Prue said that she would take it to the
little boy, because she had never seen a hump on a boy's back; she had
seen it on camels in a picture.
Still Aunt Prue did not come for her, and she counted thirty-five bells
on the arbutilon, and four buds on the monthly rose, and pulled off three
drooping daisies that Deborah had not attended to, and then listened, and
"Prue! Prue!" did not come.
Aunt Prue and Marjorie must be talking "secrets."
"Deborah," standing beside her and looking seriously up into the kindly,
wrinkled face, "I wish you knew some secrets."
"La! child, I know too many."
"Will you tell me one. Just one. I never heard a secret in my life.
Marjorie knows one, and she's telling Aunt Prue now."
"Secrets are not for little girls."
"I would never, never tell," promised Prue, coaxingly.
"Not even me!" cried Marjorie behind her. "Now come upstairs with me and
see Morris' mother. Aunt Prue is not ready for you yet awhile."
Mrs. Kemlo's chamber was the guest chamber; many among the poor and
suffering whom Miss Prudence had delighted to honor had "warmed both
hands before the fire of life" in that luxurious chamber.
Everything in the room had been among her father's wedding presents to
herself--the rosewood furniture, the lace curtains, the rare engravings,
the carpet that was at once perfect to the tread and to the eye, the
ornaments everywhere: everything excepting the narrow gilt frame over the
dressing bureau, enclosing on a gray ground, painted in black, crimson,
and gold the words: "I HAVE SEEN THY TEARS.
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