"Are you?"
"Yes, I have a little bit."
"Shall you tell him about it?" asked Marjorie curiously.
"I don't know."
"I wish I had some; how do you get it?"
"It comes."
"From where?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Then you can't tell me how to get it," pleaded Marjorie.
"No," said Linnet, shaking her sunshiny curls, "perhaps mother can."
"When did you have yours?" Marjorie persisted.
"One day when I was reading about the little girl in the Sandwich
Islands. Her father was a missionary there, and she wrote in her journal
how she felt and I felt so, too,"
"Did you put it in your journal?"
"Some of it."
"Did you show it to mother?"
"Yes."
"Was she glad?"
"Yes, she kissed me and said her prayers were answered."
Marjorie looked very grave. She wished she could be as old as Linnet and
have "experience" to write in her journal and have her mother kiss her
and say her prayers were answered.
"Do you have it all the time?" she questioned anxiously as Linnet hurried
in from the kitchen with a small platter of sliced ham in her hand.
"Not every day; I do some days."
"I want it every day."
"You call them to tea when I tell you. And you may help me bring things
in."
When Marjorie opened the parlor door to call them to tea she heard Mr.
Woodfern inquire:
"Do all your children belong to the Lord?"
"The two in heaven certainly do, and I think Linnet is a Christian," her
mother was saying.
"And Marjorie," he asked.
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