Marjorie had never seen this kind of
white dress before; it was a part of Miss Prudence's loveliness. The face
was oval and delicate, with little color in the lips and less in the
cheeks, smooth black hair was brushed away from the thoughtful forehead
and underneath the heavily pencilled black brows large, believing, gray
eyes looked unquestioningly out upon the world. Unlike Marjorie, Miss
Prudence's questions had been answered. She would have told Marjorie that
it was because she had asked her questions of One who knew how to answer.
She was swinging in her hammock on the back porch; this back porch looked
over towards the sea, a grass plat touched the edge of the porch and then
came the garden; it was a kitchen garden, and stretched down to the flat
rocks, and beyond the flat rocks were the sand and the sea.
Marjorie had walked two miles and a half this hot afternoon to spend two
or three hours with her friend, Miss Prudence. Miss Prudence was boarding
at Marjorie's grandfather's; this was the second summer that she had been
at this farmhouse by the sea. She was the lady of whom Marjorie had
caught a glimpse so long ago in church, and called her Mercy. Throwing
aside her hat, Marjorie dropped down on the floor of the porch, so near
the gently swaying hammock that she might touch the soft, white drapery,
and in a position to watch Miss Prudence's face.
"I don't see the use of learning somethings," Marjorie began; that is, if
she could be said to begin anything with Miss Prudence, the beginning of
all her questions had been so long ago.
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