"
Marjorie had her piano--this piano was a graduating present from Miss
Prudence; more books than she could read, from the libraries of Mr. and
Mrs. Holmes; her busy work in the household; an occasional visit to the
farmhouse on the sea shore, to read to the old people and sing to them,
and even to cut and string apples and laugh over her childish abhorrence
of the work. She never opened the door of the chamber they still called
"Miss Prudence's," without feeling that it held a history. How different
her life would have been but for Miss Prudence. And Linnet's. And
Morris's! And how many other lives, who knew? There were, beside, her
class in Sunday school; and her visits to Linnet, and exchanging visits
with the school-girls,--not with the girls at Master McCosh's; she had
made no intimate friendships among them. And then there were letters from
Aunt Prue, and childish, affectionate notes from dear little Prue.
Marjorie's life was not meagre; still she was not "happy enough." She
wrote to Aunt Prue that she was not "satisfied."
"That's a girl's old story," Mrs. Holmes said to her husband. "She must
_evolve_, John. There's enough in her for something to come out of her."
"What do girls want to _do_?" he asked, looking up from his writing.
"Be satisfied," laughed his wife.
"Did you go through that delusive period?"
"Was I not a girl?"
"And here's Prue growing up, to say some day that she isn't satisfied."
"No; to say some day that she is.
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