the Marjorie who had lost Morris and her
father. Was she so weak that she sank under grief? In his thought she was
always strong. But it was another Marjorie who met him at the gate the
next evening; the cheeks were still thin, but they were tinted and there
was not a trace of yesterday's dullness in face or voice; it was a joyful
face, and her voice was as light-hearted as a child's. Something had
wrought a change since yesterday.

Such a quiet, unobtrusive little figure in a black and white gingham,
with a knot of black ribbon at her throat and a cluster of white roses in
her belt. Miss Prudence had done her best with the little country girl,
and she was become only a sweet and girlish-looking woman; she had not
marked out for herself a "career"; she had done nothing that no other
girl might do. But she was the lady that some other girls had not become,
he argued.

The three, Hollis, Linnet, and Marjorie, sat in the moon lighted parlor
and talked over old times. Hollis had begun it by saying that his father
had shown him "Flyaway" stowed away in the granary chamber.

He was sitting beside Linnet in a good position to study Marjorie's face
unobserved. The girl's face bore the marks of having gone through
something; there was a flutter about her lips, and her soft laugh and the
joy about the lips was almost contradicted by the mistiness that now and
then veiled the eyes. She had planned to go up to her chamber early, and
have this evening alone by herself,--alone on her knees at the open
window, with the stars above her and the rustle of the leaves and the
breath of the sea about her. It had been a long sorrow; all she wanted
was to rest, as Mary did, at the feet of the Lord; to look up into his
face, and feel his eyes upon her face; to shed sweetest tears over the
peace of forgiven sin.

She had written to Aunt Prue all about it that afternoon. She was tempted
to show the letter to her mother, but was restrained by her usual shyness
and timidity.

"Marjorie, why don't you talk?" questioned Linnet.

Marjorie was on the music stool, and had turned from them to play the air
of one of the songs they used to sing in school.

"I thought I had been talking a great deal. I am thinking of so many
things and I thought I had spoken of them all."

"I wish you would," said Hollis.

"I was thinking of Morris just then. But he was not in your school days,
nor in Linnet's. He belongs to mine."

"What else? Go on please,"