"The value of a thought cannot be told."—Bailey.
Her mother's broad, gingham back and the twist of iron gray hair low in her neck greeted her as she opened the door, then the odor of hot biscuits intruded itself, and then there came a shout from somebody kneeling on the oilcloth near the stove and pushing sticks of dry wood through its blazing open door.
"Oh, Marjie, what happened to you?"
"Something didn't happen. I didn't have my spelling or my examples. I read the "Lucy" book in school instead," she confessed dolefully.
"Why, Marjie!" was her mother's exclamation, but it brought the color to Marjorie's face and suffused her eyes.
"We are to have company for tea," announced the figure kneeling on the oilcloth as she banged the stove door. "A stranger; the evangelist Mr. Horton told us about Sunday."
"I know," said Marjorie. "I've read about him in Pilgrim's Progress; he showed Christian the way to the Wicket Gate."
Linnet jumped to her feet and shook a chip from her apron. "O, Goosie!
Don't you know any better?"
Fourteen-year-old Linnet always knew better.
"Where is he?" questioned Marjorie.