"
"She misses Linnet and Morris, and perhaps she grieves about going away.
You remind me of some one in the Bible--a judge. He had thirty sons and
thirty daughters and he got them all married! It's well for your peace of
mind that you have but two."
"It's no laughing matter," she rejoined.
"No, it is not," he sighed, for he understood Marjorie.
How the tears would have burned dry on Marjorie's indignant cheeks had
she surmised one tithe of her mother's remonstrance and defence; it is
true she missed his letters, and she missed writing her long letters to
him, but she did not miss him as she would have missed Morris had some
misunderstanding come between them. She was full of her home and her
studies, and she felt herself too young to think grown-up thoughts and
have grown-up experiences; she felt herself to be so much younger
than Linnet. But her pride was touched, simple-hearted as she was she
wanted Hollis to care a little for her letters. She had tried to please
him and to be thoughtful about his mother and grandmother; and this was
not a pleasant ending. Her mother had watched her, she was well aware,
and she was glad to come away with Miss Prudence to escape her mother's
keen eyes. Her father had kissed her tenderly more than once, as though
he were seeking to comfort her for something. It was _such_ a relief--and
she drew a long breath as she thought of it--to be away from both, and to
be with Miss Prudence, who never saw anything, or thought anything, or
asked any questions.
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