ely story about herself was only one of the happenings that
caused Marjorie to remember this day and evening: this day of small
events stood out clearly against the background of her childhood.

That evening in the church she had been moved to do the hardest, happiest
thing she had ever done in her hard and happy eleven years. At the close
of his stirring appeal to all who felt themselves sinners in God's sight,
Evangelist (he would always be Evangelist to Marjorie) requested any to
rise who had this evening newly resolved to seek Christ until they found
him. A little figure in a pew against the wall, arose quickly, after an
undecided, prayerful moment, a little figure in a gray cloak and broad,
gray velvet hat, but it was such a little figure, and the radiant face
was hidden by such a broad hat, and the little figure dropped back into
its seat so hurriedly, that, in looking over the church, neither the
pastor nor the evangelist noticed it. Her heart gave one great jump when
the pastor arose and remarked in a grieved and surprised tone: "I am
sorry that there is not one among us, young or old, ready to seek our
Saviour to-night."

The head under the gray hat drooped lower, the radiant face became for
one instant sorrowful. As they were moving down the aisle an old lady,
who had been seated next to Marjorie, whispered to her, "I'm sorry they
didn't see you, dear."

"Never mind," said the bright voice, "God saw me."

Hollis saw her, also, and his heart smote him. This timid little girl had
been braver than he. From the group of boys in the gallery he had looked
down at her and wondered. But she was a girl, and girls did not mind
doing such things as boys did; being good was a part of Marjorie's life,
she wouldn't be Marjorie without it. There was a letter in his pocket
from his uncle bidding him to come to the city without delay; he pushed
through the crowd to find Marjorie, "it would be fun to see how sorry she
would look," but her father had hurried her out and lifted her into the
sleigh, and he saw the gray hat in the moonlight close to her father's
shoulder.

As he was driving to the train the next afternoon, he jumped out and ran
up to the door to say good-bye to her.

Marjorie opened the door, arrayed in a blue checked apron with fingers
stained with peeling apples.

"Good-bye, I'm off," he shouted, resisting the impulse to catch her in
his arms and kiss her.

"Good-bye, I'm so glad, and so sorry," she excl