sed," sighed her mother.

"I don't know what I need to be advised about."

"People never do. It is more than three years ago that he told me that he
had never thought of any one but you."

"Why should he tell you that?" Marjorie's tone could be sharp as well as
her mother's.

"I was talking about you. I said you were not well--I was afraid you were
troubled--and he told me--that."

"Troubled about _what_?" Marjorie demanded.

"About his not answering your letter," in a wavering voice.

The words had to come; Mrs. West knew that Marjorie would have her
answer.

"And--after that--he asked me--to write to him. Mother, mother, you do
not know what you have done!"

Marjorie fled away in the dark up to her own little chamber, threw
herself down on the bed without undressing, and lay all night, moaning
and weeping.

She prayed beside; she could not be in trouble and not give the first
breath of it to the Lord. Hollis had asked her to write because of what
her mother had said to him. He believed--what did he believe?

"O, mother! mother!" she moaned, "you are so good and so lovely, and yet
you have hurt me so. How could you? How could you?"

While the clock in Mrs. Kemlo's room was striking six, a light flashed
across her eyes. Her mother stood at the bedside with a lighted candle in
her hand.

"I was afraid you would oversleep. Why, child! Didn't you undress?
Haven't you had anything but that quilt over you?"

"Mother, I am not going; I never want to see Hollis again," cried
Marjorie weakly.

"Nonsense child," answered her mother energetically.

"It is not nonsense. I will not go to New York."

"What will they all think?"

"I will write that I cannot come. I could not travel to-day; I have not
slept at all."

"You look so. But you are very foolish. Why should he not speak to me
first?"

"It was your speaking to him first. What must he think of me! O, mother,
mother, how could you?"

The hopeless cry went to her mother's heart.

"Marjorie, I believe the Lord allows us to be self-willed. I have not
slept either; but I have sat up by the fire. Your father used to say that
we would not make haste if we trusted, and I have learned that it is so.
All I have done is to break your heart."

"Not quite that, poor mother. But I shall never write to Hollis again."

Mrs. West turned away and set the candle on the bureau. "But I can," she
said to herself.

"Come down-stairs where it is warm, and I'll make y