"Does she buy you things, too?" asked Prue.
"Yes, ever and ever so many things."
"Does she buy _everybody_ things?" questioned Prue, curiously.
"Yes," laughed Marjorie; "she's everybody's aunt."
"No, I don't buy everybody things. I buy things for you and Marjorie
because you are both my little girls."
Turning suddenly Marjorie put both arms about Miss Prudence's neck: "I've
missed you, dreadfully, Miss Prudence; I almost cried to-night."
"So that is the story I find in your eyes. But you haven't asked me the
news."
"You haven't seen mother, or Linnet, or Morris,--they keep my news for
me." But she flushed as she spoke, reproaching herself for not being
quite sincere.
Prue stood on the hearth rug, looking up at the portrait of the lady over
the mantel.
"Don't pretend that you don't want to hear that Nannie Rheid has put
herself through," began Miss Prudence in a lively voice, "crammed to the
last degree, and has been graduated a year in advance of time that she
may be married this month. Her father was inexorable, she must be
graduated first, and she has done it at seventeen, so he has had to
redeem his promise and allow her to be married. Her 'composition'--that
is the old-fashioned name--was published in one of the literary weeklies,
and they all congratulate themselves and each other over her success. But
her eyes are big, and she looks as delicate as a wax lily; she is all
nerves, and she laughs and talks as though she could not stop herself.
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