"My twin-brother," replied Marjorie.
"He doesn't look like you. He is handsome and tall."
"And I am homely and stumpy," said Marjorie, good-humoredly. "No, he is not my real brother."
"I don't believe in that kind."
"I do," said Marjorie.
"Master McCosh will give you a mark for transgressing."
"Oh, I forgot!" exclaimed Marjorie; "but he is so much my brother that it is not against the rules."
"Is he a sailor?" asked Emma Downs.
"Yes," said Marjorie.
"A common sailor!"
"No, an uncommon one."
"Is he before the mast?" she persisted.
"Does he look so?" asked Marjorie, seriously.
"No, he looks like a captain; only that cap is not dignified enough."
"It's becoming," said Miss Parks, "and that's better than dignity."
The bell rang and the girls passed into the schoolroom in twos and threes. A table ran almost the length of the long, high apartment; it was covered with green baize and served as a desk for the second class girls; the first class girls occupied chairs around three sides of the room, during recitation the chairs were turned to face the teacher, at other times the girls sat before a leaf that served as a rest for their books while they studied, shelves being arranged above to hold the books. The walls of the room were tinted a pale gray. Mottoes in black and gold were painted in one straight line above the book shelves, around the three sides of the room. Marjorie's favorites were:
The words were very ancient, Master McCosh told Marjorie, the last having been written seven hundred years later than the others. The words "TO GLORIFY GOD" were over Marjorie's desk.
The first class numbered thirty. Clarissa Parks was the beauty of the class, Emma Downs the poet, Lizzie Harrowgate the mathematician, Maggie Peet the pet, Ella Truman wrote the finest hand, Maria Denyse was the elocutionist, Pauline Hayes the one most at home in universal history, Marjorie West did not know what she was: the remaining twenty-two were in no wise remarkable; one or two were undeniably dull, more were careless, and most came to school because it was the fashion and they must do something before they were fully grown up.
At each recitation the student who had reached the head of the class was marked "head" and took her place in the next recitation at the foot. During the first hour and a half there were four recitations—history, astronomy, chemistry, and English literature. That morning Marjorie, who did not know what she was in the class, went from the foot through the class, to the head three times; it would have been four times but she gave the preference to Pauline Hayes who had written the correct date half a second after her own was on the slate. "Miss Hayes writes more slowly than I," she told Master McCosh. "She was as sure of it as I was."
The replies in every recitation were written upon the slate; there was no cheating, every slate was before the eyes of its neighbor, every word must be exact.
"READING MAKES A FULL MAN, CONFERENCE A READY MAN, WRITING AN EXACT MAN," was one of the wall mottoes.
Marjorie had an amusing incident to relate to Miss Prudence about her first recitation in history. The question was: "What general reigned at this time?" The name of no general occurred. Marjorie was nonplussed. Pencils were rapidly in motion around her. "Confusion" read the head girl. Then to her chagrin Marjorie recalled the words in the lesson: "General confusion reigned at this time."
It was one of the master's "catches". She found that he had an abundant supply.
Another thing that morning reminded her of that mysterious "vibgyor" of the old times.
Master McCosh told them they couldclaspAlexander's generals; then Pauline Hayes gave their names—Cassander, Lysimachus, Antiognus, Seleucus and Ptolemy. Marjorie had that to tell Miss Prudence. Miss Prudence lived through her own school days that winter with Marjorie; the girl's enthusiasm reminded her of her own. Master McCosh, who never avoided personalities, observed as he marked the last recitation:
"Miss West studies, young ladies; she has no more brains than one or two of the rest of you, but she has something that more than half of you woefully lack—application and conscience."
"Perhaps she expects to teach," returned Miss Parks, in her most courteous tone, as she turned the diamond upon her engagement finger.
"I hope she may teach—this class," retorted the master with equal courtesy.
Miss Parks smiled at Marjorie with her lovely eyes and acknowledged the point of the master's remark with a slight inclination of her pretty head.
At the noon intermission a knot of the girls gathered around Marjorie's chair; Emma Downs took the volume of "Bridgewater Treatises" out of her hand and marched across the room to the book case with it, the others clapped their hands and shouted.
"Now we'll make her talk," said Ella Truman. "She is a queen in the midst of her court."
"She isn't tall enough," declared Maria Denyse.
"Or stately enough," added Pauline Hayes.
"Or self-possessed enough," supplemented Lizzie Harrowgate.
"Or imperious enough," said Clarissa Parks.
"She would always be abdicating in favor of some one who had an equal right to it," laughed Pauline Hayes.
"Oh, Miss West, who was that lovely little creature with you in Sunday school Sunday?" asked Miss Denyse. "She carries herself like a little princess."
"She is just the one not to do it," replied Miss Parks.
"What do you mean?" inquired Miss Harrowgate before Marjorie could speak.
"I mean," she began, laying a bunch of white grapes in Marjorie's fingers, "that her name isHolmes."
"Doesn't that belong to the royal line?" asked Pauline, lightly.
"It belongs to the line ofthieves."
Marjorie's fingers dropped the grapes.
