ns, the fields and the sky, and the thought came to him:
'Cannot the same God give me memory, also?' Then he knelt at the foot of
his bed and poured out his soul in prayer. The prayer was wonderfully
answered; on beginning to study again, he found himself master of his
hard lesson, and, after that, he acquired learning with great readiness."

It was wonderful, Marjorie thought, and beautiful, but she could not say
that; she asked instead: "Did he write about it himself?"

"Yes, he has written all about himself."

"When I was six I didn't know my small letters. Was he so bright because
he was French?"

The gentleman laughed and remarked that the French were a pretty bright
nation.

"Is that all you know about him?"

"Oh, no, indeed; there's a large book of his memoirs in my library. He
visited many of the crowned heads of Europe."

There was another question forming on Marjorie's lips, but at that
instant her mother opened the door. Now she would hear no more about
Stephen Grellet and she could not ask about the Wicket Gate or Mercy or
the children.

Rising in her pretty, respectful manner she gave her mother the spring
rocker and pushed an ottoman behind the stove and seated herself where
she might watch Evangelist's face as he talked.

How the talk drifted in this direction Marjorie did not understand; she
knew it was something about finding the will of the Lord, but a story was
coming and she listened with her listening eyes on his face.

"I had been thinking that God would certainly reveal his will if we
inquired of him, feeling sure of that, for some time, and then I had this
experience."

Marjorie's mother enjoyed "experiences" as well as Marjorie enjoyed
stories. And she liked nothing better than to relate her own; after
hearing an experience she usually began, "Now I will tell you mine."

Marjorie thought she knew every one of her mother's experiences. But it
was Evangelist who was speaking.

The little girl in the brown and blue plaid dress with red stockings and
buttoned boots, bent forward as she sat half concealed behind the stove
and drank in every word with intent, wondering, unquestioning eyes.

Her mother listened, also, with eyes as intent and believing, and years
afterward, recalled this true experience, when she was tempted to take
Marjorie's happiness into her own hands, her own unwise, haste-making
hands.

"My wife had been dead about two years," began Evangelist again, speaking
in