"Marjorie, I believe the Lord allows us to be self-willed. I have not
slept either; but I have sat up by the fire. Your father used to say that
we would not make haste if we trusted, and I have learned that it is so.
All I have done is to break your heart."
"Not quite that, poor mother. But I shall never write to Hollis again."
Mrs. West turned away and set the candle on the bureau. "But I can," she
said to herself.
"Come down-stairs where it is warm, and I'll make you a cup of coffee.
I'm afraid you have caught your death of cold."
"I _am_ cold," confessed Marjorie, rising with a weak motion.
Her new gray travelling dress was thrown over a chair, her small trunk
was packed, even her gloves were laid out on the bureau beside her
pocket-book.
"Linnet has counted on it so," sighed her mother.
"Mother!" rising to her feet and standing by the bedside. "I will go.
Linnet shall not be disappointed."
"That's a good child! Now hurry down, and I'll hurry you off," said her
mother, in her usual brisk tone.
An hour and a half later Mrs. West kissed Marjorie's pale lips, and bade
her stay a good while and have a good time. And before she washed up the
breakfast dishes she put on a clean apron, burnished her glasses, and sat
down to write to Hollis. The letter was as plain as her talk had been. He
had understood then, he should understand now. But with Marjorie would be
the difficulty; could he manage her?
XXX.
THE COSEY CORNER.
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