"Her father spent years in state-prison when he should have spent a lifetime there at hard labor! Ask my father. Jerome Holmes! He is famous in this city! How dared he send his little girl here to hear all about it!"
"Perhaps he thought he sent her among Christians and among ladies," returned Miss Harrowgate. "I should think you would be ashamed to bring that old story up, Clarissa."
Marjorie was paralyzed; she could not move or utter a sound.
"Father has all the papers with the account in; father lost enough, he ought to know about it."
"That child can't help it," said Emma Downs. "She has a face as sweet and innocent as an apple blossom."
"I hope she will never come here to school to revive the old scandal," said Miss Denyse. "Mother told me all about it as soon as she knew who the child was."
"Somebody else had the hardest of it," said Miss Parks; "that'sa story for us girls. Mother says she was one of the brightest and sweetest girls in all the city; she used to drive around with her father, and her wedding day was set, the cards were out, and then it came out that he had to go to state-prison instead. She gave up her diamonds and everything of value he had given her. She was to have lived in the house we live in now; but he went to prison and she went somewhere and has never been back for any length of time until this year, and now she has his little girl with her."
Miss Prudence! Was that Miss Prudence's story? Was she bearing it like this? Was that why she loved poor little Prue so?
"Bring some water, quick!" Marjorie heard some one say.
"No, take her to the door," suggested another voice.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" This was Miss Parks.
Marjorie arose to her feet, pushed some one away from her, and fled from them all—down the schoolroom, though the cloak-room out to the fresh air.
She needed the stiff worth-wester to bring her back to herself. Miss Prudence had lived throughthat!And Prue must grow up to know! Did Miss Prudence mean that she must decide about that before Prue could come to school? She remembered now that a look, as if she were in pain, had shot itself across her eyes. Oh, that she would take poor little Prue back to California where nobody knew. If some one should tellhera story like that about her own dear honest father it would kill her! She never could bear such shame and such disappointment in him. But Prue need never know if Miss Prudence took her away to-day, to-morrow. But Miss Prudence had had it to bear so long. Was that sorrow—and the blessing with it—the secret of her lovely life? And Mr. Holmes, the master! Marjorie was overwhelmed with this new remembrance of him. He was another one to bear it. Now she understood his solitary life. Now she knew why he shrank from anything like making himself known. The depth of the meaning of some of his favorite sayings flashed over her. She even remembered one of her own childish questions, and his brief, stern affirmative: "Mr. Holmes, were you ever in a prison?" How much they had borne together, these two! And now they had Prue to love and to live for. She would never allow even a shadow of jealousy of poor little Prue again. Poor little Prue, with such a heritage of shame. How vehemently and innocently she had declared that she would not be called Jeroma.
The wind blew sharply against her; she stepped back and closed the door; she was shivering while her cheeks were blazing. She would go home, she could not stay through the hour of the afternoon and be looked at and commented upon. Was not Miss Prudence's shame and sorrow her own? As she was reaching for her cloak she remembered that she must ask to be excused, taking it down and throwing it over her arm she re-entered the schoolroom.
Master McCosh was writing at the table, a group of girls were clustered around one of the registers.
"It was mean! It was real mean!" a voice was exclaiming.
"I don't see how youcouldtell her, Clarissa Parks! You know she adores Miss Pomeroy."
"You all seemed to listen well enough," retorted Miss Parks.
"We were spell-bound. We couldn't help it," excused Emma Downs.
"I knew it before," said Maria Denyse.
"I didn't know Miss Pomeroy was the lady," said Lizzie Harrowgate. "She is mother's best friend, so I suppose she wouldn't tell me. They both came here to school."
Master McCosh raised his head.
"What new gossip now, girls?" he inquired sternly.
"Oh, nothing," answered Miss Parks.
"You are making quite a hubbub about nothing. The next time that subject is mentioned the young lady who does it takes her books and goes home. Miss Holmes expects to come here among you, and the girl who does not treat her with consideration may better stay at home. Jerome Holmes was the friend of my boyhood and manhood; he sinned and he suffered for it; his story does not belong to your generation. It is not through any merit of yours that your fathers are honorable men. It becomes us all to be humble?"
A hush fell upon the group. Clarissa Parks colored with anger; why shouldshebe rebuked, she was not a thief nor the daughter of a thief.
Marjorie went to the master and standing before him with her cheeks blazing and eyes downcast she asked:
"May I go home? I cannot recite this afternoon."
"If you prefer, yes," he replied in his usual tone; "but I hardly think you care to see Miss Pomeroy just now."
"Oh, no, I didn't think of that; I only thought of getting away from here."
"Getting away is not always the best plan," he replied, his pen still moving rapidly.
"Is it true? Is italltrue?"
"It is all true. Jerome Holmes was president of a bank in this city. I want you in moral science this afternoon."
"Thank you," said Marjorie, after a moment. "I will stay."
She returned to the dressing-room, taking a volume of Dick from the book-case as she passed it; and sitting in a warm corner, half concealed by somebody's shawl and somebody's cloak, she read, or thought she read, until the bell for the short afternoon session sounded.
