Give them my love,
and say that when they love their little ones, they must think of how
I loved them."
"I will," said Marjorie, "You and mother will enjoy each other so much."
Marjorie wrote the letters that evening, her eyes so blinded with tears
that she wrote very crookedly. No one would ever know what she had lost
in Morris. He had been a part of herself that even Linnet had never been.
She was lost without him, and for months wandered in a new world. She
suffered more keenly upon the anniversary of the day of the tidings of
his death than she suffered that day. Then, she could appreciate more
fully what God had taken from her. But the letters were written, and
mailed on her way to school in the morning; her recitations were gone
through with; and night came, when she could have the rest of sleep. The
days went on outwardly as usual. Prue was daily becoming more and more a
delight to them all. Mrs. Kemlo's sad face was sweet and chastened; and
Miss Prudence's days were more full of busy doings, with a certain
something of a new life about them that Marjorie did not understand. She
could almost imagine what Miss Prudence had been twenty years ago.
Despite her lightness of foot, her inspiriting voice, and her _young_
interest in every question that pertained to life and work and study,
Miss Prudence seemed old to eighteen-years-old Marjorie. Not as old as
her mother; but nearly forty-five was very old. When she was forty-five,
she thought, her life would be almost ended; and here was Miss Prudence
always _beginning again_.
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