A few tears dropped slowly as she cuddled in the
chair with her head on its arm, she hardly knew why; because she was
alone, perhaps, and Linnet was so far off, and it rained, and Miss
Prudence and her little girl might not come home to-night, and, it might
be, because Miss Prudence had another little girl to love.
Miss Prudence had gone to New York, a week ago, to meet the child and to
visit the Rheids. The nurse had relatives in the city and preferred to
remain with them, but Prue would be ready to come home with Miss
Prudence, and it was possible that they might come to-night.
The house had been so lonely with old Deborah it was no wonder that she
began to cry! And, it was foolish to remember that Holland plate in Mrs.
Harrowgate's parlor that she had seen to-day when she had stopped after
school on an errand for Miss Prudence. What a difference it had made to
her that it was that plate on the bracket and not that yellow pitcher.
The yellow pitcher was in fragments now up in the garret; she must show
it to Prue some rainy day and tell her about what a naughty little girl
she had been that day.
That resolution helped to shake off her depression, she roused herself,
went to the window and looked out into darkness, and then sauntered as
far as the piano and seated herself to play the march that Hollis liked;
Napoleon crossing the Alps. But scarcely had she touched the keys before
she heard voices out in the rain and feet upon the piazza.
Deborah's old ears had caught an earlier sound, and before Marjorie could
rush out the street door was opened and the travellers were in the hall.
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