Moral science was especially interesting to her, but the subject this afternoon kept her trouble fresh in her mind; it was Property, the use of the institution of Property, the history of Property, and on what the right of Property is founded.
A whisper from Miss Parks reached her:
"Isn't it a poky subject? All I care to know is what is mine and what isn't, and to know what right people have to take what isn't theirs."
The hour was ended at last, and she was free. How could she ever enter that schoolroom again? She hurried along the streets, grown older since the morning. Home would be her sanctuary; but there was Miss Prudence! Her face would tell the tale and Miss Prudence's eyes would ask for it. Would it be better for Prue, for Aunt Prue, to know or not to know? Miss Prudence had written to her once that some time she would tell her a story about herself; but could she mean this story?
As she opened the gate she saw her blue bird with the golden crest perched on the arm of a chair at the window watching for her.
She was at the door before Marjorie reached it, ready to spring into her arms and to exclaim how glad she was that she had come.
"You begin to look too soon, Kitten."
"I didn't begin till one o'clock," she said convincingly.
"But I don't leave school till five minutes past two, childie."
"But I have something to tell you to-day. Somethingde-licious. Aunt Prue has gone away with Morris. It isn't that, because I didn't want her to go."
Marjorie followed her into the front parlor and began to unfasten her veil.
"Morris' mother is coming home with her to-morrow to stay all winter, but that isn't it. Do guess, Marjorie."
She was dancing all around her, clapping her hands.
"Linnet hasn't come! That isn't it!" cried Marjorie, throwing off her cloak.
"No; it's all about me. It is going to happen tome."
"I can't think. You have nice things every day."
"It's this. It's nicer than anything. I am going to school with you to-morrow! Not for all the time, but to make a visit and see how I like it."
The child stood still, waiting for an outburst of joy at her announcement; but Marjorie only caught her and shook her and tumbled her curls without saying one word.
"Aren't youglad, Marjorie?"
"I'm glad I'm home with you, and I'm glad you are to give me my dinner."
"It's a very nice dinner," answered Prue, gravely; "roast beef and potatoes and tomatoes and pickled peaches and apple pie, unless you want lemon pie instead. I took lemon pie. Which will you have?"
"Lemon," said Marjorie.
"But you don't look glad about anything. Didn't you know your lessons to-day?"
"Oh, yes."
"I'll put your things on the hat-rack and you can get warm while I tell Deborah to put your dinner on the table. I think you are cold and that is why you can't be glad. I don't like to be cold."
"I'm not cold now," laughed Marjorie.
"Now you feel better! And I'm to sit up until you go to bed, and you are to sleep with me; andwon'tit be splendid for me to go to school and take my lunch, too? And I can have jelly on my bread and an orange just as you do."
Marjorie was awake long before Deborah entered the chamber to kindle the fire, trying to form some excuse to keep Prue from going to school with her. How could she take her to-day of all days; for the girls to look at her, and whisper to each other, and ask her questions, and to study critically her dress, and to touch her hair, and pity her and kiss her! And she would be sure to open the round gold locket she wore upon a tiny gold chain about her neck and tell them it was "my papa who died in California."
She was very proud of showing "my papa."
What excuse could she make to the child? It was not storming, and she did not have a cold, and her heart did seem so set on it. The last thing after she came upstairs last night she had opened the inside blinds to look out to see if it were snowing. And she had charged Deborah to have the fire kindled early so that she would not be late at breakfast.
She must go herself. She could concoct no reason for remaining at home herself; her throat had been a trifle sore last night, but not even the memory of it could bring it back this morning.
Deborah had a cough, if she should be taken ill—but there was the fire crackling in the airtight in confirmation of Deborah's ability to be about the house; or if Prue—but the child was never ill. Her cheeks were burning last night, but that was with the excitement of the anticipation. If somebody should come! But who? She had not stayed at home for Morris, and Linnet would not come early enough to keep them at home, that is if she ought to remain at home for Linnet.
What could happen? She could not make anything happen? She could not tell the child the naked truth, the horrible truth. And she could not tell her a lie. And she could not break her heart by saying that she did not want her to go. Oh, if Miss Prudence were only at home to decide! But would she tellherthe reason? If she did not take Prue she must tell Miss Prudence the whole story. She would rather go home and never go to school any more than to do that. Oh, why must things happen all together? Prue would soon be awake and asking if it were storming. She had let her take it for granted last night; she could not think of anything to say. Once she had said in aggrieved voice:
"I think you might be glad, Marjorie."
But was it not all selfishness, after all? She was arranging to give Prue a disappointment merely to spare herself. The child would not understand anything. But then, would Aunt Prue want her to go? She must do what Miss Prudence would like; that would decide it all.
Oh, dear! Marjorie was a big girl, too big for any nonsense, but there were unmistakable tears on her cheeks, and she turned away from sleeping Prue and covered her face with both hands. And then, beside this, Morris was gone and she had not been kind to him. "Good-bye, Marjorie—dear" the words smote her while they gave her a feeling of something to be very happy about. There did seem to be a good many things to cry about this morning.
