, and the next time she saw her aunt was
ready for her journey back.

The prospect of a mile walk through the half-broken roads, up steep
hills, and down into drifted valleys, would have shown Marion the
difficulties had she been a New Englander; but as she was not, her
courage did not fail in the least when, without a word more, or any
sign of a good-by from Aunt Betty, she opened the door, letting in a
cold she was a stranger to, and went out into it.

Of that walk she never liked to speak afterwards. Many times she
stopped, almost but not quite willing to return; tired, half-frozen