She could tell God how glad she was, and if Hollis never knew it
would not matter.
"In the spring he is to go to Europe for the firm."
"He will like that," said Marjorie, finding her voice.
"He is somebody to be depended on. But there is the tea-bell, and my
little traveller is hungry, for she would not eat on the train and I
tempted her with fruit and crackers."
"Aunt Prue, I _like_ it here. May I see up stairs, too?"
"You must see the supper table first. And then Marjorie may show you
everything while I write to Uncle John, to tell him that our little bird
has found her nest."
Marjorie gave up her place that night in the wide, old-fashioned mahogany
bedstead beside Miss Prudence and betook herself to the room that opened
out of Miss Prudence's, a room with handsome furniture in ash, the
prevailing tint of the pretty things being her favorite shade of light
blue.
"That is a maiden's room," Miss Prudence had said; "and when Prue has a
maiden's room it shall be in rose."
Marjorie was not jealous, as she had feared she might be, of the little
creature who nestled close to Miss Prudence; she felt that Miss Prudence
was being comforted in the child. She was too happy to sleep that night.
In the years afterward she did not leave Hollis out of her prayers, but
she never once thought to pray that he might be brought back again to be
her friend. Her prayer for him had been answered and with that she was
well content.
XVII.
MORRIS.
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