Who would have anything to live for if they did not believe in the love
of God? Would I? Would you?"
"I could not live; I would _die_," said Marjorie vehemently.
"She does not live, she exists! She is emaciated; sometimes she fasts day
after day until she is too weak to move around--she says she must fast
while she prays. O, Marjorie, I'm sorry to let you know there is such
sorrow in the world."
"Why should I not know about sorrow?" asked Marjorie, gravely. "Must I
always be joyful?"
"I want you to be. There is no sorrow like this sorrow. I know something
about it; before I could believe that God had forgiven me I could not
sleep or eat."
"I always believed it, I think," said Marjorie simply.
"I want her to be with some one who loves her and understands her; the
girls scold her and find fault with her, and she has been such a good
mother to them; perhaps she let them have their own way too much, and
this is one of the results of it. She has worked while they slept, and
has taken the hardest of everything for them. And now in her sore
extremity they want to send her among strangers. I wish I had a home of
my own. If I can do no better, I will give up my position, and stay on
land and make some kind of a home for her."
"Oh, not yet. Don't decide so hastily. Tell Miss Prudence. Telling her a
thing is the next best thing to praying about it," said Marjorie,
earnestly.
"What now?" Miss Prudence asked. "Morris, this girl is an enthusiast!"
She was standing behind Marjorie's chair and touched her hair as she
spoke.
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