Exclamations and warm embraces, and then Marjorie drew the little one
into the parlor and before the fire. The child stood with her grave eyes
searching out the room, and when the light from the bronze lamp on the
centre table flashed out upon everything she walked up and down the
length of the apartment, stopping now and then to look curiously at
something.
Marjorie smiled and thought to herself that she was a strange little
creature.
"It's just as papa said," she remarked, coming to the rug, her survey
being ended. The childishness and sweet gravity of her tone were
striking.
Marjorie removed the white hood that she had travelled from California
in, and, brushing back the curls that shone in the light like threads of
gold, kissed her forehead and cheeks and rosy lips.
"I am your Cousin Marjorie, and you are my little cousin."
"I like you, Cousin Marjorie," the child said.
"Of course you do, and I love you. Are you Prue, or Jeroma?"
"I'm Prue," she replied with dignity. "Don't you _ever_ call me Jeroma
again, ever; papa said so."
Marjorie laughed and kissed her again.
"I never, never will," she promised.
"Aunt Prue says 'Prue' every time."
Marjorie unbuttoned the gray cloak and drew off the gray gloves; Prue
threw off the cloak and then lifted her foot for the rubber to be pulled
off.
"I had no rubbers; Aunt Prue bought these in New York."
"Aunt Prue is very kind," said Marjorie, as the second little foot was
lifted.
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