he heard it, the pleading, hopeful, trusting strains of
"Jesus, lover of my soul."

Moving about in her own chamber, with her door open, Marjorie sang it all
before she crossed the hall and gave her light tap on Mrs. Kemlo's door.

When Marjorie saw the face--the sorrowful, delicate face, and listened to
the refined accent and pretty choice of words, she knew that Morris Kemlo
was a gentleman because his mother was a lady.

Prue wandered around the kitchen, looking at things and asking questions.
Deborah was never cross to Prue.

It was a sunny kitchen in the afternoon, the windows faced west and south
and Deborah's plants throve. Miss Prudence had taken great pleasure in
making Deborah's living room a room for body and spirit to keep strong
in. Old Deborah said there was not another room in the house like the
kitchen; "and to think that Miss Prudence should put a lounge there for
my old bones to rest on."

Prue liked the kitchen because of the plants. It was very funny to see
such tiny sweet alyssum, such dwarfs of geranium, such a little bit of
heliotrope, and only one calla among those small leaves.

"Just wait till you go to California with us, Deborah," she remarked this
afternoon. "I'll show you flowers."

"I'm too old to travel, Miss Prue."

"No, you are not. I shall take you when I go. I can wait on Morris'
mother, can't I? Marjorie said she and I were to help you if she came."

"Miss Marjorie is good help."

"So am I," said Prue, hopping into the dining-room and amusing herself by
stepping from one green pattern in the carpet to another green one, and
then from one red to another red one, and then, as her summons did not
come, from a green to a red and a red to a green, and still Aunt Prue did
not call her. Then she went back to Deborah, who was making lemon jelly,
at one of the kitchen tables, in a great yellow bowl. She told Prue that
some of it was to go to a lady in consumption, and some to a little boy
who had a hump on his back. Prue said that she would take it to the
little boy, because she had never seen a hump on a boy's back; she had
seen it on camels in a picture.

Still Aunt Prue did not come for her, and she counted thirty-five bells
on the arbutilon, and four buds on the monthly rose, and pulled off three
drooping daisies that Deborah had not attended to, and then listened, and
"Prue! Prue!" did not come.

Aunt Prue and Marjorie must be talking "secrets."

"Deborah," standing beside