My friends have a way of sending me the names of any friendless child, or
girl, or woman, who would be cheered by a letter, and I haven't the heart
to refuse, especially as some of them pray for letters and give thanks
for them. Instead of giving my time to 'society' I give it to letter
writing. And the letters I have in return! Nothing in story books equals
the pathos and romance of some of them."
"I like that kind of good works," said Marjorie, "because I'm too bashful
to talk to people and I can _write_ anything."
How little the child knew that some day she would write anything and
everything because she was "too bashful to talk." How little any of us
know what we are being made ready to do. And how we would stop to moan
and weep in very self-pity if we did know, and thus hinder the work of
preparation from going on.
Linnet played with the fringe of her shawl and looked as if something
hard to speak were hovering over her lips.
"Did mother tell you about Will?" she asked, abruptly, interrupting one
of Miss Prudence's stories to Marjorie of which she had not heeded one
word.
"About Will!" repeated Marjorie. "What has happened to him?"
Linnet looked up with arch, demure eyes. "He told mother and me while we
were getting supper; he likes to come out in the kitchen. The first mate
died and he was made first mate on the trip home, and the captain wrote a
letter to his father about him, and his father is as proud as he can be
and says he'll give him the command of the bark that is being built in
Portland, and he mustn't go away again until that is done.
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