So long ago to Marjorie; long ago
to Miss Prudence was before Marjorie was born.
There were no books or papers in the hammock. Miss Prudence had settled
herself comfortably, so comfortably that she was not conscious of
inhabiting her body when Marjorie had unlatched the gate.
"Which one of the things, for instance?"
In the interested voice there was not one trace of the delicious reverie
she had been lost in.
"Punctuation," said Marjorie, promptly; "and Mr. Holmes says we must be
thorough in it. I can't see the use of anything beside periods, and, of
course, a comma once in a while."
A gleam of fun flashed into the gray eyes. Miss Prudence was a born
pedagogue.
"I'll show you something I learned when I was a little girl; and, after
this, if you don't confess that punctuation has its work in the world, I
have nothing more to say about it."
Marjorie had been fanning herself with her broad brim, she let it fall in
her eagerness and her eyes were two convincing arguments against the
truth of her own theory, for they were two emphasized exclamation points;
sometimes when she was very eager she doubled herself up and made an
interrogation point of herself.
"Up in my room on the table you will find paper and pencil; please bring
them to me."
Marjorie flew away and Miss Prudence gave herself up to her interrupted
reverie. To-day was one of Miss Prudence's hard-working days; that is, it
was followed by the effect of a hard-working day; the days in which she
felt too weak to do anything beside pray she counted the successful days
of her life.
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