"Marjorie, are you awake?" whispered a soft voice, while little fingers were in her hair and tickling her ear.
Marjorie did not want to be awake.
"Marjorie," with an appeal in the voice.
Then the tears had to be brushed away, and she turned and put both arms around the white soft bundle and rubbed her cheek against her hair.
"Oh,doyou think it's storming?"
"No."
"You will have to curl my hair."
"Yes."
"And mustn't we get up? Shan't we be late?"
"Listen a minute; I want to tell you something."
"Is it somethingdreadful?Your voice sounds so."
"No not dreadful one bit. But it is a disappointment for a little girl I know."
"Oh, is itme?" clinging to her.
"Yes, it is you."
"Is it about going to school?" she asked with a quick little sob.
"Yes."
"Can'tI go, Marjorie?"
"Not to-day, darling."
"Oh, dear!" she moaned. "I did want to so."
"I know it, and I'm so sorry. I am more sorry than you are. I was so sorry that I could not talk about it last night."
"Can't I know the reason?" she asked patiently.
"The reason is this: Aunt Prue would not let you go. She would not let you go if she knew about something that happened in school yesterday."
"Was it something so bad?"
"It was something very uncomfortable; something that made me very unhappy, and if you were old enough to understand you would not want to go. You wouldn't go for anything."
"Then what makes you go?" asked Prue quickly.
"Because I have to."
"Will it hurt you to-day?"
"Yes."
"Then I wouldn't go. Tell Aunt Prue; she won't make you go."
"I don't want to tell her; it would make her cry."
"Then don't tell her. I'll stay home then—if I have to. But I want to go. I can stand it if you can."
Marjorie laughed at her resignation and resolution and rolling her over pushed her gently out down to the carpet. Perhaps it would be better to stay home if there were something so dreadful at school, and Deborah might let her make molasses candy.
"Won't you please stay home with me and make molasses candy, or peppermint drops?"
"We'll do it after school! won't that do? And you can stay with Deborah in the kitchen, and she'll tell you stories."
"Her stories are sad," said Prue, mournfully.
"Ask her to tell you a funny one, then."
"I don't believe she knows any. She told me yesterday about her little boy who didn't want to go to school one day and she was washing and said he might stay home because he coaxed so hard. And she went to find him on the wharf and nobody could tell her where he was. And she went down close to the water and looked in and he was there with his face up and a stick in his hand and he was dead in the water and she saw him."
"Is that true?" asked Marjorie, in surprise.
"Yes, true every word. And then her husband died and she came to live with Aunt Prue's father and mother ever so long ago. And she cried and it was sad."
"But I know she knows some funny stories. She will tell you about AuntPrue when she was little."
"She has told me. And about my papa. He used to like to have muffins for tea."
"Oh, I know! Now I know! I'll take you to Lizzie Harrowgate's to stay until I come from school. You will like that. There is a baby there and a little girl four years old. Do you want to go?"
"If I can't go to school, I do," in a resigned voice.
"And you must not speak of school; remember, Prue, do not say that you wanted to go, or that I wouldn't take you; do not speak of school at all."
"No, I will not," promised Prue; "and when that thing doesn't happen any more you will take me?"
"Children have neither past nor future; and, what scarcely ever happens to us, they enjoy the present."—Bruyére.
Prue was watching at the window with Minnie Harrowgate, and was joyfully ready to go home to see Aunt Prue when Marjorie and Lizzie Harrowgate appeared.
Standing a few moments near the parlor register, while Prue ran to put on her wraps, Marjorie's eye would wander to the Holland plate on the bracket. She walked home under a depression that was not all caused by the dread of meeting Miss Prudence. They found Miss Prudence on the stairs, coming down with a tray of dishes.
"O, Aunt Prue! Aunt Prue!" was Prue's exclamation. "I didn't go to school, I went to Mrs. Harrowgate's instead. Marjorie said I must, because something dreadful happened in school and I never could go until it never happened again. But I've had a splendid time, and I want to go again."
Miss Prudence bent over to kiss her, and gave her the tray to take into the kitchen.
"You may stay with Deborah, dear, till I call you."
Marjorie dropped her shawl-strap of books on the carpet of the hall and stood at the hat-stand hanging up her cloak and hat. Miss Prudence had kissed her, but they had not looked into each other's eyes.
Was it possible that Miss Prudence suspected? Marjorie asked herself as she took off her rubbers. She suffered her to pass into the front parlor, and waited alone in the hall until she could gather courage to follow her. But the courage did not come, she trembled and choked, and the slow tears rolled over her cheeks.
"Marjorie!"
Miss Prudence was at her side.
"O, Miss Prudence! O, dear Aunt Prue, I don't want to tell you," she burst out; "they said things about her father and about you, and I can't tell you."
