She paints and
draws and can walk six miles a day. I go everywhere with her, to lectures
and concerts and to church and Sunday school."
How Marjorie's eyes brightened! She had found her ideal; she would give
herself no rest until she had become like Helen Rheid. But Helen Rheid
had everything to push her on, every one to help her. For the first time
in her life Marjorie was disheartened. But, with a reassuring conviction,
flashed the thought--there were years before _she_ would be seventeen.
"Wouldn't you like to see her, Mousie?"
"Indeed, I would," said Marjorie, enthusiastically.
"I brought her photograph to mother--how she looked at me when 'marm'
slipped out one day. The boys always used to say 'Marm,'" he said
laughing.
Marjorie remembered that she had been taught to say "grandmarm," but as
she grew older she had softened it to "grandma."
"I'll bring you her photograph when I come to-morrow to say good-bye.
Now, tell me what you've been looking sad about."
Is it possible that she was forgetting?
"Oh, perhaps you can help me!"
"Help you! Of course I will."
"How did you know I was troubled?" she asked seriously, looking up into
his eyes.
"Have I eyes?" he answered as seriously. "Father happened to think that
mother had an errand for him to do on this road, so I jumped off and ran
after you."
"No, you ran after your mother's errand," she answered, jealously.
"Well, then, I found you, my precise little maiden, and now you must tell
me what you were crying about.
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