"
"I suppose another one wouldn't be."
"There isn't another one like that--outside of a book."
"Oh, if you find such things, in books, I won't veto the books; but, Miss
Prudence, I'm dreadfully afraid of our Marjorie losing herself in a Blue
Stocking."
"She never will, don't fear!" reassured Miss Prudence. "She coaxes me to
let her sew for Prue, and I found her in the kitchen making cake last
Saturday afternoon."
Miss Prudence was moving around easily, giving a touch to something here
and there, and after closing the piano slipped away; and, before they
knew it, they were alone, standing on the hearth rug looking gravely and
almost questioningly into each others' eyes. Marjorie smiled, remembering
the quarrel of that last night; would he think now that she had become
too much like Miss Prudence,--Miss Prudence, with her love of literature,
her ready sympathy and neat, housewifely ways, Prue did not know which
she liked better, Aunt Prue's puddings or her music.
The color rose in Morris' face, Marjorie's lip trembled slightly. She
seated herself in the chair she had been occupying and asked Morris to
make himself at home in Miss Prudence's chair directly opposite. He
dropped into it, threw his head back and allowed his eyes to rove over
everything in the room, excepting that flushed, half-averted face so near
to him. She was becoming like Miss Prudence, he had decided the matter in
the study of these few moments, that attitude when standing was Miss
Prudence's, and her position at this moment, the head a little drooping,
the hands laid together in her lap, was exactly Miss Prudence's; Miss
Prudence's when she was meditating as Marjorie was meditating now.
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