"Oh! Well, I can't see any way out of that, unless I go and sit with you."
Marjorie had to laugh at this. "You couldn't squeeze in the space," she said.
"Well, then you've proved there's no remedy. So, never mind it! I mean that, dearie. When you are lonely and just fairly aching for Gladys, put it bravely out of your mind."
"How can I?"
"Why, fill your mind with something else that will crowd it out. Say to yourself, 'There's that sorrow poking his head up again, and I must push him down.' Then go at something hard. Study your spelling, or go on a picnic, anything to crowd that persistent sorrow out."
"Can't I ever think of Gladys?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! but think gay, happy thoughts. If memories of your good times make you sad, then cut them out, and wonder what sort of fun she's having where she is. Write her nice, cheery letters. Letters are lots of fun."
"Indeed they are," said Marjorie, brightening. "I'll love to get her letters."
"Of course you will. And you can send each other postcards and little gifts, and if you try you can have a lot of pleasure with Gladys in spite of old sorrow."
"Daddy, you're such a dear! You've helped me a heap."