Miss Prudence's arm was about her, and she was gently drawn into the parlor; not to sit down, for Miss Prudence began slowly to walk up and down the long length of the room, keeping Marjorie at her side. They paused an instant before the mirror, between the windows in the front parlor, and both glanced in: a slight figure in gray, for she had put off her mourning at last, with a pale, calm face, and a plump little creature in brown, with a flushed face and full eyes—the girl growing up, and the girl grown up.
For fully fifteen minutes they paced slowly and in silence up and down the soft carpet. Miss Prudence knew when they stood upon the very spot where Prue's father—not Prue's father then—had bidden her that lifetime long farewell. God had blessed her and forgiven him. Was it such a very sad story then?
Miss Prudence dropped into a chair as if her strength were spent, andMarjorie knelt beside her and laid her head on the arm of her chair.
"It is true, Marjorie."
"I know it. Master McCosh heard it and he said it was true."
"It will make a difference, a great difference. I shall take Prue away. I must write to John to-night."
"I'm so glad you have him, Aunt Prue. I'm so glad you and Prue have him."
Miss Prudence knew now, herself: never before had she known how glad she was to have him; how glad she had been to have him all her life. She would tell him that, to-night, also. She was not the woman to withhold a joy that belonged to another.
Marjorie did not raise her head, and therefore did not catch the first flash of the new life that John Holmes would see when he looked into them.
"He is so good, Aunt Prue," Marjorie went on. "Heis a Christian when he speaks to a dog."
"Don't you want to go upstairs and see Morris' mother? She was excited a little, and I promised her that she should not come down-stairs to-night."
"But I don't know her," said Marjorie rising.
"I think you do. And she knows you. She has come here to learn how goodGod is, and I want you to help me show it to her."
"I don't know how."
"Be your sweet, bright self, and sing all over the house all the comforting hymns you know."
"Will she like that?"
"She likes nothing so well. I sung her to sleep last night."
"I wish mother could talk to her."
"Marjorie! you have said it. Your mother is the one. I will send her to your mother in the spring. Morris and I will pay her board, and she shall keep close to your happy mother as long as they are both willing."
"Will Morris let you help pay her board?"
"Morris cannot help himself. He never resists me. Now go upstairs and kiss her, and tell her you are her boy's twin-sister."
Before the light tap on her door Mrs. Kemlo heard, and her heart was stirred as she 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 her and looking seriously up into the kindly, wrinkled face, "I wish you knew some secrets."
"La! child, I know too many."
"Will you tell me one. Just one. I never heard a secret in my life.Marjorie knows one, and she's telling Aunt Prue now."
"Secrets are not for little girls."
"I would never, never tell," promised Prue, coaxingly.
"Not even me!" cried Marjorie behind her. "Now come upstairs with me and see Morris' mother. Aunt Prue is not ready for you yet awhile."
Mrs. Kemlo's chamber was the guest chamber; many among the poor and suffering whom Miss Prudence had delighted to honor had "warmed both hands before the fire of life" in that luxurious chamber.
Everything in the room had been among her father's wedding presents to herself—the rosewood furniture, the lace curtains, the rare engravings, the carpet that was at once perfect to the tread and to the eye, the ornaments everywhere: everything excepting the narrow gilt frame over the dressing bureau, enclosing on a gray ground, painted in black, crimson, and gold the words: "I HAVE SEEN THY TEARS." Miss Prudence had placed it there especially for Mrs. Kemlo.
Deborah had never been alone in the house in the years when her mistress was making a home for herself elsewhere.
Over the mantel hung an exquisite engraving of the thorn-crowned head of Christ. The eyes that had wept so many hopeless tears were fixed upon it as Marjorie and Prue entered the chamber.
"This is Miss Prudence's little girl Prue," was Marjorie's introduction.
Prue kissed her and stood at her side waiting for her to speak.
"That is the Lord," Prue said, at last, breaking the silence afterMarjorie had left them; "our dear Lord."
Mrs. Kemlo kept her eyes upon it, but made no response.
"What makes him look so sorry, Morris' mother?"
"Because he is grieving for our sins."
"I thought the thorns hurt his head."
"Not so much as our sins pierced his heart."
"I'm sorry if I have hurt him. What made our sins hurt him so?"
"His great love to us."
"Nobody's sins ever hurt me so."
"You do not love anybody well enough."
The spirit of peace was brooding, at last, over the worn face. Morris had left her with his heart at rest, for the pain on lip and brow began to pass away in the first hour of Miss Prudence's presence.
Prue was summoned after what to her seemed endless waiting, and, nestling in Aunt Prue's lap, with her head on her shoulder and her hand in hers, she sat still in a content that would not stir itself by one word.
"Little Prue, I want to tell you a story."
"Oh, good!" cried Prue, nestling closer to express her appreciation.
"What kind of stories do you like best?"
"Not sad ones. Don't let anybody die."
