In Mrs.
Kemlo's face and voice and words and manner, was perfect peace. Aunt
Prue's letters were overflowing with joy in her husband and child, and
joy in God. Only Marjorie was left outside. Mrs. Rheid had become zealous
in good works. She read extracts from Hollis' letters to her, where he
wrote of his enjoyment in church work, his Bible class, the Young Men's
Christian Association, the prayer-meeting. But Marjorie had no heart for
work. She had attempted to resign as teacher in Sunday school; but the
superintendent and her class of bright little girls persuaded her to
remain. She had sighed and yielded. How could she help them to be what
she was not herself? No one understood and no one helped her. For the
first time in her life she was tempted to be cross. She was weary at
night with the effort all day to keep in good humor.
And she was a member of the church? Had she a right to go to the
communion? Was she not living a lie? She stayed at home the Sabbath of
the summer communion, and spent the morning in tears in her own chamber.
Her mother prayed for her, but she did not question her.
"Marjorie, dear," Morris' mother said, "can you not feel that God loves
you?"
"I _know_ he does," she replied, bursting into tears; "but I don't love
him."
In August of this summer Captain Will was loading in Portland for Havana.
She was ready for sea, but the wind was ahead. After two days of
persistent head wind Saturday night came, and it was ahead still.
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