At ten Marjorie had read Pilgrim's Progress intensely. Timidly, with shining eyes, she stood one moment upon the red mat outside the parlor door, and then, with sudden courage, turned the knob and entered. At a glance she felt that there was no need of courage; Evangelist was seated comfortably in the horse-hair rocker with his feet to the fire resting on the camp stool; he did not look like Evangelist at all, she thought, disappointedly; he reminded her altogether more of a picture of Santa Claus: massive head and shoulders, white beard and moustache, ruddy cheeks, and, as the head turned quickly at her entrance, she beheld, beneath the shaggy, white brows, twinkling blue eyes.
"Ah," he exclaimed, in an abrupt voice, "you are the little girl they were expecting home from school."
"Yes, sir."
He extended a plump, white hand and, not at all shyly, Marjorie laid her hand in it.
"Isn't it late to come from school? Did you play on the way home?"
"No sir; I'm too big for that"
"Doesn't school dismiss earlier?"
"Yes, sir," flushing and dropping her eyes, "but I was kept in."
"Kept in," he repeated, smoothing the little hand. "I'm sure it was not for bad behavior and you look bright enough to learn your lessons."
"I didn't know my lessons," she faltered.