"This story is about a boy. He was like other boys, he was bright and quick and eager to get on in the world. He loved his mother and his brother and sister, and he worked for them on the farm at home. And then he came to the city and did so well that all his friends were proud of him; everybody liked him and admired him. He was large and fine looking and a gentleman. People thought he was rich, for he soon had a handsome house and drove fine horses. He had a lovely wife, but she died and left him all alone. He always went to church and gave money to the church; but he never said that he was a Christian. I think he trusted in himself, people trusted him so much that he began to trust himself. They let him have their money to take care of; they were sure he would take good care of it and give it safe back, and he was sure, too. And he did take good care of it, and they were satisfied. He was generous and kind and loving. But he was so sure that he was strong that he did not ask God to keep him strong, and God let him become weaker and weaker, until temptation became too great for him and he took this money and spent it for himself; this money that belonged to other people. And some belonged to widows who had no husbands to take care of them, and to children who had no fathers, and to people who had worked hard to save money for their children and to take care of themselves in their old age; but he took it and spent it trying to make more money for himself, and instead of making more money always he lost their money that he took away from them. He meant to give their money back, he did not mean to steal from any one, but he took what was not his own and lost it and the people had to suffer, for he had no money to pay them with."
"That is sad," said Prue.
"Yes, it was very sad, for he had done a dreadful thing and sinned against God. Do you think he ought to be punished?"
"Yes, if he took poor people's money and little children's money and could not give it back."
"So people thought, and he was punished: he was sent to prison."
"Toprison! Oh, that was dreadful."
"And he had to stay there for years and work hard, with other wicked men."
"Wasn't he sorry?"
"He was very sorry. It almost killed him. He would gladly have worked to give the money back but he could not earn so much. He saw how foolish and wicked he had been to think himself so strong and trustworthy and good when he was so weak. And when he saw how wicked he was he fell down before God and asked God to forgive him. His life was spoiled, he could not be happy in this world; but, as God forgave him, he could begin again and be honest and trustworthy, and be happy in Heaven because he was a great sinner and Christ had died for him."
"Did his sinshurtChrist?" Prue asked.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry he hurt Christ," said Prue sorrowfully.
"He was sorry, too."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, he died, and we hope he is in Heaven tonight, praising God for saving sinners."
"I don't think that is such a sad story. It would be sad if God never did forgive him. It was bad to be in prison, but he got out and wasn't wicked any more. Did you ever see him, Aunt Prue?"
"Yes, dear, many times."
"Did you love him?"
"I loved him better than I loved anybody, and Uncle John loved him."
"Was he ever in this room?"
"Yes. He has been many times in this chair in which you and I are sitting; he used to love to hear me play on that piano; and we used to walk in the garden together, and he called me 'Prue' and not Aunt Prue, as you do."
"Aunt Prue!" the child's voice was frightened. "I know who your story is about."
"Your dear papa!"
"Yes, my dear papa!"
"And aren't you glad he is safe through it all, and God his forgiven him?"
"Yes, I'm glad; but I'm sorry he was in that prison."
"He was happy with you, afterward, you know. He had your mamma and she loved him, and then he had you and you loved him."
"But I'm sorry."
"So am I, darling, and so is Uncle John; we are all sorry, but we are glad now because it is all over and he cannot sin any more or suffer any more. I wanted to tell you while you were little, so that somebody would not tell you when you grow up. When you think about him, thank God that he forgave him,—that is the happy part of it."
"Why didn't papa tell me?"
"He knew I would tell you some day, if you had to know. I would rather tell you than have any one else in the world tell you."
"I won't tell anybody, ever. I don't want people to know my papa was in a prison. I asked him once what a prison was like and he would not tell me much."
She kept her head on Miss Prudence's shoulder and rubbed her fingers overMiss Prudence's hand.
There were no tears in her eyes, Miss Prudence's quiet, hopeful voice had kept the tears from coming. Some day she would understand it, but to-night it was a story that was not very sad, because he had got out of the prison and God had forgiven him. It would never come as a shock to her; Miss Prudence had saved her that.
"Oh, for a mind more clear to see,A hand to work more earnestly,For every good intent."—Phebe Cary.
"Aunt Prue," began Marjorie, "I can't help thinking about beauty."
"I don't see why you should, child, when there are so many beautiful things for you to think about."
It was the morning after Prue had heard the story of her father; it was Saturday morning and she was in the kitchen "helping Deborah bake." Mrs. Kemlo was resting in a steamer chair near the register in the back parlor, resting and listening; the listening was in itself a rest. It was a rest not to speak unless she pleased; it was a rest to listen to the low tones of cultured voices, to catch bits of bright talk about things that brought her out of herself; it was a rest, above all, to dwell in a home where God was in the midst; it was a rest to be free from the care of herself. Was Miss Prudence taking care of her? Was not God taking care of her through the love of Miss Prudence?
Marjorie was busy about her weekly mending, sitting at one of the front windows. It was pleasant to sit there and see the sleighs pass and hear the bells jingle; it was pleasant to look over towards the church and the parsonage; and pleasantest of all to bring her eyes into Miss Prudence's face and work basket and the work in her lap for Prue.
"But I mean—faces," acknowledged Marjorie. "I mean faces—too. I don't see why, of all the beautiful things God has made, faces should be ignored. The human face, with the love of God in it, is more glorious than any painting, more glorious than any view of mountain, lake, or river."
