No wonder that she slept fitfully, that she awoke in the night to weep,
that she ate little and grew pale and thin. It was a strange thing to
befall my happy Marjorie. Her mother could not understand it. She tempted
her appetite in various ways, sent her to her grandfather's for a change,
and to Linnet's; but she came home as pale and dispirited as she went.
"She works too hard," thought the anxious mother; and sent for a woman to
wash and iron, that the child might be spared. Marjorie protested, saying
that she was not ill; but as the summer days came, she did not grow
stronger. Then a physician was called; who pronounced the malady nervous
exhaustion, prescribed a tonic--cheerful society, sea bathing, horseback
riding--and said he would be in again.
Marjorie smiled and knew it would do no good. If Aunt Prue were near her
she would open her heart to her; she could have told her father all
about it; but she shrank from making known to her mother that she was not
ill, but grieving because she was not a Christian. Her mother would
give her energetic advice, and bid her wrestle in prayer until peace
came. Could her mother understand, when she had lived in the very
sunshine of faith for thirty years?
She had prayed--she prayed for hours at a time; but peace came not. She
had fasted and prayed, and still peace did not come.
Her mother was as blithe and cheery as the day was long. Linnet was as
full of song as a bird, because Will was on the passage home.
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