"Oh, Aunt Prue, I would not be so troubled, but he wanted to give me
something--some little thing he had brought me--because he always did
remember me, and I would not even look at it. I don't know what it was. I
refused it; and I know he was so hurt. I was almost tempted to take it
when I saw his eyes; and then I wanted to be true."
"Were you true?"
"I tried to be."
"Then there is nothing to be troubled about. He is comforted for it now.
Don't you want to go down and see his mother?"
"I'm afraid to see her."
"She will comfort you. She is sure now that God loves her. I have been
trying to teach her, and now God has taught her so that she can rejoice
in his love. Whom the Lord loveth, she says, he chastens; and he knows
how he has chastened her. If it were not for his love, Marjorie, what
would keep our hearts from breaking?"
"Papa died, too," said Prue.
Marjorie went down to the parlor. Mrs. Kemlo was sitting at the grate,
leaning back in her steamer chair. Marjorie kissed her without a word.
"Marjorie! The girls ought to know. I don't believe I can write."
"I can. I will write to-night."
"And copy this letter; then they will know it just as it is. He was with
you so long they will not miss him as we do. They were older, and they
loved each other, and left him to me. And, Marjorie--"
"Yes'm."
"Tell them I am going to your mother's as soon as warm weather comes,
unless one of them would rather take me home; tell them Miss Prudence has
become a daughter to me; I am not in need of anything.
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