"I don't believe I know what beauty is."
"You know what you think it is."
"Yes; Prue is beautiful to me, and you are, and Linnet, and mother,—you see how confused I am. The girls think so much of it. One of them hurts her feet with three and a half shoes when she ought to wear larger. And another laces so tight! And another thinks so much of being slight and slender that she will not dress warmly enough in the street; she always looks cold and she has a cough, too. And another said she would rather have tubercles on her lungs than sores on her face! We had a talk about personal beauty yesterday and one girl said she would rather have it than anything else in the world. Butdoyou think so much depends upon beauty?"
"How much?"
"Why, ever so much? Friends, and being loved, and marriage."
"Did you ever see a homely girl with plenty of friends? And are wives always beautiful?"
"Why, no."
"One of the greatest favorites I know is a middle-aged lady,—a maiden lady,—not only with a plain face, but with a defect in the upper lip. She is loved; her company is sought. She is not rich; she has only an ordinary position—she is a saleswoman down town. She is not educated. Some of your school girl friends are very fond of her. She is attractive, and you look at her and wonder why; but you hear her speak, and you wonder no longer. She always has something bright to say. I do not know of another attraction that she has, beside her willingness to help everybody."
"And she's neither young nor pretty."
"No; she is what you girls call an old maid."
Marjorie was mending the elbow of her brown school dress; she wore that dress in all weathers every day, and on rainy Sundays. Some of the girls said that she did not care enough about dress. She forgot that she wore the same dress every day until one of the dressy little things in the primary class reminded her of the fact. And then she laughed.
"In the Bible stories Sarah and Rebekah and Esther and Abigail are spoken of as being beautiful."
"Does their fortune depend upon their beautiful faces?"
"Didn't Esther's?"
"She was chosen by the king on account of her beauty, but I think it was God who brought her into favor and tender love, as he did Daniel; and rather more depended upon her praying and fasting than upon her beautiful face."
"Then you mean that beauty goes for a great deal with the world and not with God?"
"One of Jesse's sons was so tall and handsome that Samuel thought surely the Lord had chosen him to be king over his people. Do you remember what the Lord said about that?"
"Not quite."
"He said: 'Look not on his countenance or the height of his stature, because I have refused him; for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart!'"
"Then it does make a difference to man."
"It seems as if it made a difference to Samuel; and the Lord declares that man is influenced by the outward appearance. Well, now, taking it for granted from the Lord's own words, what then?"
"Then it is rather hard not to be beautiful, isn't it?"
"Genius makes a difference; is it rather hard not to be a genius? Money makes a difference; is it rather hard not to be rich? Position makes a difference; is it rather hard not to be noble?"
"I never thought about those things. They give you advantage in the world; but beauty makes people love you."
"What kind of beauty?"
"Lovable beauty," confessed Marjorie, smiling, feeling that she was being cornered.
"What makes lovable beauty?"
"A lovable heart, I suppose."
"Then I shouldn't wonder if you might have it as well as another. IsClarissa Parks more loved than any one in your class?"
"Oh, no. She is not a favorite at all."
"Then, child, I don't see that you are proving your assertion."
"I know I'm not," laughed Marjorie. "Clarissa Parks is engaged; but so is Fanny Hunting, and Fanny is the plainest little body. But I did begin by really believing that beautiful faces had the best of it in the world, and I was feeling rather aggrieved because somebody described me yesterday as 'that girl in the first class who is always getting up head; she is short and rather stout and wears her hair in a knot at the back of her head?' Now wasn't that humiliating? Not a word about my eyes or complexion or manner!"
Miss Prudence laughed at her comically aggrieved tone.
"It is hard to be nothing distinctive but short and stout and to wear your hair in a knot, as your grandmother does! But the getting up head is something."
"It doesn't add to my beauty. Miss Prudence, I'm afraid I'll be a homely blue stocking. And if I don't teach, how shall I use my knowledge? I cannot write a book, or even articles for the papers; and I must do something with the things I learn."
"Every educated lady does not teach or write."
"You do not," answered Marjorie, thoughtfully; "only you teach Prue. And I think it increases your influence, Miss Prudence. How much you have taught Linnet and me!"
"I'm thinking about two faces I saw the other night at Mrs. Harrowgate's tea table. Both were strangers to me. As the light fell over the face of one I thought I never saw anything so exquisite as to coloring: the hair was shining like threads of gold; the eyes were the azure you see in the sky; lips and cheeks were tinted; the complexion I never saw excelled for dazzling fairness,—we see it in a child's face, sometimes. At her side sat a lady: older, with a quiet, grave face; complexion dark and not noticeable; hair the brown we see every day; eyes brown and expressive, but not finer than we often see. Something about it attracted me from her bewitching neighbor, and I looked and compared. One face was quiet, listening; the other was sparkling as she talked. The grave dark face grew upon me; it was not a face, it was a soul, a human life with a history. The lovely face was lovely still, but I do not care to see it again; the other I shall not soon forget."
"But it was beauty you saw," persisted Marjorie.
