There was no one in the world that she opened her
heart to as she opened it to him; not Miss Prudence, even, sympathetic as
she was; she would not mind so very, very much if he knew about that
foolish, childish prayer. But she could not ask him what he had brought
her; she had almost, no, quite, refused it last night. How contradictory
and uncomfortable she was! She must say good-bye, now, too.
During her reverie she had retreated to the front parlor and stood
leaning over the closed piano, her wraps all on for school and shawl
strap of books in her hand.
"O, Marjorie, ready for school! May I walk with you? I'll come back and
see Miss Prudence afterward."
"Will you?" she asked, demurely; "but that will only prolong the agony of
saying good-bye."
"As it is a sort of delicious agony we do not need to shorten it.
Good-bye, Prue," he cried, catching one of Prue's curls in his fingers as
he passed. "You will be a school-girl with a shawl strap of books, by and
by, and you will put on airs and think young men are boys."
Prue stood in the doorway calling out "goodbye" as they went down the
path to the gate, Miss Prudence's "old man" had been there early
to sweep off the piazzas and shovel paths; he was one of her
beneficiaries with a history. Marjorie said they all had histories: she
believed he had lost some money in a bank years ago, some that he had
hoarded by day labor around the wharves.
The pavements in this northern city were covered with snow hard packed,
the light snow of last night had frozen and the sidewalks were slippery;
in the city the children were as delighted to see the brick pavement in
spring as the country children were glad to see the green grass.
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