There was a letter in his pocket
from his uncle bidding him to come to the city without delay; he pushed
through the crowd to find Marjorie, "it would be fun to see how sorry she
would look," but her father had hurried her out and lifted her into the
sleigh, and he saw the gray hat in the moonlight close to her father's
shoulder.
As he was driving to the train the next afternoon, he jumped out and ran
up to the door to say good-bye to her.
Marjorie opened the door, arrayed in a blue checked apron with fingers
stained with peeling apples.
"Good-bye, I'm off," he shouted, resisting the impulse to catch her in
his arms and kiss her.
"Good-bye, I'm so glad, and so sorry," she exclaimed with a shadowed
face.
"I wish I had something to give you to remember me by," he said suddenly.
"I think you _have_ given me lots of things."
"Come, Hol, don't stand there all day," expostulated his brother from the
sleigh.
"Good-bye, then," said Hollis.
"Good-bye," said Marjorie. And then he was off and the bells were
jingling down the road and she had not even cautioned him "Be a good
boy." She wished she had had something to give him to remember _her_ by;
she had never done one thing to help him remember her and when he came
back in years and years they would both be grown up and not know each
other.
"Marjie, you are taking too thick peels," remonstrated her mother. For
the next half hour she conscientiously refrained from thinking of any
thing but the apples.
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