d in firelight, for without the rain was falling steadily, and
in the old house fires were needed early in the season. In the time of
which little Jeroma had heard, there had been a fire on the hearth in the
front parlor, but to-night, when that old time was among the legends, the
fire glowed in a large grate; in the back parlor the heat came up through
the register. Miss Prudence had a way of designating the long apartment
as two rooms, for there was an arch in the centre, and there were two
mantels and two fireplaces. Prue's father would have said to-night that
the old room was unchanged--nothing had been taken out and nothing new
brought in since that last night that he had seen the old man pacing up
and down, and the old man's daughter whirling around on the piano stool,
as full of hope and trust and enthusiasm as ever a girl could be.

But to-night there was a solitary figure before the fire, with no
memories and no traditions to disturb her dreaming, with no memories of
other people's past that is, for there was a sad memory or a foreboding
in the very droop of her shoulders and in her listless hands. The small,
plump figure was arrayed in school attire of dark brown, with linen
collar and cuffs, buttoned boots resting on the fender, and a black silk
apron with pockets; there were books and a slate upon the rug, and a
slate pencil and lead pencil in one of the apron pockets; a sheet of note
paper had slipped from her lap down to the rug, on the sheet of paper was
a half-finished letter beginning: "Dear Morris." There was nothing in the
letter worth jotting down, she wondered why she had ever begun it. She
was nestling down now with her head on the soft arm of the chair, her
eyes were closed, but she was not asleep, for the moisture beneath the
tremulous eyelids had formed itself into two large drops and was slowly
rolling, unheeded, down her cheeks.

The rain was beating noisily upon the window panes, and the wind was
rising higher and higher; as it lulled for a moment there was the sound
of a footfall on the carpet somewhere and the door was pushed open from
the lighted hall.

"Don't you want to be lighted up yet, Miss Marjorie?"

"No, Deborah, thank you! I'll light the lamps myself."

"Young things like to sit in the dark, I guess," muttered old Deborah,
closing the door softly; adding to herself: "Miss Prudence used to, once
on a time, and this girl is coming to it."

After that for a little time there was