d a tear away now and then! Was there ever so much to tell before?
Miss Prudence had her questions to ask; and Morris' mother, who had been
coaxed to come in to the grate, steamer chair and all, had many questions
to ask about her boy.

Marjorie was searching her through and through to discover if marriage
and travel had changed her; but, no, she was the same happy, laughing
Linnet; full of bright talk and funny ways of putting things, with the
same old attitudes and the same old way of rubbing Marjorie's fingers as
she talked. Marriage had not spoiled her. But had it helped her? That
could not be decided in one hour or two.

When she was quiet there was a sweeter look about her mouth than there
had ever used to be; and there was an assurance, no, it was not so
strong as that, there was an ease of manner, that she had brought home
with her. Marjorie was more her little sister that ever.

Marjorie laughed to herself because everything began with Linnet's
husband and ended in him: the stories about Genoa seemed to consist in
what Will said and did; Will was the attraction of Naples and the summit
of Mt. Vesuvius; the run down to Sicily and the glimpse of Vesuvius were
somehow all mingled with Will's doings; the stories about the priest at
Naples were all how he and Will spent hours and hours together comparing
their two Bibles; and the tract the priest promised to translate into
Italian was "The Amiable Louisa" that Will had chosen; and, when the
priest said he would have to change the title to suit his readers, Will
had suggested "A Moral Tale." This priest was confessor to a noble family
in the suburbs; and once, when driving out to confess them, had taken
Will with him, and both had stayed to lunch. The priest had given them
his address, and Will had promised to write to him; he had brought her
what he called his "paintings," from his "studio," and she had pinned
them up in her little parlor; they were painted on paper and were not
remarkable evidences of genius. Not quite the old masters, although
painted in Italy by an Italian. His English was excellent; he was
expecting to come to America some day. A sea captain in Brooklyn had a
portrait of him in oil, and when Miss Prudence went to New York she must
call and see it; Morris and he were great friends. That naughty Will had
asked him one day if he never wished to marry, and he had colored so,
poor fellow, and said, 'It is better to live for Christ.' And Will had
sa