Mrs. West, with her
heart in a tremor that it had not known since Marjorie was born, tucked
away her knitting behind the school-books on the dining-room table, tied
on her blue checked apron, and went out to the kitchen to kindle the fire
for tea, singing in her mellow voice, "Thus far the Lord hath led me on,"
suddenly stopping short as she crammed the stove with shavings to
exclaim, "His name _was_ Holmes! And that's the school-master's name. And
that's why he's in such a fume when the boys cheat at marbles. Well, did
I _ever_!"
Linnet ran in to exchange her afternoon dress for a short, dark calico,
and to put on her old shoes before she went into the barnyard to milk
Bess and Brindle and Beauty. Will Rheid found her in time to persuade
her to let him milk Brindle, for he was really afraid he would get his
hand out, and it would never do to let his wife do all the milking
when his father bequeathed him a fifth of his acres and two of his
hardest-to-be-milked cows. Linnet laughed, gave him one of her pails,
and found an other milking stool for him.
Marjorie wandered around disconsolate until she discovered Miss Prudence
in the garden.
She was perplexed over a new difficulty which vented itself in the
question propounded between tasting currants.
"Ought I--do you think I ought--talk to people--about--like the
minister--about--"
"No, child!" and Miss Prudence laughed merrily. "You ought to talk to
people like Marjorie West! Like a child and not like a minister.
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