"Not the kind you girls were talking about. A stranger passing through the room would not have noticed her beside the other. The lovely face has a history, I was told after supper, and she is a girl of character."
"Still—I wish—story books would not dwell so much on attitudes; and how the head sets on the shoulders; and the pretty hands and slender figures. It makes girls think of their hands and their figures. It makes this girl I know not wrap up carefully for fear of losing her 'slender' figure. And the eyelashes and the complexion! It makes us dissatisfied with ourselves."
"The Lord knew what kind of books would be written when he said that man looketh on the out ward appearance—"
"But don't Christian writers ever do it?"
"Christian writers fall into worldly ways. There are lovely girls and lovely women in the world; we meet them every day. But if we think of beauty, and write of it, and exalt it unduly, we are making a use of it that God does not approve; a use that he does not make of it himself. How beauty and money are scattered everywhere. God's saints are not the richest and most beautiful. He does not lavish beauty and money upon those he loves the best. I called last week on an Irish washerwoman and I was struck with the beauty of her girls—four of them, the eldest seventeen, the youngest six. The eldest had black eyes and black curls; the second soft brown eyes and soft brown curls to match; the third curls of gold, as pretty as Prue's, and black eyes; the youngest blue eyes and yellow curls. I never saw such a variety of beauty in one family. The mother was at the washtub, the oldest daughter was ironing, the second getting supper of potatoes and indian meal bread, the third beauty was brushing the youngest beauty's hair. As I stood and looked at them I thought, how many girls in this city would be vain if they owned their eyes and hair, and how God had thrown the beauty down among them who had no thought about it. He gives beauty to those who hate him and use it to dishonor him, just as he gives money to those who spend it in sinning. I almost think, that he holds cheaply those two things the world prizes so highly; money and beauty."
After a moment Marjorie said: "I do not mean to live for the world."
"And you do not sigh for beauty?" smiled Miss Prudence.
"No, not really. But I do want to be something beside short and stout, with my hair in a knot."
The fun in her eyes did not conceal the vexation.
"Miss Prudence, it's hard to care only for the things God cares about," she said, earnestly.
"Yes, very hard."
"I thinkyoucare only for such things. You are not worldly one single bit."
"I do not want to be—one single bit."
"I know you do give up things. But you have so much; you have the best things. I don't want things you have given up. I think God cares for the things you care for."
"I hope he does," said Miss Prudence, gently. "Marjorie, if he has given you a plain face give it back to him to glorify himself with; if a beautiful face, give that back to him to glorify himself with. You are not your own; your face is not yours; it is bought with a price."
Marjorie's face was radiant just then. The love, the surprise, the joy, made it beautiful.
Miss Prudence could not forbear, she drew the beautiful face down to kiss it.
"People will always call you plain, dear, but keep your soul in your face, and no matter."
"Can I help Deborah now? Or isn't there something for me to do upstairs?I can study and practice this afternoon."
"I don't believe you will. Look out in the path."
Marjorie looked, then with a shout that was almost like Linnet's she dropped her work, and sprang towards the door.
For there stood Linnet herself, in the travelling dress Marjorie had seen her last in; not older or graver, but with her eyes shining like stars, ready to jump into Marjorie's arms.
How Miss Prudence enjoyed the girls' chatter. Marjorie wheeled a chair to the grate for Linnet, and then, having taken her wraps, kneeled down on the rug beside her and leaned both elbows on the arm of her chair.
How fast she asked questions, and how Linnet talked and laughed and brushed 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 said he hoped he lived for Christ, too. The priest had a smooth face and a little round spot shaven on top of his head. She used to wish Marjorie might see that little round spot.
And the pilot, they had such a funny pilot! When anything was passed him at the table, or you did him a favor, he said "thank you" in Italian and in English.
And how they used to walk the little deck! And the sunsets! She had to confess that she did not see one sunrise till they were off Sandy Hook coming home. But the moonlight on the water was most wonderful of all! That golden ladder rising and falling in the sea! They used to look at it and talk about home and plan what she would do in that little house.
She used to be sorry for Morris; but he did not seem lonesome: he was always buried in a book at leisure times; and he said he would be sailing over the seas with his wife some day.
"Morris is sogood" she added. "Sometimes he has reminded me of the angels who came down to earth as young men."
"I think he was a Christian before he was seven years old," said his mother.
At night Marjorie said, when she conducted Linnet up to her chamber, that they would go back to the blessed old times, and build castles, and forget that Linnet was married and had crossed the ocean.
"I'm living in my castle now," returned Linnet. "I don't want to build any more. And this is lovelier than any we ever built."
Marjorie looked at her, but she did not speak her thought; she almost wished that she might "grow up," and be happy in Linnet's way.
With a serious face Linnet lay awake after Marjorie had fallen asleep, thinking over and over Miss Prudence's words when she bade her goodnight:—
"It is an experience to be married, Linnet; for God holds your two lives as one, and each must share his will for the other; if joyful, it is twice as joyful; if hard, twice as hard."
"Yes," she had replied, "Will says we areheirs togetherof the grace of life."