"I haven't told you about my class in Sunday school."
"Oh, have you a class?"
"Yes, a class of girls--girls about fourteen. I thought I never could
interest them. I don't know how to talk to little girls; but I am full of
the lesson, and so are they, and the time is up before we know it."
"I'm very glad. It will be good for you," said Marjorie, quite in Miss
Prudence's manner.
"It is, already," he said gravely and earnestly "I imagine it is better
for me than for them."
"I don't believe that"
"Our lesson last Sunday was about the Lord's Supper; and one of them
asked me if Christ partook of the Supper with his disciples. I had not
thought of it. I do not know. Do you?"
"He ate the passover with them."
"But this was afterward. Why should he do it in remembrance of his own
death? He gave them the bread and the cup."
Marjorie was interested. She said she would ask her father and Miss
Prudence; and her mother must certainly have thought about it.
The conductor nudged Hollis twice before he noticed him and produced his
ticket; then the candy boy came along, and Hollis laid a paper of
chocolate creams in Marjorie's lap. It was almost like going back to the
times when he brought apples to school for her. If he would only explain
about the letter--
The next station would be Middlefield! What a short hour and a half! She
buttoned her glove, took her shawl strap into her lap, loosening the
strap so that she might slip her "English Literature" in, tightened it
again, ate the last cream drop, tossed aside the paper, and was ready for
Middlefield.
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