the most absolute quiet, and fresh straw has been ordered to be put down in the street. Leslie, are you really going to stay here?”
“She certainly is,” said Marjorie. “I wouldn’t part with her on any account.”
“I will write a line to mother if you will allow me,” said Leslie. “Of course, if I can be of the least use to Marjorie, I shall be glad to stay.”
“Here is paper, if you want it,” said Lettie. “I am very glad you are staying, for my part.”
Leslie wrote a short note. When it was finished, Lettie took it from the room.
“I cannot sympathize with Lettie either,” said Marjorie when Lettie had gone. Then she sat down by the window, and did not speak any more. Sometimes she closed her eyes, and sometimes Leslie, who had taken up a book, and was trying to read, fancied she saw her lips moving. Was she once again praying to God? Was faith, the first real faith she had ever known, truly visiting her heart, and helping her through this dark hour of tribulation?
Mrs. Chetwynd did not come downstairs again; and presently the footman appeared, and told the girls that dinner was ready.
“I cannot eat,” said Marjorie. “Eat, when all that makes life valuable hangs in the balance?”
“But you must eat, dear,” said Leslie; “you will feel much worse if you do not. Come with me.”
“Do, Marjorie, try not to be such a humbug,” said Lettie in an almost cross voice. “You don’t know how you add to the trouble of everybody when you go on in that silly way. First of all, Leslie, she absolutely immured herself in Eileen’s room, refused to leave it day or night, and distracted poor Aunt Helen and the nurse, and