" There was nothing in the
letter worth jotting down, she wondered why she had ever begun it. She
was nestling down now with her head on the soft arm of the chair, her
eyes were closed, but she was not asleep, for the moisture beneath the
tremulous eyelids had formed itself into two large drops and was slowly
rolling, unheeded, down her cheeks.
The rain was beating noisily upon the window panes, and the wind was
rising higher and higher; as it lulled for a moment there was the sound
of a footfall on the carpet somewhere and the door was pushed open from
the lighted hall.
"Don't you want to be lighted up yet, Miss Marjorie?"
"No, Deborah, thank you! I'll light the lamps myself."
"Young things like to sit in the dark, I guess," muttered old Deborah,
closing the door softly; adding to herself: "Miss Prudence used to, once
on a time, and this girl is coming to it."
After that for a little time there was no sound, save the sound of the
rain, and, now and then, the soft sigh that escaped Marjorie's lips.
How strange it was, she reasoned with herself, for her to care at all!
What if Hollis did not want to answer that last letter of hers, written
more than two months ago, just after Linnet's wedding day? That had been
a long letter; perhaps too long. But she had been so lonesome, missing
everybody. Linnet, and Morris, and Mr. Holmes, and Miss Prudence had gone
to her grandfather's for the sea bathing, and the girl had come to help
her mother, and she had walked over to his mother's and talked about
everything to her and then written that long letter to him, that long
letter that had been unanswered so long.
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