The long L at the back of the house
seemed full of doors.
"There, Mousie, here you are!" he exclaimed. "And don't you miss your
lesson to-morrow."
"To-morrow is Saturday! oh, I had forgotten. And I can go to see
Evangelist to-night."
"You haven't said 'thank you' for your last ride on Flyaway."
"I will when I'm sure that it is," she returned with her eyes laughing.
He turned her over into a snowdrift and ran off whistling; springing up
she brushed the snow off face and hands and with a very serious face
entered the kitchen. The kitchen was long and low, bright with the sunset
shining in at two windows and cheery with its carpeting of red, yellow
and green mingled confusingly in the handsome oilcloth.
Unlike Hollis, Marjorie was the outgrowth of home influences; the kitchen
oilcloth had something to do with her views of life, and her mother's
broad face and good-humored eyes had a great deal more. Good-humor in the
mother had developed sweet humor in the child.
Now I wonder if you understand Marjorie well enough to understand all she
does and all she leaves undone during the coming fifteen or twenty years?
II.
EVANGELIST.
"The value of a thought cannot be told."--_Bailey_.
Her mother's broad, gingham back and the twist of iron gray hair low in
her neck greeted her as she opened the door, then the odor of hot
biscuits intruded itself, and then there came a shout from somebody
kneeling on the oilcloth near the stove and pushing sticks of dry wood
through its blazing open door.
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